Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

Quaint's decision to pursue his foe rather than race to his guardian's side would have bothered him more had he not been preoccupied with trying to keep from collapsing in a bloodied heap on the floor. He swallowed a metallic clot of blood back down his throat, raised the vial to his lips once again, and tipped half the antidote down his throat. Within seconds it was fluttering around inside him. Quaint felt partially revitalised in moments, and grabbed hold of the iron railings at the bottom of a weatherworn staircase that snaked up the side of the building.

As he reached the flat roof of the tenement, Quaint heard a strange yet recognisable noise, and he ran to the edge, scouring the dark lanes below that ran towards the River Thames. He could see the flaking whitewash on the embankment wall, and briefly, for a split second, a horse-drawn coach flashed into view beneath him. Quaint's ploy had worked; he had decreased the distance between himself and his quarry.

Renard's coach was slowing down. He must be nearing his destination, thought Quaint, but where the hell could the man be going? He used his hand as a visor and squinted into the distance, when the penny dropped. Quaint recognised the large, pale building that nestled upon the banks of the Thames in the distance.

Situated a mile or so along the road, the Whitehall Weir House was a sugar-white building on the north side of the Thames, housing a collection of weirs-the perfect place to administer Renard's poison. Quaint had been there before, and the memory of the roofed jetty that jutted out into the Thames was still fresh. A large watermill made use of the constant rush of water flow that the weirs provided to grind the flour at the neighbouring Grist Mill. The mill's location on the banks of the Thames enabled easy access for the huge grain cargo ships that trawled up and down the river from all points on the compass-but of more importance today was the knowledge that if someone wished to to poison the river, a collection of weirs would do a most admirable job.

Fuelled by this recognition, a re-energised Quaint began to feel like a man half his age, and his full strength returned to form a barrier around the poison's effects, pushing it down into the recesses of his body. He needed to cut a swift dash to the Weir House, and the rooftop highway thankfully provided him with a shortcut. With slim gaps between each tenement, Quaint could traverse across each one in a straight line, unlike Renard's coach, following the slower, snaking road. The building opposite the one where he stood was a good ten feet away, an easy jump for Quaint at the best of times-but this was not the best of times-as his swaying vision reminded him. One miscalculation or misstep, and he would plummet to the ground below. Well, he couldn't have that. If he died, who would stop Renard? There was no stand-in, there was no replacement, no Plan B. It began and ended with Quaint-the Alpha and the Omega.

'Oh, well,' he muttered to himself. 'Nothing ventured…'

He clenched his fists, and ran at the edge of the roof at full pelt, his heavy steps pounding away at the felted roof of the building. His feet touched the edge of the roof, and he propelled himself upwards with all his strength, soaring through the air towards the other building. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Quaint could see his destination; he could almost imagine himself landing confidently. His feet slapped down hard on the tenement's roof with inches to spare, and Quaint rolled into a ball, skidding across the rooftop. He gathered himself together, and scrambled over the cluttered chimney stacks of the densely populated building towards the next edge. Placing himself parallel to Renard's position, Quaint ensured he never let the man from his sight.

'Feet, don't fail me now,' he said.

Staring down at the road below him, Quaint caught another glimpse of Renard's coach. If he wanted to stop the Frenchman before he reached the Weir House, he probably had less than a mile in which to do it. Realising this steeled him to go forward, and he launched himself over the chasm again, across the rooftops from one building to the next. Cornelius Quaint was panting and wheezing but his momentum was locked on course now, unable to deviate.

As he motored forward like a steam train from the edge of the building's rooftop, Quaint suddenly realised something quite horrifying-he had just run out of buildings…

This notion was extremely bad news primarily because he had already launched himself into the air. He had just leapt from the end of a terraced house, and it was a long, long way down.

Quaint's fingers groped the air around him, miraculously finding purchase on the edge of a massive brick chimney stack. His body lurched erratically in an arc through the air, but his grip held against the rough stone, and he was snapped back. His body slammed against the side of the building, but still his grip did not falter. Hanging by his fingertips, he managed to twist his body around, and swung himself towards the building's window frames. At least there he would find shelter from the searing wind that threatened to rip him from the building like tissue paper in a cyclone.

His heart pounding fit to burst, Quaint began to scale down the stone window-sill ledges at the tenement's front, ledges caked in pigeon excrement that assaulted his senses with the stench of ammonia. Pressing himself tight against the glass, he manoeuvred into the next window, and down, working his way towards street level via the grid-like windows.

Quaint looked down at the road below. His error had cost him dearly, and Renard's coach was now seemingly just out of reach. He had to reach street level fast, and straight down was the quickest route. He ripped off his scarf, and snagged the drainpipe of the end of terraced house. He gripped both ends tight, and threaded his wrist around it. Stepping off the building's third storey, he cascaded down the drainpipe at a tremendous speed, with gravity as his transport. His knees and elbows were getting torn to shreds as he rocketed straight down, and the metal-tipped heels on his boots were throwing off sparks like a blacksmith's forge. Quaint suddenly hit the street with a touch more force than he had hoped for. He curled into a ball and clutched his stomach, his guts feeling like the squashed bellows of an accordion.

'Not now…' he snapped, as he felt a course of pain flooding his guts. It was not simply the fall that ailed him-it was the poison making itself known once more. Using the pain of the sudden itching beneath the surface of his skin as fuel, Quaint thrust himself forwards and thundered down the street in pursuit. He had to make up some valuable time. Then he saw a most invigorating sight. There was a coach…and it had just sped past his position. Quaint pulled himself to his feet.

The low moon animated his shadow across the tenement fronts, as the slap-slap-slap of his boots echoed around the lanes and alleyways. Renard's coach was now only six feet away and, with a final burst of speed, Quaint propelled himself forwards. He stepped up onto the metal rung at the rear of the horse-drawn carriage, and propelled himself up onto the roof. Instantly, the carriage lurched to the side, and a cacophony of voices shouted and screamed in alarm, most notably the driver, Melchin, who struggled hard to control the startled beast dragging the coach.

'Stop this damn coach, Renard!' yelled Quaint into the wind, clutching onto the coach's roof with all his ebbing strength as it swerved from one side of the road to the other. 'With my dying breath, I'll see you dead!'

'You first, Cornelius,' called Renard from inside the swaying carriage, responding with a volley of shots from his revolver, each one slicing up through the craft's roof mere inches from Quaint's sliding body.

It was only sheer dumb luck-thanks to the momentum of the careering vehicle-that all five of the bullets missed their mark, but Quaint knew he had only seconds. The exploding cracks of thunder sent the already manic horse into overdrive, and the carriage swayed even more violently across the breadth of the road. A quick glimpse through a seared bullet hole in the roof showed Quaint's assailant's position-brandishing the six-shot.32 calibre Adams and Deane pistol-and Quaint leaned into the veer of the carriage, landing a solid punch to Renard's head through the open window. Batting Quaint away with his elbow, Renard gripped the window frame and lunged up with the barrel of the pistol, catching Quaint a glancing blow to the cheek.