The Eleventh Plague

by Darren Craske

  ‘Cho-zen Li? Now, where have I heard that name before?’ Quaint rubbed at his jaw, like an angler feeling for a bite on his line. Once he felt that familiar tug of curiosity, he would never give up without reeling in his prize. But this time, the truth seemed to slip free off his hook and it was gone. ‘And this treasure, this Pharaoh’s Cradle…I suppose it must be valuable.’

  Polly stared at him as if he were a simpleton. ‘Valuable? It’s the very crib that held the infant Rameses II, dating back to the thirteenth century BC – of course it’s valuable! It is supposedly made from solid gold, adorned with hundreds of precious stones – emeralds, rubies, sapphires, diamonds – the lot!’

  ‘No wonder you were so keen to find it,’ Quaint said.

  ‘Cho-zen Li had such faith in my abilities. He spent a small fortune hiring the best archaeologists that the world has to offer. His confidence inspired me…no, it fooled me…into believing that I would uncover it. I’ve let so many people down,’ Polly said, her eyes glazing. She believed every word of what she was saying. She believed that she had failed. For a scientist, that was a hard blow to recover from. ‘Cho-zen has donated hundreds of exhibits to the Cairo Museum of Antiquities, the British Museum, and the Paris Archives. It was his love for the reconstruction of history that drew me to him, and I’ve been trying to do him proud since the very first day I disembarked in Alexandria’s port.’

  ‘That’s it,’ exclaimed Quaint, snapping his fingers. ‘Alexandria!’

  ‘What?’ asked Polly.

  ‘That’s where I know that name from!’

  ‘Alexandria? Well, it is a fairly well-known port.’

  ‘Not Alexandria – Cho-zen Li!’ barked Quaint. ‘It all makes sense now.’

  ‘Not to me, it doesn’t,’ said Polly dryly.

  Quaint shook his head impatiently. He hated being interrupted when he was rambling. Finding coherence within incoherence was a gift he had cultivated since a child, and he was exceptionally good at it.

  ‘Alexandria is a friend of mine. A seamstress from Hosni, and I recall seeing this coat that she’d tailored for a client in her workshop,’ he explained breathlessly, his black eyes twitching left and right as he sifted through recent memory. ‘It was his order! His coat – Cho-zen Li’s coat…right there in a backstreet tailor’s shop…and now here we are…on an archaeological dig in the middle of nowhere with his name cropping up again.’

  ‘Well, I have to admit…that is a bit of a coincidence,’ muttered Polly.

  ‘That’s what worries me,’ said Quaint, his face the picture of discontent. ‘But surely it can have no connection to this. Let me think.’ The conjuror plucked at his ear lobes impatiently, and then began to stroll around in circles, all the while drilling his stare into the ground, as if trying to sift the truth from the sand beneath his feet. ‘Joyce wanted you gone from this place. Joyce works for the Consortium. But archaeology holds no interest to them…unless…unless they want to sell the Pharaoh’s Cradle to the highest bidder – which could be this Cho-zen Li chap if he’s as rich as you claim. Maybe they’re trying to get their hands on the treasure first! But that’s still out of character for them. They don’t need money. There’s more to it than that, there just has to be! Joyce went to a lot of trouble to scare you away, but if you’d been digging here for as long as you had, why all of a sudden take umbrage? Could it be that you were close to unearthing something…or perhaps already had done so?’

  Polly coughed loudly into her hand. ‘Sorry to disturb your mad ramblings, Cornelius, but I’ve already told you – I found nothing! The Pharaoh’s Cradle could be anywhere underneath this desert, or it could be nowhere here!’

  Quaint ground his teeth. ‘I wasn’t referring to the Pharaoh’s Cradle, Professor.’

  ‘Then…what else is there of value here?’

  ‘Not value necessarily…but importance,’ answered Quaint, with not a small degree of displeasure. All of his five senses were operating at a rate of knots and it was painfully exhilarating. He hated it when his gut feeling was right. ‘Did you not say that you’d uncovered a mass grave full of bones? What if that’s the link? What if that’s why Joyce wanted you scared away from here?’ Quaint called over to Faroud, silently astride his horse nearby. ‘Aksak, you know Joyce better than any of us. What is his history in Egypt? Was he in the country twenty or so years ago?’

  Faroud raised a cautious eyebrow. ‘Why…yes, I believe so. He moved here in the late twenties as the port administrator in Alexandria prior to being assigned the role of British attaché to Egypt. If it helps…when Joyce ordered my Scarabs to apprehend the Professor, he did not claim that it was for the benefit of the Hades Consortium. I merely inferred that, knowing who his masters were. He just said that he had a few “skeletons in his closet” that he did not wish to be unearthed.’

  Quaint’s face lit up. ‘By someone whose job it is to dig for secrets, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Polly. ‘I’m still not convinced that Joyce is involved in any of this. We’ve only got this Scarab’s word for it, remember? The man is the British attaché to Egypt, for crying out loud! He could have been speaking figuratively.’

  ‘But what if he wasn’t?’ countered Quaint without missing a beat. ‘That’s why he wants you gone from this place, on account of those bones you found! No wonder he doesn’t want that grave made common knowledge. People might start asking awkward questions of him, and then where would he be? He would expose not only himself but the Hades Consortium too!’

  ‘Quaint, if you keep talking long enough no doubt you’ll end up convincing yourself that you’re right, but you’re forgetting one thing – proof. Something you lack!’ snapped Polly. ‘This is all just some incredible story, and I’m not swayed by it for one moment.’

  ‘Trust me on this, Professor…unravelling these sorts of webs is my speciality,’ said Quaint. ‘As a conjuror, I have an insatiable hunger to work out what makes things tick…why things are what they are. I wanted leverage to use against Joyce and this is it!’

  ‘This is madness! Not to mention slander,’ Polly stormed, throwing her hands up into the air. ‘If you’re so convinced that Godfrey Joyce is guilty, why don’t you just trot on over to the British Embassy in Cairo and ask him?’

  ‘I like the way you think,’ said Quaint. ‘We can make it by nightfall if we hurry.’

  ‘What?’ asked Polly, aghast. ‘I was joking!’

  ‘Aksak, what do you think?’ Quaint asked him.

  Aksak Faroud bunched his fingers into a fist and gnawed on his knuckles as though he was trying to force his words back down his throat.

  ‘Joyce is a dangerous man,’ he said eventually. He had only wished to help the conjuror discover a clue as to the Hades Consortium’s plot. By going up against Godfrey Joyce, the Scarab leader was risking far more than just his own neck. ‘If you set foot in that Embassy, you will be on his territory. If you really are going to face him, you will need an airtight plan.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Faroud.’ Quaint gripped his horse’s reins and pulled himself up into the saddle. ‘Airtight plans are my speciality!’

  ‘I thought you said that unravelling webs was your speciality?’ asked Polly.

  ‘I diversify in my specialities, Polly,’ said Quaint. ‘Come on, folks! Let’s go and put our friend Mr Joyce in an awkward position that he can’t wriggle out of.’

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  The Persistent Past

  THE POTHOLES AND loose debris on the road from the lake to Umkaza made travelling at high speeds a dangerous business, but Ahman was in no particular hurry. He was quite content to trot Moses along at a gentle pace. After all, Umkaza was going nowhere. There was no need to rush – quite the opposite to Madame Destine’s thoughts, who was eager to arrive at their destination. After all, it was a place that she had put all her hopes in. Even so, the Frenchwoman was full of optimism as the cart trundled over the dips and troughs. She was far too wrapped up in the pages of the journal to
notice any discomfort.

  ‘Listen to this!’ she called to Ahman.

  ‘Godfrey Joyce appeared on site again this morning accompanied by his so-called “guide”, a man named Nastasi – a scurrilous-looking fiend if ever I saw one. As hopeful as I am, I do not feel comfortable with this man taking such an interest in the site. He possesses no interest in archaeology, and seems to involve himself in many furtive conversations with Joyce. Whenever I approach, I am certain that they consciously change the subject. Whatever the content of their talks, I sense that it can only spell trouble.

  ‘And this, Ahman, listen to this, just a few pages later. It is just as my après-monition detailed…why Aloysius had to get me away from Umkaza. Listen:

  ‘A large group of armed men have come from the desert in the night – led by this man Nastasi. They have positioned themselves around the site at Joyce’s command. We are effectively prisoners. Joyce tells me not to be concerned, but how can I not be so? He tells me the men are for my crew’s protection. But protection from whom? All the dangerous folk seem to be right here in Umkaza.

  ‘I am writing this to leave word. I have a nasty feeling that once the tomb of the Pharaoh’s Cradle is opened I will be superfluous to requirements. I cannot let this happen. Madame Destine warned me about dealing with Joyce. She said that no good would come of our association, and I am starting to believe her. She senses that Joyce wants the treasure for himself, and all others are dispensable – myself included.’

  Destine ran her hands down her face despairingly. ‘My word, Ahman…this journal is a painful read, is it not? It is as if we can see this betrayal happening in front of us…through a misted window separated by time…and yet it is becoming clearer with every page we read. I just wish that I could help Aloysius somehow.’

  Ahman rested the reins in his lap and sighed. ‘It is all in the past. You can do nothing to prevent it now, ah? I do not know what you hope to find in Umkaza, but I pray it will be of comfort.’ He looked over his shoulder to see Destine rubbing at her tired eyes and then looking down at the journal in her lap. It was as if the book were dragging her down, pulling at her to commit its will.

  ‘Listen, my dear, why not take a break from that book, ah? I fear that it is draining you to the point where it is all you can think of. Let me take care of it for the remainder of our journey and you try to get some rest. I promise that I will tell you once we have arrived in Umkaza. It is not far now. I hope that there we shall find an end to this torment of yours.’

  ‘I pray that you are right, dear Ahman,’ Madame Destine smeared the backs of her hands over her pale blue eyes. ‘It feels as if the past is desperate not to be forgotten, and unless I resolve this matter, I shall never be free until my dying day.’

  Not far behind the meandering cart rode Heinrich Nadir, and next to him, his two silent assassins. As they galloped ever closer to the cart, the dark riders focused upon their prey. Like emotionless automatons, they simultaneously removed curve-bladed swords from scabbards affixed to their backs. With the occupants of the cart ahead oblivious to their peril, the two assassins moved their horses into position…

  Ahman vaguely noticed something in the corner of his eye. He looked around, spying a man on horseback keeping pace with his cart. Ahman frowned, thinking his old eyes deceived him, until an odd twinge made him look over his other shoulder, where he discovered another man. With his cart masking the rider’s approach, Destine was thankfully unaware of the impending threat – unlike Ahman. His cart was penned in on both sides, and there was nothing he could do to evade his pursuers. The nearest rider to him craned over in his saddle and pulled down his hood, showing his face.

  His dark skin was pockmarked with swirling black tattoos around his cheeks and eyes, but the most ghastly thing of all was his gaping wide mouth. His tongue had been removed, and his black throat screeched an inaudible scream.

  Ahman leapt in fright, startling Destine.

  ‘Hold onto something, Madame!’ he yelled, as he wrenched the reins furiously to one side, just as the rider slashed at him with his sword. ‘We have company.’

  ‘Who are they?’ gasped Destine in horror.

  ‘I do not know, but whoever they are, they are not friendly!’ said Ahman, desperately whipping the reins harder. ‘Go, Moses, go!’

  Even if the carpet trader’s horse was capable of picking up speed at the drop of a hat – which it was most assuredly not – there was no way it could attain the kind of velocity needed to escape its pursuers’ muscular steeds.

  As Ahman whipped harder on the reins with an enthusiastic ‘Hyah!’ that bordered on the terrified, something flashed brightly. It was the glint of sunlight against metal as the other rider to his right swung at him with his sword.

  Luckily, the potholed road was on Ahman’s side, and the assassin’s horse stumbled in a ditch. The blade missed its target – but only just. Standing upright in his saddle, the assassin attempted another pass – and this time his blade made contact.

  Ahman wailed in pain as it sliced a deep gash into his right shoulder.

  Destine screamed too, consumed by her panic.

  Ahman clutched the reins as the buffeting craft leapt along the road, careering left and right wildly. Searing pain scorched his shoulder as blood seeped relentlessly.

  ‘Give them to me!’ Destine shouted, as she snatched the reins from Ahman’s loose grip. ‘We must stop!’

  ‘No! Must…keep going,’ Ahman replied, his eyes rolling.

  He was losing concentration as well as blood, and both were retreating from him with haste. The cart struck something in the road and it lurched into the air. Destine watched helplessly as Ahman was lifted from his seat. She tried to reach him but it was too late. Ahman toppled over the side of the cart and struck the dusty track hard, tumbling in circles over and over, arms flailing, coming to a stop in a crumpled mess by the side of the road.

  Ahman did not get up.

  Ahman did not even move.

  Soon, he was masked by a cloud of dust – and Destine’s mind was a muddle. Still the men pursued her, drawing level with her on both sides. She wept, her flooded eyes no longer able to visualise anything clearly. In a final act of desperate surrender, she yanked hard on the horse’s reins. With nowhere to go, and no hope of survival, she succumbed to her fate. She lowered her head, waiting to die…

  CHAPTER XL

  The Discarded Debris

  QUAINT, NORTH AND Faroud travelled the road leading east away from Umkaza. Their plan to infiltrate the British Embassy and question Godfrey Joyce firsthand was certainly one fraught with risk, but Quaint was blissfully optimistic of its success. But as is always the way with best laid plans, they seldom run their course without incident – especially plans laid by Cornelius Quaint.

  A mile outside the limits of Umkaza, his keen eyes spotted something by the side of the road that made his heart lurch in his chest.

  It was the motionless body of an old man.

  He was caked in dust and grit, with a nasty wound on his arm that spewed a puddle of blood onto the sand. He was quite still, just another piece of discarded debris on the road. Quaint and Polly were off their horses in a second. Polly lifted the fallen man’s head and cradled it in her lap, as Quaint pulled his canteen from the pannier on his horse and splashed water over the man’s face. The liquid washed away a fine layer of grime from his spectacles, and cleared specks of dirt from his thick moustache and beard. The old man coughed and spluttered as the water shook him back into consciousness.

  ‘Sir? Can you hear me?’ asked Polly. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Ahman…but where am I?’ he spluttered.

  ‘You’re about a mile from Umkaza. Who did this to you?’ asked Quaint in Arabic, spying the deep gash to Ahman’s shoulder.

  ‘Desert riders…two of them,’ mumbled Ahman, his face twisted in pain. Tears welled in his large brown eyes as he tried to roll onto his side.

  ‘Lie still, sir,’ Polly said, as she loo
ked at Quaint. ‘Cornelius, this wound is fresh, but it’s deep and he’s lost a lot of blood.’ She looked appealingly towards Faroud. ‘Scarab, you know these territories better than us, is there anywhere we can take him for medical treatment?’

  ‘I hardly think he has enough time left,’ Faroud replied, gripping his horse’s reins tightly, eager to be on his way. ‘Leave him. He is no concern of ours.’

  ‘But he was attacked, you animal! Did you not hear what he said?’ Polly shouted.

  Faroud reluctantly bowed his head. This woman was going to be the death of him.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘In my camp…there is a man named Bephotsi who can assist him. He has many medical supplies.’

  ‘Then we’ve got to get back there immediately!’ Polly said looking at Quaint.

  ‘Not a chance,’ said the conjuror. ‘Cairo is this way…Bara Mephista is in totally the opposite direction.’

  Polly motioned to the injured man. ‘But we can’t just leave him here.’

  ‘I know, but…what can we do for him? You said it yourself, he’s lost a lot of blood. Who says he’ll even make it as far as Bara Mephista. Polly, this thing with Joyce is a much larger affair. The whole of Egypt is at stake. We can’t just derail now, not when we’re so close to getting somewhere. We just don’t have the time.’

  ‘Neither does he!’ snapped Polly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Polly. The answer is no.’

  ‘Fine! Then I shall take him back myself!’

  ‘Then I shall pray for you both,’ interrupted Faroud coldly. ‘Tell Bephotsi that I sent you. He will give you any assistance that you require. That is the only solace I can offer this man.’

  Quaint looked down at Ahman, searching his round face. ‘Sir, can you hear me? The Professor here is going to take you somewhere…somewhere you can get some help, do you understand me?’