Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

'Like I said, I was lost.'

'And then you were found by the Aksak,' said Joyce, 'and brought here to me.'

'Lucky old me,' said Quaint.

'Perhaps,' Joyce said.

Each man delivered his words plainly and deftly, as if they were venturing out onto a frozen lake. The ice was cracking with every step they took, but still they kept on walking. Each knew more about the other than either was aware, waiting patiently for the final revelation.

'So where else has your work taken you, Mr Quaint?' Joyce asked.

'Oh, lots of places,' Quaint answered. 'I spent a bit of time in Umkaza recently. History is such a fascination of mine, Mr Joyce. Who lived in the area, who died in the area, that sort of thing. You'd be amazed what you can dig up if you know where to look.'

Joyce's discomfort was beginning to show. 'And did you…find anything of interest in Umkaza?' he seethed.

'Not really. It was a bit of a dead loss,' replied Quaint, finely balanced sarcasm a hair's breadth away. 'But not to worry. As you probably know only too well, Mr Joyce, the ghosts of the past rarely stay buried for ever.'

The ice had just cracked.

'Faroud – kill this man at once!' Joyce bellowed.

Yet Aksak Faroud did not move.

Joyce scowled at him. 'Well? What are you waiting for, man? Kill him!'

'Actually…I would rather not,' said Faroud, as he slashed at the ropes around Quaint's wrists with his knife, setting the conjuror free.

'I second that,' said Quaint, rubbing his wrists.

'Wh-what are you doing?' yelled Joyce.

Faroud aimed the blade at him and he shrunk back into his seat. 'You have lied to me, you have deceived me, and you have used my Scarabs as your own personal puppets – but no more! I know what you and your Consortium allies plan. We have come here for two things: my brother and the location of the poison…and we are not in any mood to wait for either!'

'So…you have allied yourself with him,' Joyce said, sneering at the Scarab leader. He gripped the hem of his waistcoat and smartened himself in a desperate attempt to reassert his authority. 'You have just sacrificed more than your life, Faroud – your brother will die because of your treachery!'

'I don't think it'll be all that easy for you to give orders any more, Godfrey,' said Quaint, watching the man squirm in his seat as Faroud edged the blade closer to his face. 'You see, we know all about you…and we know all about the Hades Consortium's plans for the River Nile. I know you're not the one pulling all the strings…I want to know the name of your puppeteer.'

'What, and you think I'll just roll over and tell you?' said Joyce, his cocky tone contradicting the uncertainty in his eyes. 'There is nothing you can do to me to force me to betray my masters!'

'Oh, I wouldn't bet on that,' said Quaint. 'I can be very persuasive. If I were you I'd want to-' He stopped again mid-sentence, as if he had forgotten what he was talking about. There was definitely something familiar in the air. It teased at his senses, distracting his attention. He scowled away the confusion and focused on the matter at hand.

'Where is Rakmun?' interrupted Faroud.

'Your brother's life is forfeit…just like your own!' Joyce yelled. 'I promised I'd help you get him free, didn't I? But now you've gone and brought this man here, it changes everything! Your threats mean nothing to me. You're just going to have to kill me.'

'That sounds like a fair offer,' said Quaint, as he grabbed hold of Joyce's tie and yanked his head down, making contact with the desk.

Joyce collapsed onto the floor, sending paperwork, his box of cigars and the large table lamp flying. Quaint was on him in a second. His strength was formidable at the best of times, but it was nothing compared to how strong he was when he was enraged – and at that moment, his rage was all-consuming.

'Tell me what you know about the Nile project or you die!' he shouted. Quaint pulled back his fist, but then froze – he could smell that smell, but this time it was not quite as elusive. It was the scent of lavender. It grew stronger the more he concentrated, strong enough for him to locate it.

On the carpet underneath Joyce's desk was a headscarf.

Spellbound, he snatched it up and buried his nose into it, instantly recognising its owner.

'Destine?' he gasped. 'Here?' He turned his attention back to Joyce and clamped his hands around his throat. 'Where is she? Where is Destine? If you've harmed her, I'll-'

'Get your hands off me or she dies!' Joyce wheezed.

Faroud grabbed at Quaint's clothing, trying to pull him off Joyce, but it was no easy feat. 'Cornelius! Stop this! Remember why we are here! This was not part of the plan. We need him alive, remember?'

'To hell with the plan, I need to know where she is!' barked Quaint.

'What are you talking about? Cornelius, we have to leave! If this worm knew anything before he is useless to us now. Look at him! Even if his life depended on it, he will not speak. His fear of the Consortium is too great!'

'I'm not going anywhere until I know where she is!' Quaint snatched up the letter-opener from Joyce's desk and held it an inch from his right eye. 'And unless you want to be called Cyclops from now on, I'd tell me if I were you.'

'You're bluffing!' spat Joyce.

'Am I?' Quaint jabbed the tip of the blade into Joyce's cheekbone and a tiny dab of blood appeared. 'That was a warning shot.' The point of the letter-opener brushed against Joyce's eyelashes – proof enough that this was no bluff. 'I'm growing impatient, Joyce. Where is Destine?'

'Enough!' Joyce said. 'Just promise you'll let me live…and I'll tell you everything…I swear!' The man's rough, leathery skin glistened with sweat, and his hands quivered as he clutched at Quaint's wrist, trying frantically to steer the letter-opener's tip away from his eyeball. 'She's in the Embassy cells downstairs, along with the Aksak's brother!'

Quaint unfurled his fingers and the letter-opener fell to the floor.

'Show me…' he hissed.

The Calling of Destiny

MANY MILES FROM Cairo, Polly North had managed the long trek from Umkaza with the injured Ahman upon her horse, and they were now in a room at the far end of the Bara Mephista tavern. Ahman was laid out flat on a table, with a bundle of blankets serving as a makeshift pillow. He winced as Polly swabbed water over the wound to his shoulder. The mention of Aksak Faroud's name had done as the Scarab leader had claimed, and the Clan Scarabs had agreed to assist Polly with her wounded patient. One of them had arrived and offered Polly use of a large wooden crate of medical supplies. She was begrudgingly thankful, but as she rifled through the crate, she recognised the stamps upon the medicines' labels, and a cold frost of recognition burned into her mind. She had packed the very same first aid equipment for her dig. The Scarabs had obviously stolen it. Although she could not really complain – without the fresh bandages and liniment, fixing Ahman's wound would have been twice as hard.

'It hurts so much,' he groaned, his head twitching from side to side restlessly.

'I'm sorry, but I have to make sure the wound is clean,' Polly apologised. 'Once that Scarab returns to stitch you up, I can bandage your shoulder properly.'

'Thank you…you have been most kind,' said Ahman.

'My pleasure,' said Polly with a comforting smile.

'What bothers me more, is where Destine can be!' Ahman swallowed awkwardly, as if the act caused him great difficulty. 'That devil's blade struck me…and I fell from the cart…but he did not seem to be bothered with me at all. I think they were after her! But who were they? Why did they want her?'

'I'm sorry, Mr Ahman, but when we found you there was no trace of your friend at all,' said Polly. 'I wish there was.'