Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

'Not even the local authorities?' asked Destine.

'Especially the local authorities,' said Quaint. 'They practically make up the law as they go along here. We can't risk involving them yet. Not until we've found out more. Plus they might be a teensy bit interested in a little something called evidence, of which we have none.' He tousled his silver curls nervously. 'So I've been thinking-'

'How very unlike you,' interjected Destine.

'…about how best to play this,' Quaint continued. 'I think it's wisest if I venture out on my own this morning, just so I can test the water. It's been years since I was last here, and things have no doubt changed. Egypt has a distinctly murky side to it, Madame. There are some places that I would prefer you did not have to see.'

'I am no child, monsieur!' Destine snapped, defensively. 'Do not forget that I was brought up in the backstreets of Toulouse. I have seen things that would make your hair stand on end.'

'This is a little different from bordellos and burlesques, Destine.' Quaint leaned back in his chair, forcing the wooden frame to complain against its joists. 'I'm sorry, but my mind is made up. It's just too dangerous.'

'And what am I supposed to do whilst you are out snooping – stay onboard ship and powder my nose?' enquired Destine.

'Not at all. I know this fantastic little place called Agra Bazaar a few miles from here. You can buy anything and everything there. I went there many years back when I first visited this country. You'll adore it, Madame, I know you will…in fact, so much so that I've already arranged an escort to take you there,' Quaint said, chancing a smile.

Madame Destine rapped her fingernails on the table in annoyance. 'If you did not wish to be saddled with my company on this trip, Cornelius, you should have told me before we left England!'

'Destine, it's not like that,' insisted Quaint. 'Let me put it this way…' He reached across the table and picked up the silver saltcellar next to a tray of conserves. Placing it in his hand, he enclosed his fingers around it, hiding it from sight. 'I'm going to have to do a lot of stone-lifting today, and some of the things that crawl out might not be very friendly. If we got separated, you could turn down the wrong alley…and just disappear.'

He unfurled his fingers one by one, revealing a completely empty hand.

The saltcellar had vanished into thin air.

'Tres impressionnant, Cornelius,' said Destine. 'So if I am to be kept busy in this bazaar that you mention, what is going to keep you busy?'

'I need information about the Hades Consortium's operations in Egypt. How they operate, who their spies are and where they're based,' replied Quaint. 'I thought that I might track down an old friend of mine.'

'Are you sure that is wise? You have fallen foul of your "old friends" before remember,' said Madame Destine, warily.

'Alex's father was an old college professor of mine before he moved out here many years ago. He's the one who first ignited my interest in Egyptian history, the reason for my coming here back in the forties.' Quaint loosened the tie at his neck. 'Alex is a tailor, and you'd be amazed at what talk a tailor overhears. If there is a word to be heard about the Consortium, it will have reached her ears for sure.'

Destine cocked her head to one side. 'Her ears? Alex is a woman?'

'Oh, absolutely – of the kind it's taken me a long time to forget,' grinned Quaint. 'Her brother Joran is due to meet us down on the dockside in about an hour. I'll accompany you as far as Hosni where Alex's store is located, and then take my leave.'

'Well, just promise me you will be careful,' Madame Destine said, as she collected her belongings from the seat next to her. 'I know what you are like when-'

She gasped, her hands leaping to her cheeks in shock.

Underneath her hat was a silver saltcellar.

She glanced across the table at Quaint – who was wearing the smuggest of smug grins. 'Mon Dieu, how on earth did you do that? I never even saw you move. You were in your seat the entire time!'

'A magician never reveals his secrets, Madame,' Quaint said with a wink. 'The mechanics involved with making a saltcellar disappear are surprisingly simple; it's defeating the Hades Consortium that will test my abilities to their maximum.'

The Deadly Delivery

AMIDST THE HUSTLE and bustle of the docks, Heinrich Nadir strode down the gangplank of the Silver Swan with determined haste. He scurried from the port exit and across the street, weaving in and out of pedestrians, horses and camels. His beige cotton suit was marred by sweat stains emanating from under the armpits and striping his back, and he wore a hat low on his furrowed brow as he clutched a large, sack-covered item tight against his chest. Hailing one of the many horse-drawn carts that were lined up outside the port exit, he handed a crumpled piece of notepaper to the driver.

'And be quick about it!' he added, and the cart was soon on its way.

Less than half an hour later, Nadir arrived in Al Fekesh. Approaching a tavern, he stared up at the flaky painted sign above the door. This was the place. With one last glance at the dusty street around him, he entered the tavern. The morning sunlight had taken its time to bleach through the slatted blinds at the windows, and a lone bartender stood in the shadows at the empty bar. The German raised his hand to catch the man's attention – a pointless effort, for Nadir had ensnared that the second he had entered the tavern.

'Good morning, sir,' greeted the bartender. 'And how are you this fine day?'

'Miserable! I have spent a long journey with fools,' said Nadir, scathingly.

'Perhaps a drink will ease your troubles, eh?' the Egyptian asked, wiping the towel he used to clean the glasses over his sweat-soaked forehead.

'Ja…a large rum,' Nadir muttered, nestling his buttocks firmly into a stool.

The bartender nodded. 'In my cellar I have many quality rums. I am sure you will find something down there that you seek, Mr…?'

Nadir looked blank, as if his name were a closely guarded secret.

'Nadir…Heinrich Nadir,' he said, shifting his eyes around him, scouring the empty bar. 'And I would very much like to inspect your cellar, danke.'

The bartender's dark eyes glanced at the package that the German had placed upon the bar. 'It might be sensible to bring your belongings with you, sir. We do sometimes get an undesirable element in these parts.'

Lifting a trapdoor set into the wooden floor, he ushered Nadir down the steps into the enveloping darkness. Nadir hovered at the bottom, fear rooting his feet to the spot. He was just about to take a step forwards, when he heard a noise from the far end of the cellar.

'Hello? Is…is someone there?' Nadir called out.

'Come closer,' said a gruff voice.

The German shuffled forwards as if his shoelaces were tied together.

'Where are you? I…I cannot see you!' he said, more shakily than he had planned.

A match was struck, and Nadir gasped as a dark-skinned, greasy face peered out at him through the darkness. The face was long and muscular, with a firm jaw sporting an unkempt goatee beard. As the light of the match waned, the fingers that held it beckoned Nadir closer.

'Is that the delivery?' asked the Egyptian, his voice all gristle and brutality.

'Ja,' Nadir answered. 'But I have specific orders not to hand it over until I am satisfied that you are the correct recipient. Show me your identity.'

The Egyptian struck another match and Nadir's eyes darted to the tattoo of a scarab beetle etched onto the back of the man's right hand.

'My name is Aksak Faroud, leader of the Clan Scarabs,' said the owner of the tattoo, more as a statement of fact than an introduction. He snatched a lantern from the cellar wall and lit it. 'You will open the box now.'