"Tiger Tim gave everyone their orders, on the Doctor's behalf," said Dom. "Because the Doctor couldn't be bothered with everyday matters anymore. Tiger Tim more or less took over operations, and we all went along, because he seemed to know what he was doing."

"And he put together the army that attacked us today?" said the Armourer.

"Took every man the Doctor had, and more," said Dom. "Word had got out on the circuit, in all the recruiting markets: good pay, and I mean really good pay, and a chance to try out a new drug that would make you superhuman. New men kept turning up all the time. And a lot of them didn't answer to Doctor Delirium or Tiger Tim. They represented someone else. Someone with really big pockets, to foot the bill for so many mercenaries.

"They didn't tell us we'd be attacking Drood Hall until the very last moment. And by then we'd taken the Drug, and we didn't care anymore. We'd fight anyone, kill anyone, do anything…

"The things I did, the things we all did… That wasn't us! We were soldiers, professionals, not butchers! Not monsters… The Drug turned us into monsters. I don't remember most of what I did; just enough to make me glad I can't remember the rest. I'm not like that. I'm not. They poisoned our souls…"

His head slammed back against the chair suddenly, and his whole body convulsed, straining against the straps. The display screens were going wild. Dom Langford aged horribly, years gone by in seconds, collapsing in on himself before our eyes, looking desperately at us all the time for help we couldn't give. The last of his strength had run out. The Armourer rushed back and forth, injecting drugs into the tubes, working the controls of the diagnostic chair, doing everything he could think of to try and save the man who'd been his enemy only minutes before. But there was nothing he could do. Dom Langford died with the face of a man hundreds of years old, his body little more than a hollow shell. He looked at me pleadingly, right up to the moment when the light went out of his eyes. He thought I could save him, because I was a Drood, and Droods can do anything.

I held his hand, at the end, but I don't know if he could feel it. "We should have taken him to the hospital wards," the Armourer said finally. "He might have lasted longer there…"

"They didn't have the room, and we didn't have the time," I said. "We needed his information. And we didn't kill him; they did, when they introduced him to the Acceleration Drug. So, are you going to make a scarecrow out of him, like the others?"

"Of course," said the Armourer. "Waste not, want not."

But I could tell his heart wasn't in it. The Armourer gestured for some of his people to take away the chair, with the withered body hanging loosely in the straps.

"I need to ask you something," I said. "How did the Accelerated Men get their hands on strange matter guns? You told me you only ever made the one, for Uncle James, and you had that destroyed."

"There was only ever one," insisted the Armourer. "And I gave it to one of my lab assistants to destroy. Very capable young man. Raphael. Went on to be Librarian, you know. Before William came back, and took over."

I had a sudden terrible suspicion.

I called up the Merlin Glass, made it form a doorway into the Old Library, and hurled myself through it. I looked around, and there was Rafe, packing ancient and important-looking books into a travelling bag. As though he was preparing to leave, in a hurry. He froze where he was when I appeared through the Glass, and his eyes shot to one side. I followed his gaze, and there was William, ly ing unconscious on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Someone had cracked his head open, from behind. I looked back at Rafe. He hadn't moved. He watched me silently as I went over to kneel beside William. The old man was still breathing, though his pulse was faint and thready. I straightened up and looked at Rafe, who flinched back despite himself.

"What have you done, Rafe?" I said.

He didn't move a muscle, studying me carefully. "He shouldn't have tried to stop me leaving."

"He was your colleague. He was your friend. He trusted you!"

"He trusted Rafe. And I'm not Rafe. He never mattered to me. He's not one of us."

"One of you," I said, sick to my stomach. "An Immortal."

"Exactly. If you're wise, you won't try to stop me leaving. My work here is done."

"Over my dead body; traitor."

"My plan exactly," said Rafe.

There was a gun in his hand. A large bulky pistol of a kind that sent a chill through me.

"Yes," said Rafe. "The gun that fires strange matter bullets. This is the actual original, that the Armourer made for the Grey Fox. The one he trusted me to destroy. Of course, I couldn't do that. Far too useful. And I have a sentimental attachment, to anything that can kill Droods. I got this to my people, and they used it as a template, to make more. Though it took our scientists years to work out its secrets. The Armourer does good work. He really does have a first-class mind, for someone who isn't an Immortal. Step aside, Eddie. You don't have to die here. Just disappear back through your useful little toy, and you can come back again for poor William when I'm gone. And you'll never see me again."

"I've faced a far better man than you, with that gun," I said. "And I'm still here."

"Oh, Eddie," said Rafe. "You never met a man like me. I'm an Immortal."

"And I'm a Drood. Anything, for the family. Remember?"

I was ready to jump him. I knew the odds weren't good, knew that even if I could get my armour up in time, the strange matter bullets would punch right through it, but I didn't have a choice. I couldn't let Rafe get away with it. I just couldn't. I was bracing myself for the jump when Ethel suddenly materialised in the Old Library. A fierce red glare filled the air-a heavy overwhelming presence, like a never-ending clap of thunder. Rafe cowered away from it, and then cried out and threw his gun away, steam rising from his hand where the gun had burned it. The red glare concentrated around the gun, and it faded away to nothing.

How dare you! said Ethel, her voice so large it roared inside my head. It must have been worse for Rafe; he clapped both hands to his ears, as though he could keep it out. You stole my substance from me, my very existence in this world! You took it by force!

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," said Rafe.

Sorry isn't enough! Give back your torc. You are not worthy of it. There was a pause, and then Ethel spoke again, in her usual tone of voice. Eddie, this is rather odd. I can't take his torc, because he doesn't have one. That thing around his neck is a fake.

"He's not a real Drood," I said. "He just looks like one."

Rafe turned to run, and immediately I was upon him. I clubbed him to the ground with a single blow, and he hit the floor hard. I kicked him in the ribs, and all the breath went out of him. I kicked him again, just because it felt so good. Rafe cried out, and curled around his pain. I reached down, grabbed his shirt front, and pulled him up so I could stick my face right into his.

"Where's Rafe? What happened to the real Rafe?"

"You'll never know," said Rafe. His voice was sharp and defiant, but he couldn't meet my gaze.

"Search the Hall, Ethel," I said. "See if you can find any more of these bastards with the false torcs. If you do, tell the Sarjeant; let him deal with them. Go."

The harsh red glare shut off in a second, and the usual calm golden glow of the Old Library returned. I let go of Rafe, and he slumped back onto the floor.

"You're too late," he said. "They're all gone."

"Well," I said. "You would say that, wouldn't you?"

Rafe suddenly stopped being all beaten and broken, and lunged forward across the Library floor. He knelt over William's unconscious form, pulled the head back and pressed a knife against the Librarian's throat. I'd started after him, but stopped abruptly as I saw a thin trail of blood trickle down William's throat, as the knife's edge just parted the skin.