Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

'You're about a mile from Umkaza. Who did this to you?' asked Quaint in Arabic, spying the deep gash to Ahman's shoulder.

'Desert riders…two of them,' mumbled Ahman, his face twisted in pain. Tears welled in his large brown eyes as he tried to roll onto his side.

'Lie still, sir,' Polly said, as she looked at Quaint. 'Cornelius, this wound is fresh, but it's deep and he's lost a lot of blood.' She looked appealingly towards Faroud. 'Scarab, you know these territories better than us, is there anywhere we can take him for medical treatment?'

'I hardly think he has enough time left,' Faroud replied, gripping his horse's reins tightly, eager to be on his way. 'Leave him. He is no concern of ours.'

'But he was attacked, you animal! Did you not hear what he said?' Polly shouted.

Faroud reluctantly bowed his head. This woman was going to be the death of him.

'Very well,' he said. 'In my camp…there is a man named Bephotsi who can assist him. He has many medical supplies.'

'Then we've got to get back there immediately!' Polly said looking at Quaint.

'Not a chance,' said the conjuror. 'Cairo is this way…Bara Mephista is in totally the opposite direction.'

Polly motioned to the injured man. 'But we can't just leave him here.'

'I know, but…what can we do for him? You said it yourself, he's lost a lot of blood. Who says he'll even make it as far as Bara Mephista. Polly, this thing with Joyce is a much larger affair. The whole of Egypt is at stake. We can't just derail now, not when we're so close to getting somewhere. We just don't have the time.'

'Neither does he!' snapped Polly.

'I'm sorry, Polly. The answer is no.'

'Fine! Then I shall take him back myself!'

'Then I shall pray for you both,' interrupted Faroud coldly. 'Tell Bephotsi that I sent you. He will give you any assistance that you require. That is the only solace I can offer this man.'

Quaint looked down at Ahman, searching his round face. 'Sir, can you hear me? The Professor here is going to take you somewhere…somewhere you can get some help, do you understand me?'

'Where…where is she? Can you see her?' Ahman wheezed.

'She is right here, sir,' answered Quaint.

'No! Not her…' Ahman said. 'Not…her.'

'The heat has already begun to addle his mind.' Polly looked at Quaint and then down at Ahman. 'You are here alone, sir. We have to get you out of this sun. Just hold onto me and we'll be all right.' She nodded to Quaint. 'Cornelius, give me your scarf, I need to patch his shoulder or he won't make it a mile.' Quaint did as he was instructed, and Polly began binding the large gash in Ahman's shoulder. She was putting on a brave face, but not brave enough that the conjuror could not see right through it.

'Are you going to be all right?' he asked her.

'I'll be fine!' she snapped. 'You two are off on your little boys' adventure, and I'd hardly be any use to you in a fight anyway…because you are going to have a fight. You realise that, don't you? If Godfrey Joyce really is involved in this plot, then he could have all manner of tricks up his sleeve!'

'No doubt, Polly,' said Cornelius Quaint, 'but I've got a few of my own.'

The Rat Trap

AS THANKFUL AS she was that she was not yet dead, Madame Destine's situation was not all that improved. Blindfolded and flanked on either side by the two silent assassins that had attacked her, with Heinrich Nadir trailing behind, she was brusquely steered through the winding white corridors of the British Embassy.

The ride from the outskirts of Umkaza to Cairo had taken quite some time, and everything was a haze in her mind. The last thing she recalled with any certainty was seeing Ahman fall from the cart. How could she not recall it? Her mind replayed the moment repeatedly. She feared that Ahman was now almost certainly dead. Even if the assassins had not finished him off, the harsh desert heat surely would have.

As she was pushed roughly through the carpeted corridors, her next thought was of Cornelius Quaint, and how he must be going out of his mind with worry by now at her disappearance – and then she remembered her words in the letter. If her younger self's premonitions were correct, at that moment Cornelius was beset by a challenge of his own.

She prayed that he was having better luck than she was.

Hearing one of her captors knock loudly upon a heavy door in front of her, Destine was yanked to an abrupt stop. She had reached her destination, the end of the line – in perhaps more ways than one.

'Enter,' said Godfrey Joyce.

He watched the quartet file sombrely into his office. Ignoring the two assassins and oblivious to Nadir, it was Destine that he was most anxious to see. His quarry was older than he had imagined her to be, if he was honest, and she looked disappointingly lacking in spiritual prowess.

'I think we can dispense with the blindfold now, gentlemen,' Joyce said, greeting the Frenchwoman's blinking eyes with a wide grin. 'Madame Destine, I presume?'

'Who are you? How do you know my name?' she demanded. 'What do you want with me? Where am I?'

'Questions, questions!' said Joyce. 'But this is my party, so I get to go first. Mr Nadir, where did you find our guest?'

'Just outside Umkaza, travelling with a companion in a horse-drawn cart,' said Nadir.

The hazy fog that clouded Destine's mind cleared as she recognised the German's voice. 'The man from the Silver Swan? What are you doing here?'

'I am flattered you remember me, Fraulein,' Nadir said with a swift nod. 'And to answer your question…I work here.'

'Nadir, you mentioned a companion. Where is this man now?' asked Joyce.

'Dead, sir,' replied Nadir, 'to the best of my knowledge.'

Fresh tears filled Destine's eyes at the German's words. Her legs lost their strength and she collapsed onto the floor lifelessly. Godfrey Joyce snapped his fingers and pointed to a chair opposite his desk. The two hooded assassins lifted Destine like a doll and deposited her firmly into the seat. She slumped into the leather, her head in her hands.

'You made the right decision for once, Nadir…any more prisoners in this room and I would need to lay on extra chairs,' said Joyce, with a genial flutter to his voice. 'Although I must admit, I had expected this prize to be a little more lucid. By the looks of the bedraggled old witch, she'll be no use to anyone! And she's supposed to tell the future?' His grin was as thin as a sheet of paper. 'It obviously didn't do her much good, did it? Madame Fortune-Teller…I wish to see a demonstration of your clairvoyant gifts.'

Destine looked up through bleary eyes. 'Clairvoyant? How do you know that?'

Godfrey Joyce gave a cheery smile. 'Mr Nadir here has told me such wonderful tales about the little boat trip that the two of you shared together, and he's also told me all about your wonderful abilities, Madame. I must admit to being rather intrigued. I'm dying to know how you do it. What is it? Tea leaves? Rune stones? Voices in your head?'

'I once was clairvoyant, that much is correct,' replied Destine, as she untied her headscarf and wiped away her tears. 'But I am afraid that your little spy's information is woefully out of date. I no longer have the ability to see the future. I have not been able to for some weeks now. And were I in possession of such ability, do you honestly believe that I would demonstrate it for the likes of you, monsieur?'

'She lies, Herr Joyce,' spat Nadir. 'I have it from an impeccable source…someone who knows all about her little gift.'

'Whoever it was – they were wrong!' Destine said, throwing her headscarf down onto the floor angrily. 'My abilities were taken from me. I am clairvoyant no more.'

'Nadir…this had better not be a waste of my time,' said Joyce.