Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

'Guten Nacht, Herr Quaint,' he said.

And then he launched himself.

The blade struck its target, closely followed by the German's bodyweight. Again and again he brought the knife down, feeling his quarry flinch beneath him. Nadir thrust a pillow over his target's head to smother the screams, and then stabbed the man's heart to finish him off. Soon, the room was silent and still.

Silent that was apart from Nadir's heavy panting, stringy spit clinging to his lips.

Still that was apart from the nervous twitching of the man beneath him.

Nadir lifted the pillow to take one final look at the man that would cement his name in the ranks of the Hades Consortium for ever.

Except…

The face that stared back at him was that of a stranger.

Horrified, Nadir rushed to light the oil lamp on the bedside cabinet, which was quite a task considering how much his hands were shaking. Holding the lamp closer to the bed, he could not believe his eyes. The dead man was of a broad build, with a bushy grey beard lining his chin, branching into mutton-chopped sideburns, and very definitely not Cornelius Quaint.

'This can't be!' Nadir gasped.

Just then, he was distracted by a woman's scream in the cabin directly next door, as a familiar deeply toned voice apologised profusely. Nadir swore and dived to the door, listening intently.

'This is E16, you lunatic! You want D16, one deck up!' the woman screamed. 'I'll have you thrown overboard for this outrage!'

'Dear madam,' hiccuped Cornelius Quaint, 'it is quite possible that my present orientation is a trifle out of order.'

'I'll say! Now get out of here before I call the guard!' the woman yelled, before slamming the door in Quaint's face.

Heinrich Nadir smeared the blood from his hands across the bed sheets. Yet another body for the incinerator, he supposed. Once more Cornelius Quaint had evaded death, and Nadir had run out of chances. Killing him was obviously not as easy as he had first thought. Quaint was a wily foe, and not to mention blessed. Nadir's options were decreasing, and a change in tactics was called for.

'You have the gods on your side, Herr Quaint,' he said. 'But I wonder if your luck extends to your travelling companion? If I cannot kill you…perhaps I can make you seek out your death willingly.'

The Awkward Silence

THE REST OF the trip passed uneventfully.

If anything, Quaint was a little bored by the time the Silver Swan arrived in Egypt.

The amber-hued sun blazed low in the sky, caressing the flat rooftops of the buildings with elongated shadows. There was a tangible sense of excitement in the air. The gleaming sugar-white steamship was moored in the port, and the cacophony of dockside activity was in full swing. A succession of suitcases and cumbersome trunks were being carried from the cargo hold to the docks by a flurry of eager Egyptians. The infrequent visits from passenger ships always created a tingle of expectation among the dockland community. High-pitched whistles, wails and booming yells floated on the breeze as traders, workers, travellers and all those in between made their way around the port. It was rapidly approaching nine o'clock in the morning, and most of the Silver Swan's passengers were bustling about trying to grab the last remains of the breakfast service before it closed.

Bucking the trend, one passenger was decorum personified.

Cornelius Quaint grabbed the thin net curtain and peered out of the open porthole of his cabin at the chaos on the docks below.

'Ah…there's nowhere quite like Egypt,' he said, taking a long sniff of the air.

He pulled on a dark grey pinstriped jacket over matching trousers, and ran a thumb down his braces before buttoning up a tan waistcoat. He rested a brown felt hat upon his nest of curls, and strode towards the door.

'Room service,' he called, knocking on Destine's cabin.

'I ordered a braised ox with a sour temperament and passing interest in bad manners,' sang a French voice through the door. 'I trust it is fresh?'

'You've been spending too much time with the clowns,' said Quaint. 'Their poor excuse for humour is starting to rub off on you, Madame.'

Destine smiled to herself, as she snatched up a parasol and a wide-brimmed hat. The Frenchwoman was no lover of the sunshine and her pale, marble-like skin was painfully sensitive to the light. Today was no exception, and she placed a whitelace scarf around her neck to shield herself from Egypt's harsh sun.

Pulling open her door, she looked Quaint up and down, giving him a satisfactory nod of approval. 'You took my advice about the suit, I see. It slims down your waist and accentuates your shoulders nicely,' she said, stifling a yawn.

'Bad night's sleep, Madame?' Quaint asked.

'Non, just a malaise that has set in over the past few weeks. Perhaps it is all this time at sea. Other than our brief stops en route, I have not set foot on dry land for a long time. Now that we are finally at our destination, I must admit a slight fatigue. The hours on ship seem to obey a different clock than on dry land.'

'I know what you mean,' nodded Quaint, offering the Madame the crook of his arm. 'Can you believe it was Christmas a couple of days ago? We did well getting an invitation to Captain Adamson's table. All the best goose and the finest of wines! Do you know it's the first Christmas dinner that we've spent apart from the circus in years?'

'Oui, my sweet, I thought that also,' said Destine. 'Although, I admit that I certainly did not miss Jeremiah's brandy butter. I spilled some once and it almost burned a hole in the train's flooring.'

'Brandy butter? Is that what that stuff is supposed to be?' Quaint rocked his head onto Destine's and laughed along with her. 'Come on, we've got a big day ahead of us.'

And the conjuror was not to be proved wrong.

Quaint and Madame Destine took their favourite table by the oval window in the dining saloon, and soon a lavish breakfast had been delivered. Whilst Destine tucked into warm bread with lashings of butter and conserves, Quaint devoured a platter of eggs, sausages, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, topped off with a hefty slice of black pudding. After twenty minutes, with the majority of his breakfast consumed, Quaint sat quietly waiting for the conversation to resume. He ran his hands through his silver-white hair, choosing to occupy his eyes around the dining hall – anywhere but in Destine's direction. During the long voyage, they had spoken little of their plans once they arrived in Egypt – partly because the conjuror was intentionally ignoring the subject. It was only on this, the day of their arrival, that time seemed to catch up with him.

'You have something that you wish to tell me, Cornelius,' said Destine when she had finished her breakfast.

'Me? No…no, certainly not,' Quaint lied.

'Vraiment?' Destine asked. She removed her gloves, placing them neatly on top of the wide-brimmed hat on the seat next to her. This was a signal that she was not about to let the conversation drop. 'You are thinking about what we are going to do once we go ashore.'

'What makes you say that?' asked Quaint.

'Merely a logical assumption, my sweet – unless you have devised a way to thwart this plot without leaving the confines of the ship.' Madame Destine blinked hard. 'You have something that you wish to discuss – or is it that you have something that you do not wish to discuss? Have our plans changed without my knowing?'

'No, they haven't changed,' said Quaint. 'We're still here to stop that poison, but by now we've surely missed its interception in Al Fekesh, and that means that we're on the back foot. We're still no nearer to knowing what the Hades Consortium plans to do with it, other than tip it into the Nile. According to Renard, their plot is set to conclude at New Year, which means that we have less than a week to put a stop to it. This country isn't like England, Destine. At the best of times Egypt is unfamiliar and undoubtedly unfriendly territory. We can't trust anyone.'