Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

'Just like that? Alex, you can't just leave!'

'On the contrary, Cornelius…I can.' Alexandria grabbed hold of her saddle and hoisted herself upon the horse's back.

'I'm miles away from anywhere! What if they refuse to help?' asked Quaint.

'Then a long walk back to your ship will be the least of your troubles,' Alexandria said. 'Unlike you, I have much to lose. I must do what you should have done from the start…I will leave the heroics to someone else.' With that, she steered her horse towards the track. 'If you somehow end up walking out of this valley alive, Cornelius – make sure you say goodbye this time.'

Quaint tried his best to smile, and just about managed to, but it was a fleeting one. 'Alex, wait! Before you go…take a look in your pocket.'

Alexandria halted her horse with a gentle tug on the reins. She reached into her waistcoat, and her expression flitted between aggravation, surprise and then utter confusion.

It was the seven of diamonds.

Quaint grinned up at her. 'Your card I believe?'

Alexandria chewed at the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling. She cast the playing card into the dust. 'I take it all back…you are a good magician, Cornelius. But know this: if you wish to walk back out of this place with your life, you will need to be better than just good… you will need to be absolutely spectacular!'

Quaint watched her fade into the distance, claimed by a cloud of dust. He slowly walked towards the card, picked it up, and slipped it into his trouser pocket. Glancing into the valley to his destination, he smiled at Alexandria's words.

Thankfully, being absolutely spectacular was well within his means…

The Viper's Venom

LADY JOCASTA WAS alone in her quarters deep beneath the ruins of the ancient city of Fantoma. Sweeping velvet curtains hung from the ceiling to the floor, and a large bed stood in the centre of the room. Wearing a flowing white silk dress, Jocasta was easily the brightest thing in the room. Flickering candles on her table signalled the entrance of a visitor, and Jocasta's eyes greeted Baron Remus. His ice-white three-piece suit was blemish-free, and the man had an equally pristine white hat perched upon his head. But under its brim, a subdued expression hung on his tanned face.

'Is anything the matter, teacher?' Jocasta asked.

'I have received word from Miss Ivy at our headquarters in Rome. Events in the Crimean peninsula are escalating and I must leave Egypt immediately,' the Baron's booming voice resounded. 'The Russian navy has been flexing its muscles in the Black Sea for weeks. They have stationed troops en masse near Wallachia's borders, and are busying themselves with the Turks, but soon many other nations will have no choice but to intervene. If everything unfolds as I have conceived, the French and British will soon join the battle, and when that happens war will be inevitable.'

Lady Jocasta nodded. 'Forward planning is one of your strengths.'

'A most coincidental selection of words,' said Remus. 'Before I take my leave, I need to be sure that your plans proceed in alignment with your schedule.'

'Why so concerned, Baron?' teased Jocasta. 'Afraid that I will not succeed…or afraid that I will and it will outshine your little fracas in the Crimea?'

From out of nowhere, the Baron lunged towards her, sending the contents of the table flying into the air. His thick, hairy hands compressed around her neck, his nails digging deeply into her flesh. Jocasta tried to force air down her throat as the Baron's grip squeezed ever tighter.

'Do not test me, woman!' he snarled, his teeth bared like fangs. 'There is more at stake here than you realise!'

'You are…hurting me,' Jocasta gasped, trying to unlock the Italian's fingers from her throat. 'Please, I beg of you – you're…killing me!'

At her words, the Baron released his hold, staring at his hands as if they were dripping with blood. Jocasta steadied herself against the bedside table, clawing at her neck. Thick red marks were smeared like a scarf around her throat, and tears were in her eyes as she stared up at the Baron. He made a move to grab her hand, but the Greek woman snatched it away. She glanced at him nervously as he fought to master his rage, his broad shoulders quivering as he turned his face from hers.

'Jocasta, I apologise…' he said. 'This place…its confinement is affecting my condition. My campaign in the Crimea is at a critical stage…and I should not have taken my anxieties out on you. Please forgive me.'

'You sought only assurances of my plot's success, teacher,' said Jocasta hoarsely. 'You need make no apology for that. But your concerns are unnecessary, Baron. Every eventuality of my plot has been catered for. Soon the banks of the Nile will burst, but this time the river will be overflowing with corpses.'

'I hope your plot matches your confidence,' growled the Baron, as he removed himself from her quarters, lingering at the door. 'If it does not, your corpse will be amongst that number…and everything that we have fought for will be for nothing. Remember my words, Jocasta…for one day soon, it might not be me that seeks assurances from you, and you need to be prepared.'

Lady Jocasta watched the Baron leave, wondering what on earth he could have meant.

The Clouded Truth

MADAME DESTINE WAS uncomfortable – not just perched upon the wooden stool at the table in Ahman's carpet store, but generally uncomfortable from all that she had discovered from the stout Egyptian. Gradually, the clouded truth about her past was being revealed, and for one formerly practised in foretelling the future, it was an uncomfortable experience.

'But I don't remember it, Ahman. Any of it!' Destine exclaimed. 'I am forced to believe this letter is genuine, and yet what other truths am I then forced to accept? That I was here in Egypt twenty years ago in 1833, and I foresaw that one day I would return to complete a task that I could not? But what task? This letter speaks of everything and nothing! Who is this Aloysius Bedford character? The more questions I ask, the more confused I become.'

'I am sorry, Madame, but I can add nothing other than what I have already told you…and what you have already told yourself,' said Ahman, watching Destine's deflated expression waver. 'Back then you entrusted me with two letters and one very large mystery…but no answers. I have been waiting all this time for you to come back.' Ahman smiled, trying to coax one in reply from Destine – to no avail. 'This is as strange for me as it is for you.'

'I doubt that, monsieur, for you are an integral part of the enigma,' said Destine, as she slipped off the stool and began to pace around the carpet store. 'You bake my favourite cinnamon bread – a lot better than I do, I might add – you know my name, you know me. I have so many questions that I cannot speak them fast enough!'

'Then perhaps our journey will enlighten you in time,' Ahman said.

Destine stopped pacing. 'Journey? What journey?'

'The one the letter speaks of, Madame,' said Ahman. 'We are going to continue this trail for the markers, are we not?'

'We?' asked the Frenchwoman.

'Of course we!' replied Ahman cheerily. 'You do not expect me to let you carry this burden alone, do you? What kind of friend would I be then?'

'I wish I knew, Ahman. In fact, I wish I knew a lot of things.'

'We cannot dwell on our yesterdays, Madame…what is done is done. We must focus on the here and now and unlock this trove of mystery. Blind to the past or not, we will follow your younger self's trail to uncover the truth – together!'

'If only I could remember!' The Frenchwoman thumped her fist upon the table, sending the small wooden box flying through the air. Its contents spilled onto the floor, and as Destine stooped to pick them up, something caught her eye.