The Eleventh Plague

by Darren Craske

  ‘Gloat whilst you still have a breath in your body, Monsieur Joyce,’ retorted Destine sharply. ‘Soon Cornelius will come, and I only wish I was here to witness your downfall. You do not know him as I do. When he sets his mind to it he is capable of moving mountains.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Joyce, as he signalled to his assassins. ‘Take her away.’

  Nadir shook Joyce’s hand limply and clambered up onto the front seat of the cart next to the driver. ‘I will send Lady Jocasta your regards,’ he said.

  The Hades Consortium assassins tied a blindfold around Destine’s eyes and a gag around her mouth. The material tasted of paraffin and the Frenchwoman retched, swallowing the acrid taste back down her throat. With the blindfold obscuring her vision, she did not see Godfrey Joyce’s gloating face as the cart moved along the gravel driveway towards the rear gates – nor did she catch a glimpse of Cornelius Quaint crouch down behind the low wall, out of sight.

  Quaint watched the cart disappear into the distance, consumed by the fading light of the passing day.

  ‘I hope that wasn’t Joyce, or this plan is over before it’s even begun,’ he said.

  ‘It was not,’ said Faroud. ‘It was Joyce’s driver…and another man and a woman. I did not see them clearly, but neither was our target, which means that the man is still inside.’

  ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ asked Quaint. ‘Let’s go and say hello.’

  ‘It will not be an easy feat to sneak into this place, Cornelius.’

  ‘Whoever said we were going to sneak in?’ replied Quaint with a cocksure grin.

  ‘Somehow I knew you were going to say that,’ said Faroud. ‘Just remember what I told you about Joyce. He might not look a formidable threat, but his mind is always ticking away behind his eyes. He is as slippery as an eel…a traitor not just to his own country, but to Egypt as well. Surely there can be nothing more despicable than that.’

  ‘And when did you find out that Joyce was a rotten egg?’ the conjuror enquired of a suddenly perplexed Faroud. ‘You know…a bad seed,’ rephrased Quaint, attempting to clarify his point. If the Egyptian’s expression was anything to go by, he had failed miserably. ‘For the leader of a band of underground criminals, you are woefully out of date with your slang! I mean, how did you find out about Joyce’s connections to the Hades Consortium?’

  ‘Through my brother,’ Faroud replied softly. ‘Rakmun was captured whilst stealing from the Embassy. He almost killed two of the guards and was apprehended at the scene, supposedly.’

  Quaint raised an eyebrow. ‘Supposedly?’

  ‘Rakmun was no angel…he was a Scarab, after all…but he was loyal to me as a brother and as an Aksak,’ explained Faroud. ‘He had never expressed any interest in thieving from the Embassy; he knew it would have been a pointless venture. What we Scarabs do, we do for the good of the clan. We would never attempt such a foolhardy exploit so far from Bara Mephista – especially alone. The last I heard of Rakmun that night, he was out near the ruins of Fantoma sniffing around the Hades Consortium’s affairs. He had been observing increased activity in the area and wished to investigate further.’

  ‘And yet he managed to drag himself halfway across the country to rob the Embassy?’ quizzed Quaint. ‘That doesn’t make much sense.’

  ‘No, Cornelius…there is much of Rakmun’s crime that failed to make sense.’

  Quaint raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Joyce made it known in the local communities that one of the Clan Scarabs had been captured. He knew it would reach my ears,’ Faroud began, the details still fresh in his mind. ‘I contacted him to try to broker a deal between us. Even though I thought he was far too convenient in his guise as my brother’s saviour, I had no choice. He told me that Rakmun was to be hanged but if I agreed to aid him, he would petition his release.’ Faroud’s eyes seemed to cloud over, as if spread with a layer of fine frost. ‘Yet that was many weeks ago now. Joyce claimed that only his influence is keeping my brother alive. With no other recourse, I was forced to do as he commanded. I became a lapdog…just as Professor North rightly called me yesterday. Rakmun is all I have left of my family, Cornelius…I had to do whatever it took to keep him safe. But no more. I want to get inside that Embassy and beat the truth from Joyce…which is why I agreed to your hasty plan.’

  ‘Hasty? I take offence, Faroud.’ Quaint grinned like a truant child enjoying a day’s freedom from school. ‘My plan has been carefully devised – which is a hell of a lot more prepared than I usually am on these little affairs, let me tell you! When it comes to the Hades Consortium, it pays to be well organised. New Year’s Eve is but two days away, and if Joyce is as slimy as you say, no doubt he’ll want to earn himself a gold star and hand me over to his bosses, which is just fine by me. Once I get inside the Consortium’s nest, he’s all yours.’

  ‘Yes, but what if he sees right through our plan?’ asked Faroud.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The end result is the same,’ said Quaint. ‘Joyce’s actions are easy to predict – he’ll betray us at the first opportunity. At its root, the Hades Consortium is merely a machine…and all machines rely on well-oiled cogs to power them. If we take one of those cogs out – in this case, Joyce – with any luck, the machine will fail.’

  ‘You seem awfully familiar with the Hades Consortium,’ said Faroud, a nagging thought buzzing around his head. ‘The Clan Scarabs have been encamped deep within Egypt’s heart for decades, and we have never set eyes upon any of them, save Godfrey Joyce – yet we know they are there. For a circus conjuror from England, how exactly do you know so much about them?’

  ‘I wasn’t born a conjuror, Faroud,’ answered Quaint simply. ‘In my past, the road of my life has verged with the Hades Consortium on more than one occasion. Although I’ve tried to steer well clear of them, it seems that Fate has other ideas.’

  ‘I see,’ said Faroud. ‘I just assumed that they had wronged you in some way…that it was personal.’

  ‘Oh, it’s personal all right!’ said Quaint, as if it should be obvious to even the most simple of minds.

  Faroud pondered the reply. ‘And may I ask what they did to hurt you?’

  ‘Not me,’ said Quaint.

  ‘A lover, perhaps?’ enquired Faroud.

  ‘Not a lover…but people I loved.’ The conjuror hissed a low, inaudible sigh through his teeth as he countered the discomfort of the memory. ‘The Hades Consortium murdered my parents.’

  CHAPTER XLIV

  The Awkward Questions

  THE MAIN DOORS to the British Embassy opened slowly to reveal a gaunt-faced butler with a thin, wispy moustache and black hair stretched across his scalp like oily bootlaces. His false smile faded quickly as glanced at the dust-clad forms of Cornelius Quaint and Aksak Faroud.

  ‘How may I be of service to you, er…gentlemen?’ the butler asked.

  ‘I am here to see Mr Joyce. I have a gift for him!’ growled Faroud, holding a knife to Quaint’s throat. He played his part well – a mite too well, in the conjuror’s honest opinion. ‘And before you ask – yes, it is important, and no, it cannot wait!’

  The butler stepped back, allowing the two men entry, and he led Faroud and Quaint through the corridors on the ground floor to Mr Joyce’s assistant, Reginald, who was seated at a desk in an open foyer. As they approached, the young man looked them up and down objectionably.

  ‘These two gentlemen are here to see Mr Joyce,’ the butler said. ‘Apparently, it’s important.’

  ‘Don’t bother looking us up in your appointment book, son – we’re not in it. Just hurry it up and take us to see Joyce,’ said Quaint.

  Reginald’s lower lip floundered. ‘Um…without an appointment, sir?’

  ‘Yes, without an appointment!’

  ‘But, sir, that’s highly irregular,’ complained the young man.

  ‘Listen, son,’ said Quaint, boring his steely black eyes into Reginald, ‘we can stand here and debate irregularities, or you can announce us to Mr
Joyce right away. It’s your choice, but my knife-wielding friend here is keen for his blade to taste blood, so it’s either going to be yours or mine. Obviously, I’d prefer it to be yours, and I think so would your maid, because blood has a tendency to stain the carpets…especially mine.’

  ‘I’ll announce you right away!’ snapped an anxious Reginald.

  ‘Good lad,’ piped Quaint.

  Reginald knocked upon the door and opened it a fraction, just enough for his chubby face to squeeze through. ‘Mr Joyce, you have someone to see you, sir…the same chap as yesterday morning, with another fellow…and, um…they aren’t in the appointment book again, sir,’ Reginald said, as if the blame for such slack protocol lay fairly and squarely on his slumped shoulders. ‘I told them it was most irregular!’

  ‘Faroud is here? Right now?’ Joyce asked, trying to feign surprise. ‘All right, lad, show him in.’

  Outside, Faroud whispered into Quaint’s ear. ‘Just keep quiet and let me to do the talking! We need to find out my brother’s location before we go breaking things.’

  ‘Am I not always the picture of restraint?’ said Quaint.

  ‘Do I really need to answer that?’ Faroud said, pushing him into the office.

  Joyce rose from his seat and beamed a wide smile. ‘Well, this is an unexpected surprise! I was not aware we had an appointment today, Aksak.’ Joyce could not resist a curious inspection of the conjuror. ‘Why is it that every time you come to my office you bring a stray with you? Who is this one, might I ask?’

  Faroud nudged Quaint in between the shoulder blades and the conjuror crashed down clumsily onto Joyce’s desk. ‘He was found wandering near Bara Mephista’s caves by my men. He claimed to be lost, but when we took him back to our camp he began asking some awkward questions.’

  ‘What sort of awkward questions?’ Joyce enquired.

  ‘About the Hades Consortium,’ replied Faroud.

  ‘Oh?’ Joyce raised one of his white eyebrows. He relaxed himself into his chair, allowing the charade to play itself out until he could be surer of his footing. ‘What have you to say for yourself, man?’ he asked Quaint. ‘Who are you and what were you doing sniffing around the Scarab camp?’

  ‘Cornelius Quaint,’ Quaint said, with a polite nod. ‘This is all some dreadful misunderstanding, sir. You see, I hadn’t realised the caves were off limits. There are no signs or anything to warn a passing scientist.’

  ‘Scientist?’ asked an increasingly curious Godfrey Joyce.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ confirmed Quaint. ‘I am here in Egypt examining calcium carbonate deposits in the Bara Mephista region, it being so near to the River Hepsut and all. I was en route to Nespa Point, but got a little sidetracked. I merely stumbled into this nice gentleman’s encampment seeking proper directions.’ His response was calm and earnest, and it raised an interested glance from Faroud, who almost had to question the authenticity of Quaint’s story, he was that convincing.

  ‘And what of these questions you were asking about the Hades Consortium?’ inquired Joyce. ‘How would a scientist know of such an organisation?’

  ‘I might ask that of the British attaché to Egypt, sir,’ Quaint replied, mustering a whiter-than-white expression.

  ‘I happen to have direct contact into Whitehall, sir!’ said Joyce. ‘The government is familiar with that group, although no one is quite convinced of their existence. So tell me, Mr Quaint, I don’t recall seeing any official documents requesting your secondment here. Might I ask which universities or academies you represent?’

  Quaint began to answer but then stopped. He was taken by something in the air, as if someone nearby had just called his name. Intense furrows upon his brow, he took a brief sniff of the air, sensing a flash of recognition. It was a familiar scent…but try as he might, he could not place it. It passed in an instant and he paid it further thought.

  ‘Mr Quaint?’ Joyce rasped. ‘I asked what college you represent.’

  ‘Oh…lots,’ mumbled the conjuror. ‘I’m what you might call an adviser.’

  ‘Yet you were asking questions about the Hades Consortium,’ said Joyce.

  ‘Well, it was more of a passing comment than an actual question, really.’

  ‘In the middle of a Clan Scarab encampment?’

  ‘Like I said, I was lost.’

  ‘And then you were found by the Aksak,’ said Joyce, ‘and brought here to me.’

  ‘Lucky old me,’ said Quaint.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Joyce said.

  Each man delivered his words plainly and deftly, as if they were venturing out onto a frozen lake. The ice was cracking with every step they took, but still they kept on walking. Each knew more about the other than either was aware, waiting patiently for the final revelation.

  ‘So where else has your work taken you, Mr Quaint?’ Joyce asked.

  ‘Oh, lots of places,’ Quaint answered. ‘I spent a bit of time in Umkaza recently. History is such a fascination of mine, Mr Joyce. Who lived in the area, who died in the area, that sort of thing. You’d be amazed what you can dig up if you know where to look.’

  Joyce’s discomfort was beginning to show. ‘And did you…find anything of interest in Umkaza?’ he seethed.

  ‘Not really. It was a bit of a dead loss,’ replied Quaint, finely balanced sarcasm a hair’s breadth away. ‘But not to worry. As you probably know only too well, Mr Joyce, the ghosts of the past rarely stay buried for ever.’

  The ice had just cracked.

  ‘Faroud – kill this man at once!’ Joyce bellowed.

  Yet Aksak Faroud did not move.

  Joyce scowled at him. ‘Well? What are you waiting for, man? Kill him!’

  ‘Actually…I would rather not,’ said Faroud, as he slashed at the ropes around Quaint’s wrists with his knife, setting the conjuror free.

  ‘I second that,’ said Quaint, rubbing his wrists.

  ‘Wh-what are you doing?’ yelled Joyce.

  Faroud aimed the blade at him and he shrunk back into his seat. ‘You have lied to me, you have deceived me, and you have used my Scarabs as your own personal puppets – but no more! I know what you and your Consortium allies plan. We have come here for two things: my brother and the location of the poison…and we are not in any mood to wait for either!’

  ‘So…you have allied yourself with him,’ Joyce said, sneering at the Scarab leader. He gripped the hem of his waistcoat and smartened himself in a desperate attempt to reassert his authority. ‘You have just sacrificed more than your life, Faroud – your brother will die because of your treachery!’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll be all that easy for you to give orders any more, Godfrey,’ said Quaint, watching the man squirm in his seat as Faroud edged the blade closer to his face. ‘You see, we know all about you…and we know all about the Hades Consortium’s plans for the River Nile. I know you’re not the one pulling all the strings…I want to know the name of your puppeteer.’

  ‘What, and you think I’ll just roll over and tell you?’ said Joyce, his cocky tone contradicting the uncertainty in his eyes. ‘There is nothing you can do to me to force me to betray my masters!’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t bet on that,’ said Quaint. ‘I can be very persuasive. If I were you I’d want to—’ He stopped again mid-sentence, as if he had forgotten what he was talking about. There was definitely something familiar in the air. It teased at his senses, distracting his attention. He scowled away the confusion and focused on the matter at hand.

  ‘Where is Rakmun?’ interrupted Faroud.

  ‘Your brother’s life is forfeit…just like your own!’ Joyce yelled. ‘I promised I’d help you get him free, didn’t I? But now you’ve gone and brought this man here, it changes everything! Your threats mean nothing to me. You’re just going to have to kill me.’

  ‘That sounds like a fair offer,’ said Quaint, as he grabbed hold of Joyce’s tie and yanked his head down, making contact with the desk.

  Joyce collapsed onto the floor, sending paperwork, his box
of cigars and the large table lamp flying. Quaint was on him in a second. His strength was formidable at the best of times, but it was nothing compared to how strong he was when he was enraged – and at that moment, his rage was all-consuming.

  ‘Tell me what you know about the Nile project or you die!’ he shouted. Quaint pulled back his fist, but then froze – he could smell that smell, but this time it was not quite as elusive. It was the scent of lavender. It grew stronger the more he concentrated, strong enough for him to locate it.

  On the carpet underneath Joyce’s desk was a headscarf.

  Spellbound, he snatched it up and buried his nose into it, instantly recognising its owner.

  ‘Destine?’ he gasped. ‘Here?’ He turned his attention back to Joyce and clamped his hands around his throat. ‘Where is she? Where is Destine? If you’ve harmed her, I’ll—’

  ‘Get your hands off me or she dies!’ Joyce wheezed.

  Faroud grabbed at Quaint’s clothing, trying to pull him off Joyce, but it was no easy feat. ‘Cornelius! Stop this! Remember why we are here! This was not part of the plan. We need him alive, remember?’

  ‘To hell with the plan, I need to know where she is!’ barked Quaint.

  ‘What are you talking about? Cornelius, we have to leave! If this worm knew anything before he is useless to us now. Look at him! Even if his life depended on it, he will not speak. His fear of the Consortium is too great!’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until I know where she is!’ Quaint snatched up the letter-opener from Joyce’s desk and held it an inch from his right eye. ‘And unless you want to be called Cyclops from now on, I’d tell me if I were you.’

  ‘You’re bluffing!’ spat Joyce.

  ‘Am I?’ Quaint jabbed the tip of the blade into Joyce’s cheekbone and a tiny dab of blood appeared. ‘That was a warning shot.’ The point of the letter-opener brushed against Joyce’s eyelashes – proof enough that this was no bluff. ‘I’m growing impatient, Joyce. Where is Destine?’

  ‘Enough!’ Joyce said. ‘Just promise you’ll let me live…and I’ll tell you everything…I swear!’ The man’s rough, leathery skin glistened with sweat, and his hands quivered as he clutched at Quaint’s wrist, trying frantically to steer the letter-opener’s tip away from his eyeball. ‘She’s in the Embassy cells downstairs, along with the Aksak’s brother!’