The Eleventh Plague cq-2

by Darren Craske

  'And I take it that Lady Jocasta wants this fortune-teller for herself, does she?' asked Joyce.

  Nadir shook his head. 'The Hades Consortium is not yet aware of this woman, Herr Joyce, nor her abilities. I came to you first.'

  'Did you indeed?' said Joyce. He pulled a cigar from an ornate tortoise-shell box on his desk, and took a deep inhalation, savouring the rich taste of the tobacco permeating around his mouth. When he decided to speak, he locked eyes with Faroud and spoke without any hint of emotion: 'Aksak, take this stunted simpleton out of my sight at once.'

  'Wait, sir – you must not dismiss this so swiftly!' pleaded Nadir.

  'Why not? It's utter nonsense, man! Even if I believed a word of it – which I don't, by the way – what possible value could she be?' barked Joyce.

  'Value, Herr Joyce?' Nadir's tongue darted from his mouth to coat his lips. 'Surely you can see that she is of the utmost value! Foreknowledge of the future would give any man ultimate power!'

  A fog of cigar smoke masked Joyce's expression from Nadir's sight, but if the German could have seen it, he would have noticed a glimmer of interest.

  'Yes…yes, it would. That sort of power would be of great interest to many, Mr Nadir…myself included.' Joyce rolled the fat cigar between his lips, coating the tip with strings of saliva. 'If it is true…if this woman really can see the future as you claim…then she would be a very valuable acquisition.'

  'I overheard her say she was headed to Agra Bazaar, Herr Joyce, not too far from Cairo's main streets,' Nadir added. 'I can head there right away and intercept her! All I require is some assistance for her capture, should her companion decide to be a problem.'

  'I have two of the Consortium's best assassins at my disposal for just this kind of job, Nadir. Silent, swift, deadly. Their resume is really quite impressive.' Joyce sat forwards in his chair, grasping his fists tight in front of him. 'Go to Agra at once, Nadir! You must find her…find her and bring her to me! I will decide what to do with her after I have proof of her abilities – but if you are wasting my time, Mr Nadir, then my assassins might just take my frustrations out on you.'

  'Understood,' said Nadir.

  Joyce waited for Heinrich Nadir to scuttle from his office before glancing up at Faroud. 'What do you make of it all, Aksak? A woman that can predict the future?'

  'If what the German says is true, then this woman is certainly worthy of attention,' replied the Scarab. 'And this news…you will share it with your superiors?'

  'Oh…I don't think we need concern them at this stage, do you?' said Godfrey Joyce, blowing a flume of smoke into the air. 'No…I think that I would prefer to keep this little titbit to myself for now.'

  CHAPTER XV

  The Astronomer's Timepiece

  THE SMALL DISTRICT of Hosni was decidedly off the beaten track.

  For all its bare bones, this was Cornelius Quaint's destination. The intense heat had bitten at him all the way from Cairo, and so he had altered his attire accordingly. Discarding his jacket, his waistcoat was buttoned over his open-necked shirt and he wore a loose-knotted neckerchief around his neck. He adjusted his felt hat and placed his hands on his hips, sizing up the town.

  It was like stepping back in time – how many years? Aside from various trading stores, scattered domiciles and a ramshackle tavern, there was little to entice anyone there. The uneven road was compacted by the frequent tread of foot and hoof, small two-storey buildings blasted sugar-white by the sand-whipped wind were dotted randomly about and a hubbub of chatter emanated from around every corner.

  'Thanks for the ride, Joran,' said Quaint to a young Egyptian sitting in front of the cart. He had an inane grin fixed upon his face, seemingly finding great joy from something in the air around him. Somehow, Cornelius Quaint suspected that it was at his expense. 'Is something amusing you, son?'

  Joran wore a small fez perched upon his head at a jaunty angle, but as if that was not comical enough, when the young man spoke, his voice rose and fell sharply between high and low octaves. 'My sister is very glad you come back to Hosni, Mr Cornelius.'

  Quaint beamed. 'She is?'

  'Yes, she said you owe her lots of money,' Joran snickered.

  Quaint offered him an affected smile. 'Alexandria's got a better memory for an outstanding account than a Glaswegian ledger-keeper.'

  Madame Destine sat in the rear of the cart, twirling her parasol over her shoulder.

  'Another gambling debt, Cornelius?' she asked.

  'Not in the way you might think.' Quaint motioned towards the young Egyptian. 'You should be fine with Joran, Destine. Just don't give him any money until you get back to the ship, or you'll never see him again. Oh, and keep an eye on your valuables. He's a damn magpie – anything gold and shiny goes straight into his pocket. He was five years old the last time I saw him, and the tyke stole my watch!'

  Joran produced a fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and swung it by its chain tauntingly. 'You mean this one? You listen to him, lady. He speaks the truth. Joran still has his watch, and very nice it is too. Tick-a-tick! Still works, Mr Quaint.'

  'Well, fancy that,' marvelled Quaint. 'Mind if I take a look?'

  Joran was reluctant to hand the watch over – even to its rightful owner – but he begrudgingly did as he was asked.

  'Would you look at that!' Quaint exclaimed, as he inspected the fob watch with his eyes aglow. 'I haven't set eyes on this old thing for…Oh, it must be twelve, maybe thirteen years! Lord, has it really been that long? I've got to hand it to you, Joran, you've kept it in remarkable condition.'

  'It is the best thing I own, Mr Quaint,' Joran beamed with pride. 'I know that it was very wrong to steal it from you. Now I am all grown up, I would never make the same mistake again.'

  Quaint grinned up at him. 'I'm glad you've seen the error of your ways.'

  'Now I would go straight for your wallet,' Joran chuckled.

  Quaint shook his head contemptuously. 'Just like your sister,' he said, as he returned his attention to the fob watch. It had a battered brass casing, with a large, expressive fascia. He depressed a protruding button atop the timepiece, and the watch's face snapped open within his hand. Poking carefully around inside the watch with his little finger, he plucked something from its insides.

  Joran's eyes grew wide with wonderment as they spied a shining, golden coin.

  'It's still here!' said Quaint, as Joran looked on jealously. 'It's a French doubloon from the wreckage of Napoleon's flagship L'Orient. Sunk at the Battle of Aboukir in 1798. It spent forty years lying at the bottom of the ocean before I found it whilst diving off the coast of Alexandria – the very same place your sister is named after, as a matter of fact. It is very rare and quite, quite priceless to certain maritime antiquity traders.'

  'Priceless?' mumbled Joran, transfixed. 'I like that word.'

  'Tell you what, lad…I'll make a trade with you,' said Quaint, holding up the golden coin. 'If you give me back my watch, I'll let you keep that coin. What do you say?'

  The word 'priceless' still buzzed around the young Egyptian's ears and he took no time with his reply. 'I agree! You are most kind.' Quaint tossed the coin to Joran, and he turned it over in his eager hands. 'I think my sister is wrong about you. She says: "Cornelius Quaint is an arrogant man who breaks women's hearts as indifferently as a cow breaks wind."'

  'That sounds like Alex,' said a disgruntled Quaint, turning to Destine. 'He doesn't know it, but I would have gladly traded a whole chest of those coins to get this old trinket back,' he whispered into her ear. 'Seeing this again certainly makes me think…the past does have a way of sneaking up on you, doesn't it? Would you care for a look?'

  Destine took the watch in her hand and inspected it more closely.

  'It is very…nice, Cornelius,' she fibbed, 'and clearly quite an antique.'

  It was certainly that, all right. The casing was dented, the glass scratched, and it was a miracle the thing still ticked. Inside, underneath the main fascia, was displayed an en
graved illustration of a large oval, with four circular discs positioned at the four points of the compass. Destine could tell by the expression on Quaint's face that he was chomping at the bit to explain the watch's function.

  'So…it is not solely a timepiece, I take it?' she asked.

  'Indeed it is not,' declared Quaint proudly. 'Marvellous little toy! As well as a watch, it houses a device used by ancient astronomers for measuring the phases of the moon. Later, it became popular amongst mariners as the moon not only provided them with illumination, but its phases also impacted on the tides.' Quaint clearly enjoyed the opportunity to elucidate on a subject that he knew much about, but rarely got the chance to discuss. 'It's called a Luna-meter, named so after "Luna", the Latin for "moon" – or the ancient Roman goddess, of course.'

  'Of course,' sang Destine, finding it difficult to maintain a keen level of interest. 'Cornelius, I am sorry, but I fail to be as impressed by a thing in such a poor state of repair. Could you not have replaced it from any market stall anywhere around the world? It is in dreadful condition, and surely not unique.'

  'Unique? Madame, if only you knew!' laughed Quaint. 'It was a gift to the Italian astronomer Galileo from the Vatican in 1639 as a sideways apology for his treatment at their hands. You see, Galileo theorised that the Earth was not anchored in the night sky, as most theologians believed at the time – but along with the other planets in the Solar System, it moved upon an axis around the sun. The Catholic Church condemned his findings as heresy. He was ostracised from society even though his studies were based upon scientific fact. The Vatican at the time even locked him up for it!'

  'And you mean…this is his watch? Galileo's watch?' asked Destine.

  'The very same, Madame,' confirmed Quaint, with a broad smile.

  'In that case, my sweet, I stand corrected – I am tremendously impressed. So how did such a prize fall into your hands? Something else that you swindled from unsuspecting Prussians, perhaps?'

  Quaint's black eyes glanced away from her, an intense distraction burning within them, and he fought a falter to his voice. 'It was a gift from my father just before he died. Back when I was a young boy.'

  'Oh, Cornelius, I am sorry for doubting what I thought was merely a boyish attraction,' said Destine.

  'It means a lot to me. That's why I would have given anything to own it once more,' said Quaint. 'Thankfully, Joran was not willing to barter more tenaciously, or it could have slipped through my fingers once again.'

  'Oui, on a second look, it does rather look like a gift that your father would give. And what is this inscription, my sweet?' asked Destine, pointing to a row of odd symbols finely engraved into the watch's fascia. 'This language is unknown to me.'

  'Yes, to me also. It is supposedly an ancient Chinese dialect, never recorded by any lexicographers, unfortunately. I never got around to having it verified by today's scholars, but supposedly it says "Fortune and Family"…my father's favourite words. He knew that I'd be fascinated with it, and he was not wrong. I always had an interest in astronomy as a boy. Remember, my father erected a telescope on the flat roof at the rear of the manor, and the two of us would sit and watch the stars for hours upon end? I think you even took to bringing my supper up there.'

  Madame Destine remembered. And she remembered Cornelius's father too. Augustus Quaint had entrusted her to take care of his greatest possession – the man stood by her side. Cornelius had inherited much of his father's charm, confidence and intelligence – and all of his stubbornness. When the Quaints had been tragically killed, young Cornelius's world had fallen apart. Thankfully, Destine had been there to help him pick up the pieces. She had adopted the role of guardian angel ever since, long into his adulthood, vowing never to leave the conjuror's side until she felt confident he could live without her. It had been almost fifty years, and still that day had yet to dawn. The old watch had stoked the embers of painful memory and the sting in the man's eyes was clear to see.

  'Tender memories always linger longest in our thoughts,' she said, softly stroking Quaint's shoulder. 'They are always the hardest to forget.'

  'And the easiest to recall,' Quaint said, threading the gold chain through his waistcoat buttonhole. He pushed the timepiece snugly into his pocket, giving it a reassuring pat. 'Now…Joran has strict instructions to escort you directly to Agra Bazaar. Try not to lose him, Madame. He's not worth much, but he's the only hope you have of getting back to the Silver Swan by nightfall.'

  'I will not take my eyes off of him for a moment.' Leaning forwards in her seat, Destine kissed Quaint's forehead gently. 'Bonne chance, mon cher.'

  'Same to you,' the conjuror replied.

  With a 'cluck-cluck' from Joran, and a flick of the reins, the cart trundled off down the main concourse towards Agra Bazaar. As the conjuror disappeared amidst a cloud of dust, for once Madame Destine was grateful for being without her powers of premonition; for she feared they might only confirm the dull ache within her heart – a feeling that this was the last time she would see Cornelius Quaint alive.

  CHAPTER XVI

  The Vulture and the Viper

  TO THOSE THAT knew of its existence, the Hades Consortium was a secret cadre of powerful individuals populating all corners of the world. It delighted in causing – and then profiting from – global unrest of its own design. It had influenced practically every landmark conflict in history, rocking the foundations of the globe, shattering alliances and shifting the balance of power in its favour. Its members were positioned throughout all levels of society in offices of power and influence, like chess pieces waiting patiently for the game to begin.

  Scattered around the globe were many so-called 'sancta sanctorum' – places where members of the Hades Consortium could scheme away to their dark hearts' content. Beneath the ancient ruins of the city of Fantoma, two senior members had recently taken up residence – a fact that did nothing to placate Godfrey Joyce's distemper. He sat in the rear of a horse-drawn cart with the sack-covered item by his side, cursing every bump in the road. The painful trip was seemingly endless, and his buttocks were as tenderised as a side of beef.

  'Have you ever thought of fitting cushions in this damned contraption?' he barked at the driver, ignorant of the fact that the toothless Egyptian had no understanding of the English language.

  It was approaching midday. The sun was high in the sky and its relentless heat was already biting the back of Joyce's neck, igniting his irritability even further. But then his driver muttered something incomprehensible, pointing to the horizon. A wondrous sight greeted Joyce's woeful eyes.

  The crumbled stone walls of Fantoma rose up from the sand all around him. Towering obelisks, once-great columns, temples and stone monoliths ascended into the sky. Abandoned centuries before, inhabited only by the ghosts of the desert, the city had been left to die, covered in a shroud of sand and dust. This was Godfrey Joyce's destination, and as the cart drew ever closer, the itch that smarted his nerves increased tenfold.

  After a claustrophobic trek through chokingly dry tunnels carved from the rock itself, a very sweaty Godfrey Joyce finally arrived at a pair of tarnished stone doors, easily twice his size in both height and width. They were inset with a lavish picture of a pyramid, decorated in its centre by a golden ankh with rays of light emanating outwards. Joyce smiled at their grandeur. How their majesty was wasted on the Hades Consortium. He pushed hard on the doors, their hinges grinding against each other. In a blink, two large-bodied guards carrying spears stepped out from the shadows of the cavern beyond. They wore dark red robes, draping their bodies from their hooded heads to their ankles, with armoured adornments covering their forearms. They lowered their spears to bar Joyce's entry.

  'I've got a delivery for Lady Jocasta. She's expecting this!' Joyce said, lifting the sack-covered box. 'So if I were you, I'd best not hold me up.'

  The guards parted their spears.

  As Joyce moved deeper into the cavern, wall-mounted torches gave him a better view of his surroundin
gs. The underground cavern opened up before him with every step he took. He made his way cautiously up a series of stone steps to an oval-shaped marble table positioned directly underneath a stream of natural sunlight, breaching the darkness from ground level. Pulling a chair to one side, Joyce sat down in silence, placing the sack next to him. His face was pale and sweaty – a symptom not of the listless dry heat in the place, but of the presence of the two occupants seated at the table.

  Baron Remus sat in stony silence with his elbows on the table. His grey eyes stared intently at Joyce as if he was attempting to read his mind. Remus's peers respected his tolerance of neither fools nor failure, and his presence in Egypt only heightened Godfrey Joyce's very palpable fear. Remus had been an inhabitant of the Hades Consortium's higher echelons for decades. In that time he had carved some sizeable and not to mention highly successful campaigns across most of Europe, and was regarded highly by the inner stratum.

  Seated next to the Italian was his protegee, Lady Jocasta. Her jet-black hair was tied into a long ponytail, interwoven with golden strands of decoration – although she needed none, for her beauty was captivating enough. Her dark eyes sparkled intensely, and her complexion glowed, exquisite in its texture. Although still an apprentice, Lady Jocasta was a powerful architect of chaos in her own right. Born into an affluent and influential Greek family, she had grown bored with an abundance of wealth and sought to entertain herself with more challenging pursuits. One day on the streets of Athens, her recklessness brought her into a fateful encounter with the Baron when she had tried to pick his pocket. Seeing qualities within the young woman that he could make use of, he took her under his wing, indoctrinating her into the Hades Consortium. Both were cut from the same cloth – a brooding vulture and a calculating viper.

  'I must apologise for my lateness,' Joyce said, his palpitating heart choking his words. 'My driver was unfamiliar with the territory in these parts.'