And he does. Even after the door begins to splinter beneath Herbaux's weight, he doggedly applies the counterforce. I can hear the sounds of his exertion as I sprint to the window and call down into the darkness below. . . .

"Help!"

No answering call, just the echo of my own voice, bouncing off the gutters and rubbish heaps and grease drains.

Then I see, espaliered on the building face below me, a network of lead waste pipes, branching out in a hundred elbows, like an old grapevine.

"I think . . . we're going to lose," gasps Charles.

"Just a few more seconds! "

Scrambling now, I drag the cot away from the wall, wedge it against the dresser.

"All right," I tell him. "On the count of three, we're going to run to the window. One . . . two . . ."

The dresser gives way at once, but the cot holds fast. For now.

"This is the most fun part of all," I say. "We're going to climb down."

"Down? "

"Yes, it's all part of the game. First one to the ground gets a special prize."

"I'm not sure. . . ."

Behind us, another section of the door panel splinters apart.

"I'll go first," I say. "Then you can follow. . . ."

"Oh no, you don't! "

Without a second's more hesitation now, he sets his foot on the first length of pipe and, finding it secure, lowers himself to the next level. Three seconds later, he's vanished.

I follow close behind. There's no more than a sliver of moon to light the way, and my legs are heavy and my hands numb. My eye sockets feel as if someone is pressing a thumb against them. And looking up, I can see Herbaux's candle, lit once more, weaving circles in the night.

I take a long breath. I lower my leg, and another elbow of pipe is miraculously waiting to greet it.

By now, I've lost all sense of where Charles is. I could almost imagine I'm alone in the world-until my bare foot wiggles into a strange niche, not part of the original architecture. There is an answering squeal, then a chivvying at my toes. And then they're all over me.

An ocean of rats, red-eyed with outrage. They scuttle through my hair and shrill in my ear and fasten on my limbs. Groaning, I shake them off, but more come from every quadrant: silken fur, rasping teeth. And as I slide down the building face, swinging from pipe to pipe, they follow like a thousand reprimands.

It may be that I leap that final distance, but it feels more as if I'm riding those rats, as one might ride a wave. We breach together in the alley below, and we lie there for a while, stunned and spent.

I get to my feet. From behind me comes a light, high mewling.

"Ohh," says Charles, pressing his knees to his chin. "Oh, God, rats . . . God . . ."

"Never mind," I tell him. "They're gone."

Not a sound in the alleyway, not even a breath of wind. Dimly, I register a brindled dog . . . a skein of fish bones . . . a heap of fermenting rubbish, exhaling vapor . . . and somewhere in the distance, a tassel of amber light.

And then, from nowhere, a figure comes between us and the light.

"Pardon, Monsieur! " calls Charles. "Do you think you might-"

"There you are," says Herbaux.

Not an ounce of civility in his voice now.

"Listen," I say. "We can pay you. Between us, we've got quite a lot of money."

"I'm paid well enough."

"Then let my friend go," I say. "He's done nothing."