Nicholas struggled on, wiping his eyes with the towel, inching towards the dim yellow triangle that must be the window. There was no thinning of the smoke, just a faint glow in its centre.

Just follow the rope, he told himself. It’s not difficult. Move forward and don’t let go of the rope.

Nicholas tumbled through the window, remembering to hold on to the rope. He juddered to a halt at the end of its slack, like a condemned man on a gibbet.

‘Quit your dossing, Nick!’ hollered Victor Vigny. ‘Get yourself down. One hand after the other. Even a simpleton like this fireman here could manage it.’

‘I could indeed!’ shouted the fireman, deciding he would worry about the insult later, if at all.

Below the plume of smoke, King Nicholas could breath again. Each successive gasp of fresh air drove the toxins from his system and returned strength to his limbs.

‘Come down, man! I didn’t travel from New York City to watch you swing.’

Nicholas grinned, his teeth a flash of white. ‘I almost died, Victor. Some sympathy would be nice.’ These simple sentences were a considerable effort, and each phrase was punctuated by a fit of coughing.

‘That’s it now,’ said Vigny. ‘The old Nick. Down you come.’

The king came down slowly, his journey interrupted by several explosions. Once his feet had found purchase on the top rung, Nicholas descended quickly. There were other lives at stake here after all, and if he got Victor killed because of his own monumental carelessness, the Frenchman would plague him from the afterlife.

Victor had him by the elbows before his boots touched the cobbles, whisking the king away to the relative safety of the keep. They watched from behind an open gorge tower as the king’s ladder was seared and blackened.

‘What the devil was in there?’ asked Victor.