Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

'What is it?' he asked eventually, like the culmination of all Jocasta's childhood nightmares rolled into a grating snarl. 'Don't just stand there gawping like a startled doe, lass.'

Jocasta stepped forwards into the dimness of Dray's quarters. 'Sir George, I thought you would like to know…our people have delivered the consignment of poison to the Scarab. Nastasi has orders to distribute the vials in accordance with my plan.'

'That sounds like good news to me…so why are you here in my room when I quite clearly asked not to be disturbed?' said Dray.

Lady Jocasta's stomach somersaulted. The shrivelled old man seemed to have an uncanny understanding of her thoughts, and that chilled her – for she had much to hide. She shifted on the balls of her feet as if she were about to bolt for the door at any moment.

'Heinrich Nadir has returned…with the Frenchwoman in his custody as you ordered,' she said.

Dray raised his wiry eyebrows. 'I'm still waiting for the bad news, lass.'

Jocasta's eyes fell to the floor. 'Well, sir…Nadir has also supplied me with some information about the Englishman that you mentioned.'

Sir George's interest was aflame. 'What of him?'

'According to Nadir…he was believed to have been en route to the British Embassy, although our scouts have since confirmed that he is presently encamped several miles from the eastern perimeter, along with a handful of Clan Scarabs from Bara Mephista that fled under Nastasi's charge. Godfrey Joyce is with them.'

Sir George rubbed his hands together. 'Now that is good news!' he cried.

Jocasta took a sudden step forwards. 'It is?'

'Of course! It means that Cornelius is on his way!' chirped Dray.

Jocasta was finding the old man's response hard to fathom. 'Then…we must send our troops to apprehend him immediately. If this man is an enemy of the Hades Consortium then we must-'

'No, Jocasta, we must not do a damn thing,' said Dray. 'I have gone to great expense to orchestrate Quaint's arrival and I do not intend to risk that when he is right in my lap, is that understood?'

'But, Sir George…may I ask why you stay your hand? This Englishman might attempt to subvert my plans for the Nile,' said Jocasta.

'Oh, almost certainly he will, lass!' grinned Dray. 'But once you get a bite on your line, you have to give the fish a little slack. You make it think it has a chance of getting loose…and then reel it in once its defences are down.' He linked his bony fingers together and smiled, his wrinkles stretched tight around his mouth like the opening of a drawstring bag. 'Tell the guards to give Quaint's line a little slack. Allow him and his friends undeterred passage…right in through the front door. Just make sure once they get in…there is no way they can get out.'

'I will speak with the captain of the guard right away, sir,' said Jocasta, with a compliant nod. She turned swiftly and took a step to leave, but then lingered on her toes by the door.

The old man looked in her direction expectantly. 'Is there anything else, Jocasta?'

'I hope you do not think me too bold, sir,' she said, taking a swift breath as she turned to face him, 'but I must admit that I am finding it difficult to understand your actions. This man Quaint…you say that he is our enemy, and yet you do not seem to be concerned that Joyce has led him to our citadel.'

'Concerned, lass? Far from it. I was damn well banking on it!' chuckled Dray.

The pieces had still not fallen into place for Jocasta.

'But I am most perplexed, sir,' she mumbled, almost thinking aloud. 'You said that this is the same man that derailed my plot in London. Surely he must have learned of what we plan here in Egypt from Antoine Renard.'

'It does seem that way, doesn't it?' Sir George snatched up his walking cane and wrenched his frame out of his seat with unexpected vigour. 'Once I found out about his involvement in London, I knew Quaint'd be hell-bent on putting a stop to what you were cooking up out here! Leading him to Egypt was the only way I could be sure to keep an eye on him.' Dray laughed, a sound like water gushing down a drain. He inhaled sharply, his hand darting to his chest, and he faltered, groping for a handhold. Jocasta rushed to his side to support him but he waved her away abruptly. 'I am fine, Jocasta, leave me. If there is one thing that I have learned from my previous dealings with Cornelius Quaint, it's that you can't afford to take any risks.'

'Baron Remus made no mention of this man to me,' said Jocasta.

'No? I can't fathom why. He's got a bit of history with Quaint himself.' Just then, Dray's face darkened as a grim thought graced his mind. His eyes drifted away from the Greek woman's face, down to the floor. 'My God, is that it? Has Cornelius finally discovered the truth? I hadn't considered that.'

Lady Jocasta scowled at Dray's pained expression.

'Sir George? What has the Baron to do with this man Quaint?' she asked.

'A lot more than Quaint knows, with any luck!' Dray replied. 'Someone once told me that you could measure how evil a man is by the shade of his enemies. Well, if that's the case, then Baron Remus puts the Devil himself to shame…but if there is one foe that even he might have trouble with…it's Cornelius Quaint.'

'I take it this man is a dangerous sort?' asked Jocasta. 'And has he no weakness that we can exploit?'

'Just one…and thankfully she is now in our possession,' said Sir George. 'I knew that Quaint would be drawn to his beloved Madame Destine like a moth to a flame…and soon his wings will be singed!'

The Cygnet and the Swan

SITTING UPON AN iron bed-frame in an otherwise empty room below Sir George's quarters, Madame Destine's mind was an uneven patchwork of conflicting thoughts and emotions. She clenched handfuls of her dress in her fists, tugging them towards her. It was late and she was tired, yet she could not sleep – not with that incessant voice constantly calling her name.

Destine's heart stopped.

Her name?

She looked around, but she was still in the room within Fantoma's bowels, still confined. Perhaps the day had finally taken its toll on her, and sleep had crept in unannounced. It must have been the last vestiges of her conscious mind giving way to tiredness. She lay down on the bed. She could feel the coolness of the underground room making her eyes itch, and she could feel the tightness of her chest drawing air. Amongst these feelings, something else began tugging at her senses, but it was not sleep.

A sensation descended upon her, similar to the glimpse of the past that had manifested itself the previous night. Knowing this, Destine accepted the feelings more readily, forcing her mind to relax. She could sense something approaching. It was like a dim candle in a darkened room, yet she could feel its warmth upon her skin. Consciously, she steered herself towards it.

Her location melted away, and just like the apres-monition in the clearing by lake, she was somewhere else. She was in the same place, but not necessarily in the same time. The sand was cold beneath her toes.

Sand?

An amorphous carpet of mist clung to the damp sand that parted between her toes. Trails of warm breath floated from Destine's mouth, curling into the violet-black sky. She moved forward across raised dunes, with the mist parting as she strode through it. Up ahead, she could see a silhouette of a man upon the rise of the hill, and she approached unerringly, feeling not one jot of fear.

He was in his mid-fifties with a thin, waxed moustache adorning his top lip. He was wearing braces over a collarless shirt, with a broad belt around his waist and a variety of items hanging from it, such as a telescope, a canteen of water and a small pocket-knife. He seemed to be waiting for her, and as Destine stepped closer, he beamed a once-handsome smile in her direction.