The Eleventh Plague cq-2

by Darren Craske

  'Hold here!' said Godfrey Joyce, pulling his cart to a stop.

  Quaint heard a groan from the Scarab leader behind him, and he craned his neck as far as he could. 'You can wake up now, Aksak.'

  'Where are we?' asked Faroud, blinking life back into his eyes.

  'In trouble,' said Quaint.

  'Still?'

  'It's normal for me, I'm afraid,' said Quaint.

  Faroud peered through the darkness, assaying their position. A large mountain range was silhouetted against the night sky less than a mile away. 'This is not Fantoma, Cornelius,' he whispered in Quaint's ear. 'Is that a good thing, or not?'

  'Probably not,' said Quaint. 'But all we can do is watch how this unfolds and make our move when we can.'

  'I've got to rendezvous with my contact,' said Joyce to the mute Consortium assassins. 'Get these two dogs off their mount and onto their knees where they can't cause you any bother.' With that, he whipped the reins and his cart rode off into the darkness.

  Quaint and Faroud were pulled unceremoniously onto the hardened ground. The assassins drew their swords and towered over them.

  'Any ideas how we can get out of this?' Faroud asked quietly.

  'I don't exactly work at my best under pressure,' Quaint replied.

  'What is Joyce waiting for? Why not just kill us now and be done with it?'

  'Don't knock it, Aksak. Everything is working out just fine so far.'

  'You are still clinging to your plan?'

  'Absolutely!' confirmed Quaint.

  'Our plan is sunk, my friend. Soon Joyce will return and we shall die on our knees…most undignified for an Aksak,' Faroud said grimly.

  'And for a Quaint,' added the conjuror. 'And speaking of the good Mr Joyce…'

  Accompanied by a cloaking trail of dust, Joyce emerged from the pitch darkness. He was not alone – there was a single passenger bound and gagged in the rear of the cart. Quaint and Faroud tried to battle the darkness to identify the passenger, and the cart was feet away when Faroud's heart rose. It was Rakmun. His brother's face was bloodied and bruised, and his swollen lips tried to speak through the gag taut between his teeth, but it was nothing but an inaudible garble.

  'Rakmun?' said Faroud. 'My brother. He is safe, Cornelius!'

  Quaint looked at their surroundings. 'This is your definition of safe?'

  Faroud glared. 'He is alive, that is what is important!'

  'I wouldn't cheer just yet,' said Quaint. 'Now Mr Joyce has got something to threaten us with.'

  'How I love a nice family reunion!' said Joyce, his callous expression reinforcing Quaint's point. He reined the cart to a halt, and snatched Faroud's brother by his rope-bound wrists, dragging him onto the ground. 'You two seem intent on causing problems for me, so I thought that perhaps you'd respond to a little more persuasive pressure to keep you in line.' He pulled a pistol from his belt and held it to Rakmun's head. 'You have an obligation to safeguard this young man's well-being, Aksak. This doesn't have to get messy…so long as you do as you're instructed.'

  'Again you use my kin against me,' snarled Faroud.

  'A precautionary measure, I assure you,' said Joyce. 'Previously your brother was merely an insurance policy to make you susceptible to my requirements. You just needed the right level of motivation to keep your leash tight. But now I need you restrained and he fits the bill quite nicely.'

  The Scarab leader ground his teeth. 'The Hades Consortium would even go so far as to sanction killing a boy?'

  'They would, without a second thought,' said Quaint. 'Except I'll bet they have no idea what he's up to. Isn't that right, Joyce? You've been using the Scarabs for your own purposes…such as covering up your dirty little secret in Umkaza?' Quaint smiled as Joyce's expression wavered for a second. 'Don't look so shocked, Godfrey – or did you think we hadn't worked out why you were so keen for Professor North to pack her bags? She was getting too close, wasn't she? Too close to unearthing the skeletons in your closet…or should I say under the ground? I doubt the Hades Consortium would relish doing business with a man in such a volatile position. You didn't cover your tracks as well as you thought, Godfrey, and the Consortium doesn't like to leave footprints.'

  Joyce's eyes flickered with irritation, confirming Quaint's assumption. 'So…your French companion was telling the truth…you do know what happened in Umkaza in 1833…but so what? It changes nothing!'

  Quaint cocked his head like a robin listening for a worm. 'Destine? What do you mean by that? What did Destine say?' he asked.

  The look of spite on Joyce's face spoke volumes. 'Mr Quaint, my guards have orders to behead you at my slightest whim, so I would be very careful who you toy with if I were you,' he said, and it was sound advice. His two assassins were primed like hungry dogs at a dinner table. 'Think about this young man here…or your friend the Aksak, and not to mention your French companion. Do you value their lives as little as you obviously value your own? All you have to do is comply and this will all be over.'

  'We're bound and on our knees, Joyce. How much more compliant can we get?'

  'You know what I'm talking about, Quaint. Aloysius Bedford's journal – give it to me,' Joyce demanded. 'And I will consider sparing your life.'

  'Aloysius Bedford?' asked Quaint. 'What the hell has he got to do with this?'

  Joyce removed his gun from Rakmun, and repositioned it at Quaint's forehead. 'Don't feign ignorance,' he sneered. 'Your Madame told me everything! She told me of her friendship with Bedford, of her time in Umkaza twenty years ago…how she had read of my betrayal in his journal. A distasteful affair, to be sure, and not one I can allow to become public knowledge, hence my insistence that you hand it over right now!'

  Quaint shook his head. 'I don't have a clue what you're talking about. Why would you mention Aloysius, the man's been missing for-'

  'For twenty years, yes I know,' concluded Joyce. 'And as you know very well considering that you have read his journal…he is dead! And we both know why. The idiot cottoned onto what we were planning. Now, let me make this easy for you, Mr Quaint. Give me the book, and I'll give you your freedom.'

  'You're insane!' snarled Quaint. Joyce was very convincing – he certainly seemed to believe every word that he was saying. But how could any of it be true? 'I've never even seen Aloysius's journal, and as for Destine knowing him, then that is absolute hogwash! I don't know what you're getting at, but you're wasting your time.'

  'Cornelius, explain – who is this Aloysius?' said Faroud.

  'He was an old tutor of mine,' snapped Quaint, more in reply to Joyce than to Faroud. 'Alexandria, the seamstress that I spoke of? Aloysius was her father. He disappeared back in the early thirties whilst he was…' Quaint's mouth went very dry. '…whilst he was working on an excavation site. Good lord! What happened, Joyce? What did you have to do with Aloysius's disappearance?'

  'This is an interesting little game we're playing, isn't it?' taunted Joyce. 'Like a little clockwork mouse. I just wind you up and watch you chase your tail. So…do you still deny that you have Bedford's journal?'

  Quaint's voice was like gravel crunching underfoot. 'I do.'

  'Very well.' Joyce nodded at his guard and, immediately, the Hades Consortium assassin grasped a handful of Quaint's silver-white locks and wrenched his head backwards. 'I won't be fooled by this little act of yours, you know. Your companion already admitted that Bedford's diary was no longer in her possession, that she had given it to her companion for safekeeping…and we all know who that companion is, do we not?'

  'Joyce, she is wrong! You are wrong,' insisted Quaint.

  The conjuror's mind was reeling. How could Destine have been speaking of Aloysius? They had never met, and he had certainly not mentioned Bedford's name in her presence – the man had been missing for years. It was sheer lunacy. Destine had never been to Egypt before. The facts were set in stone, they disproved everything Joyce was saying and yet…just as so many facts failed to fit together, so many more made perfect sense. If it wa
s some kind of bluff, then it was an absurd one. However, if it were not…then it was even more absurd. Quaint waved it away. It was all just a bizarre coincidence.

  Then he remembered something: he didn't believe in coincidences.

  'That book contains some particularly incriminating evidence against me, Mr Quaint,' continued Godfrey Joyce. 'You know Bedford's name and you know of his disappearance, and you could only have learned that from his journal, so why don't you stop these foolish games and tell me where it is.'

  'I swear to you, Joyce, I haven't got what you're after!' yelled Quaint. 'I only know what happened in Umkaza because I worked it out for myself.' Trying to wrench himself from his guard's grip, he made a dart forwards – just as he felt the cold edge of a sword brush the underside of his chin. He relaxed himself carefully.

  'A fruitless waste of energy,' Joyce said, stepping towards Quaint's kneeling form. 'You will tell me what I want to know, curse you! Tell me or you die right here and now.'

  'What happened to Aloysius, Joyce?' demanded Quaint, oblivious that his position was not one well suited for making demands. 'What did you do to him?'

  'The events are all quite grippingly serialised within his journal, no doubt,' said Joyce. 'Why don't you tell me where it is and we can share a nice little story time?'

  Quaint was desperate to learn more. 'Tell me what happened in Umkaza!'

  'Umkaza was a long time ago…but my life will be shot to bits if that nasty episode ever gets out. The British government won't touch me…the Consortium will probably kill me…' Joyce cocked the pistol's trigger and sighted its barrel at Faroud's brother again. 'That's why I need Aloysius's diary…and you have until the count of three to tell me where it is, or this little Scarab thug's brains will decorate the desert.'

  'He is but a boy! He has nothing to do with this!' yelled Faroud, straining at his bonds. 'Cornelius…just give him what he wants!'

  'I wish I could, it sounds riveting,' muttered Quaint.

  'One…' Joyce began.

  'Cornelius…I beg you,' pleaded Faroud. 'He is my brother!'

  'Faroud, I don't know what the hell he's on about, I swear!' protested Quaint.

  'Two…' said Joyce, gruffly.

  'Cornelius…you must be mistaken!' snapped Faroud.

  'I'm not!' yelled Quaint.

  'Quite a double act, you two. Perhaps I'm aiming the gun in the wrong direction,' said Joyce, as he moved over to Faroud and jabbed the barrel of the pistol into his forehead, hard enough for all the pigment to fade away from the Aksak's dark skin. 'If the boy's life means nothing to you, then maybe your tongue will loosen now that your friend is in peril.'

  Quaint remained silent, his eyes ablaze with anger.

  'Cornelius, he will do it, you know he will,' screamed Faroud. 'He'll shoot me.'

  'You should listen to your friend, Mr Quaint…I'm not bluffing,' sneered Joyce.

  'Neither am I,' growled Quaint. 'I don't have what you want!'

  'Three,' said Joyce, tightening his finger on the pistol's trigger. 'Time's up!'

  A shot rang out in the desert.

  CHAPTER XLVIII

  The Shifting Sands

  THE HOODED ASSASSIN behind Quaint fell to the ground as claret blood seeped from a large hole in the centre of his forehead.

  Godfrey Joyce looked at the dead man in a mix of fascination and confusion. He stared at the tip of his pistol, trying to piece together what had occurred. Another shot rang out and whizzed past Joyce's ear. The back of the other assassin's head exploded, spitting fragments of brain and skull all over the dry sand. His body folded limply in half. Dead before it even hit the ground.

  Joyce's eyes flared at the chaos running amok around him.

  'What just happened?' he asked numbly.

  'I think they did,' said Quaint, nodding into the distance.

  There was a sudden chorus of loud voices. Silhouetted against the moonlit desert sky, a dozen Clan Scarabs approached on horseback, their rifles trained on Godfrey Joyce.

  'The cavalry,' said Faroud, as he pinched a piece of nondescript bloodied matter from his shoulder and discarded it on the sand. He leapt to his feet, snatched up a sword and sliced the ropes binding him to Quaint's wrist. 'Although a little later than we had agreed.'

  'I told you my plan would work!' cried Quaint. 'Why doesn't anyone have any faith in me any more?'

  'What…what are you d-doing?' Joyce stammered.

  'This!' said Quaint, as he launched a cracking punch against Joyce's jaw, sending the man crashing to the ground. He snatched up his pistol and aimed it right between his eyes. 'And I won't even count to three.'

  'Rakmun!' yelled Faroud, as he ran to his brother. Skidding to his knees, the Scarab leader embraced him, his hands trembling. Rakmun collapsed onto Faroud's shoulders, clinging there limply, his legs too weak to support his weight.

  With their arrival heralded by much braying and cawing – not to mention joyous laughter as they spied Rakmun safe and well – twelve Clan Scarab riders quickly dismounted their steeds and formed a circle around Faroud, Rakmun, Quaint and Joyce.

  'It is good to see you, my clan brothers!' commended Aksak Faroud, warmly slapping his hands on two Scarabs' shoulders. 'Let us hope that is the last of the eleventh hour rescues that we have to make for a long time.'

  One of the Scarabs, a tall, portly fellow with a patchwork beard and long, straggly black hair, stepped over to Faroud and flung his massive arms around him. The air escaped noisily from Faroud's lungs.

  'My Aksak!' he bellowed.

  'It is…good to see you too…Sobek,' he wheezed.

  'I wish it were under more…pleasant circumstances,' said Sobek.

  The Aksak frowned. 'What do you mean?'

  Sobek's joyous expression fell and he grasped Faroud's forearm. 'I bring dire news, Aksak. We must sit and talk with haste.'

  Aksak Faroud, Cornelius Quaint and the small band of Scarabs sat cross-legged in a huddle around a large fire. Several torches were staked into the sand and the wind teased at their flames, carrying streams of smoke into the night sky. Godfrey Joyce was tethered to his cart outside the circle of men.

  Faroud raised his hands for calm.

  'Aksak…in your absence, a revolt has taken place in Bara Mephista,' began Sobek, his eyes adding the required amount of pathos to the tale. 'Elder Nastasi arrived unannounced with a large band of heavily armed men. They were not of our clan…but dressed in garb similar to those men over there.' Sobek motioned towards the crimson-clad Consortium guards lying dead in the sand. 'They were many in number, and heavily armed. They looked as though they were torn from the darkness itself, but they followed Nastasi's word like day-old lambs. He branded all those loyal to you as traitors to the clan. He seized control of the camp and demanded we turn over full command to him.'

  Faroud's eyes widened. 'He did what?'

  'Nastasi claims your mind has been distracted. He said you are unfit to lead, and called upon the rest of the Council of Elders to back his plea to regain overall leadership of the region.' Sobek looked disdainfully down at the sand. 'You have lost all support. Not an Elder among them will speak out against Nastasi now that he has garnered such military might.'

  'But where did he get it?' asked Faroud.

  'We do not know for sure, Aksak,' said Sobek.

  'If they were dressed like those two over there,' said Quaint, 'I think we can narrow down the suspects.'

  'The Consortium?' gasped Faroud. 'The Hades Consortium is helping Nastasi take control of the clan? That is madness! We must not let this happen!'

  Sobek reached over and placed his hand on his Aksak's shoulder. 'Faroud…it has already happened. With those men on his side, they easily outnumbered our clan four to one. Nastasi was victorious. We managed to flee, but others chose to stay in Bara Mephista…under Nastasi's rule. They had a choice: follow you and die, or follow Nastasi and live. Most chose the latter option.'

  'Most?' asked Faroud. 'Well, that is not good. However, I
should have known that not all our brothers would willingly betray me. They will fight with their lives to protect our clan! Tell me, Sobek…how many men can I rely upon?'

  Sobek glanced around the circle of Scarabs and smiled weakly.

  'You are looking at them,' he said.

  Faroud's heart dropped. 'Only twelve of you?'

  'We are all who remain loyal, Aksak…we will follow you until our dying breath.'

  'If Nastasi has an entire army against us – a Hades Consortium army, no less – then that may come quicker than you think. This is a fight we cannot win, my friends.' Faroud clenched his fists and slammed them down into the cold sand. His Scarabs shared anxious glances with each other. Never had they seen their leader so defeated. 'What does Nastasi think he is doing? What on earth possessed him to make such a move? What does he have to gain; he is already a Council Elder. He already has power!'

  'If you think that's enough, then you don't know Nastasi like I do,' interjected Godfrey Joyce from his position outside the circle. 'Let me spell this out to you. Nastasi has been offered ultimate power by the Hades Consortium, far more than your pitiful little council can offer him – enough power to unify all nine clans! Superior weaponry and everything he needs at the click of his fingers.' He beamed a veneer of a smile towards Faroud. 'Nastasi will hold Egypt within the palm of his hand…which is very bad news for you, Aksak.'

  'How do you know so much of Elder Nastasi?' asked Faroud.

  'Who do you think I got to do my dirty work in Umkaza back in '33? Except he was called Aksak Nastasi in those days,' said Joyce. 'He was the one that informed me of your journey to my embassy, Aksak, and he was the one that handed your little brother to me gift-wrapped. He was the traitor in your camp.'