Cables.

The closest building was to the west. Irene ran in that direction, shouldering her way through the crowd to see if there was a chance of achieving what she had in mind. The neighbouring offices’ roof also featured a flat platform surrounded by railings, in exactly the same style as Sterrington’s office block. Perfect.

In the street below, the fire engines had finally turned up and were pumping water into the flames. It wasn’t going to be enough. Smoke was already beginning to rise through the higher windows in the block, making the trapped mob around her cough and choke.

Sterrington’s expression lightened as she saw Irene approaching. ‘Have you found a way out of here?’ she asked.

‘I have, but I’ll need your help,’ Irene said, saving a snippy, Do you think I can work miracles? for another day. She lowered her voice. ‘I need rope – the mooring cables from those zeppelins will do. We need to drag them over to the west side there. I’m going to make a bridge to the next building.’

Wickson coughed – admonitory, rather than smoke-induced. ‘Madam, we can’t throw ropes of that weight with any accuracy across that distance. And how would we tie them at the other end?’

Sterrington silenced him with a gesture. ‘If she says she can do it, she can. Get her the ropes. Irene, do you seriously plan to have us tightrope-walk across?’

Wickson didn’t give up his lack of hope easily. ‘The mooring cables will be attached to the centre of the platform, madam.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Irene said. ‘I’ll detach them. Be ready to carry them.’

After a bit of applied Language to detach the four cables from their mooring points, she was in position on the west side. Two of Sterrington’s men had dragged the heavy cables over, while others kept the panicking crowd back while she worked. Everyone seemed to assume that ropes somehow equalled safety, rather than realizing that thirty yards of rope wouldn’t get them to the ground. She had to work fast, before she was overrun.

She touched one of the cables and put her hand on one of the vertical railings. ‘Rope which I’m touching, bind one end around the base of the railing I’m holding.’

She repeated the process with the next mooring line, setting it a couple of feet above the first. The cables coiled like pythons, knotting themselves firmly in place. Good. This would work. This had to work.

She took a deep breath, ignoring the hot air that rippled her skirts, the sweat that ran down her back, the shouting behind her and the rising smoke. Then she touched the knotted cable before her and pointed to the adjacent building. ‘Rope which I’m touching, bind your free end around the railing directly opposite belonging to the building I’m indicating with my finger.’

Nobody ever said the Language was elegant. Especially when its wielder was almost on fire. She did the same with the next rope, again commanding it to fasten above the first. The cables were several inches thick, strong enough to hold an airship, but far too heavy to throw. Yet under the force of the Language each rose in turn, spearing across the twenty-yard gap and grappling around the railings on the far side.

It wasn’t much of a bridge. One line was strung above the other, so an escapee could shuffle sideways along one while holding a guide rope at waist height to avoid plunging to their death. The hawsers were each about six inches in diameter, but it would still have required an acrobat to walk across them without something to hold. It would be terrifying. But it was a way off the top of this burning edifice.

‘Right,’ Irene said, leaning on the rail to catch her breath. The smoke made her cough. ‘Sterrington, have your people keep this orderly . . .’

‘On it already,’ Sterrington said, passing her a hip flask which proved to contain brandy.

Irene took a reviving swallow, ignoring her growing headache, and repeated her words in the Language with the other two cables, setting up a second bridge. Sterrington was scanning the nearby buildings with a careful eye.

‘Something I missed?’ Irene asked.

‘Those zeppelins were shot down,’ Sterrington said quietly. People were being shepherded – or shoved – onto the cable ‘bridges’, and struggling across to the next building with varying degrees of grace. Nobody had fallen off. So far, anyway. ‘Snipers. They must be nearby.’ She jerked her chin towards the higher buildings, unwilling to point obviously. ‘The question is whether they’ve gone, or whether they’re waiting to make sure their targets don’t get away. Whoever they may be.’ She flicked a glance to Irene, then the remaining roof-dwellers.

Irene followed her gaze. ‘Just how many people in this building are there who might have assassins coming after them?’

Sterrington shrugged. ‘We have the Mafia, or a holding company representing the Mumbai underworld. Also some dubious businessmen from Germany, plus shell companies for the Seventh Hell Brotherhood and the Cathedral of Reason. Both of the latter are secret societies, so you didn’t hear that from me, by the way. I didn’t pick this place by accident, you know. I wanted somewhere where the highly elite – and enormously wealthy – based their offices.’

‘And the highly illegal,’ Irene muttered.

Sterrington shrugged again. ‘The highly effective.’

Irene coughed, and held her sleeve to her mouth to block the smoke. ‘So if the snipers are still here . . . are you waiting to see if they shoot people as well as zeppelins?’

‘Why else do you think I’m standing here, rather than escaping?’

‘Yes, that did seem rather unusual,’ Irene admitted. ‘So you do think this is aimed at you.’

‘Why say that?’

‘Because otherwise you’d be out of here and to hell with the snipers.’

Sterrington looked as if she was about to object, then gave up. ‘The Guantes duo were famous for the well-laid trap. They could be very useful, in fact. Sometimes I really regret they went out of business.’

Irene sighed. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Snipers or no snipers, we need to get off the roof – now. The smoke’s getting too thick for safety.’

Most people had fled to safety over her bridges, but Sterrington’s men were still waiting. Irene ignored the itch on the back of her neck at the thought of a sniper taking aim, and concentrated. She tucked up her skirt and clambered over the railings, trying not to look down. Her feet found the lower rope and she began to inch sideways across the drop, clutching the guide rope with sweating hands.

The street below was dizzyingly far away – and busy. Through the smoke she could make out the uniforms of police and firemen, the black and grey of other office workers, and the more colourful clothing of ordinary people drawn by the excitement. Some of them seemed to be shouting and waving at her. She felt no urge to wave back. The flames were at the sixth or seventh floor now, and still rising, roaring, unstoppable. She could feel the incredible heat. Black smoke streamed upwards, building a pillar in the sky higher than any of the surrounding office blocks.

The heavy fibres of the cable were rough under her hands, and the narrow bridge was harder to manage than she’d expected. She forced herself to focus on the cable in front of her rather than the drop below.

A bullet whistled past her.