Monk seemed unconscious, but as Merrick tightened the rope he began to jerk and struggle, as if by instinct. Every rat in the room froze, suddenly stiff. And then, as one, they all poured towards Merrick.
“Sodding hell!” said Saint, who was at that side of the room, and staggered backwards under the huge weight of rodent fury, the invisible shields bowing under the pressure. Esther and Stephen both hurled themselves sideways towards her, Janossi a fraction later, and now all four justiciars were jumbled in front of Merrick, and the corridor of protective space between them and the rats was down to inches and bending backwards as the rats piled three, four feet high. Claws and teeth scrabbled savagely as the rats screamed their rage. Monk kicked and spasmed, eyes bulging, face blackening, and the justiciars were all shouting, and Crane’s other hand came free. He fell forward, chest hitting the table in front of him, and lay over it gasping for breath.
Monk’s tongue protruded, face suffused, eyes popping, and from the jerking of his body, Crane knew his feet were drumming on the floor. Quite suddenly, he went limp.
The rats all screamed at once. It rang through Crane’s bones and his eyes and his hair, a wrenching agony, and then, abruptly, it stopped, and the rats were tumbling away, retreating, shrinking.
“Jesus.” Crane slid off the table and onto the floor. He saw the live rats fleeing through holes in the walls, the dead ones deflating like pricked bladders.
“Lucien!” There was a scrape as Stephen shoved the table out of the way. He looked grey with exhaustion. “Lucien, are you all right?”
“Fine. Well, not fine. Alive.”
Stephen dropped to his knees in front of him and took his chin in a gentle hand. Crane leaned slightly forward to turn the touch to a hold, aware of the others, but needing the comfort, and felt Stephen cup his face tenderly even as he turned it from side to side, examining Crane’s eyes.
“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to be horribly killed. I’m sure you said that.”
“I said I wasn’t going to be horribly killed by rats. I never promised not to have my soul eaten by a demented ghost.” Crane was trying for humour but his voice cracked betrayingly. “God. I’ve never wanted to see anyone so much in my life.”
“I’m glad we were here in time.” Stephen spoke mildly, but the tightness of his grip belied the calm of his words.
Crane looked around. Merrick was watching, unharmed. He gave Crane a nod as their eyes met. The dead rats were in piles, shrinking, not as fast as the live ones had. He abruptly became aware of the choking stench of their foul bodies, sewer filth and rodent piss. Janossi was slumped on the floor with Leo holding a handkerchief to his wound; Saint was vomiting noisily in a corner. Esther sat back on her heels, looking lined and drained.
“Is it over?” said Crane.
“It is for them,” Esther said. “Tell me, Mr. Merrick, why did you kill him?” She jerked her head over in Monk’s direction.
“Is that a problem, madam?” enquired Merrick without inflection.
“No, it’s a question. How did you know what to do?”
“I told him to do it,” Crane said. “My responsibility.” His ankles were still pinioned, he realised. He sat back, shifted his legs forward and started to saw at the rope with the pocketknife. Stephen silently took it from his hand and bent to the work.
“And?”
Crane cautiously flexed a shoulder. His throat was horribly dry. “Willetts. You speculated he was killed by someone needing the chant or the amulet. But clearly the shaman, that thing, didn’t need them. So why kill him? I concluded he was stabbed to shut him up. Not about the story, everyone already knew that, but for the thing he knew and nobody else did. The real ending.”
His voice cracked. Merrick threw him a hip flask, and he took a gulp of raw brandy. “Christ! Steal the good stuff next time, you know where it is.” He handed it on to Stephen. “When we first heard the story, it all ended when the vessel of the Red Tide was strangled. No blood. I thought perhaps that was what they wanted to hide. The ghost needed blood to move into me. And if its host body was killed without bloodshed—well, Town said Xan couldn’t live in a corpse.”
“I see.” Esther took the flask from Stephen and swigged. “That’s a devil of a deductive leap. How were you sure your version of the ending was the true one?”
“I wasn’t. That was a calculated risk.”
She threw back her head with a sudden crack of laughter. “Magnificent. It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Lord Crane.”
Crane forced himself to control his voice. “The man I just had killed was named Paul Humphris. Monk, we called him. He had no part in this. Town trapped him for that damned creature’s use. He tried to warn me to run, before that thing took him over. He was a friend.”