Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

'You twisted bitch, can't you see he's had enough?' shouted Quaint, his outburst surprising all in the cavernous audience chamber – including himself.

Lady Jocasta gave Joyce's ribs a dig with her toe. 'You wait your turn!'

'He's half dead anyway!' yelled Quaint. 'Leave him be!'

'Cornelius is right, lass,' said a gruff Scottish voice from the shadows. An immediate silence fell as all eyes looked to Sir George Dray, standing at the far entrance to the chamber. 'You've made your point.'

Quaint scowled through the darkness of the cavern at the owner of the strangely familiar voice. Then, as the old man stepped into the flickering torchlight, Quaint was struck by a blistering shock of recognition. The man's craggy face had grown considerably craggier since Quaint had seen it last, but there was no doubt as to its owner's identity.

'You?' Quaint gasped.

'I'm flattered you remember me, Cornelius…it's been a long time,' said Dray, as he forced a smile from his rigid mouth.

'Not long enough.'

'Careful, lad…you'll hurt my feelings.'

'I hope so.'

'Still practising a sense of humour I see,' muttered Dray.

'What are you doing here, George?' Quaint asked.

'I could ask you the same question, Cornelius…but then I already know the answer,' Dray said, manoeuvring his hunched form down the stone steps on his walking cane. 'I see by the look on your face that you weren't expecting me…but I've been expecting you. Oh, yes.'

'Cornelius, I am confused. Who is this man?' Faroud asked.

'You don't want to know,' replied Quaint bleakly.

Aksak Faroud looked at the old man, and then looked back at the cold abyss within Quaint's black eyes. 'So did things just get better…or worse?'

Quaint smiled, but not the smile of a man amused – the smile of a man who knew once again that Fate was toying with him. 'That depends on whether you want the optimistic version or the pessimistic one.'

'Surprise me,' said Faroud.

'If we might have ever had the slightest hope in hell of getting out of this mess with our lives then it just went up in smoke,' Cornelius Quaint replied.

'I see.' Faroud gulped. 'And what is the optimistic version?'

Quaint grinned. 'That was the optimistic version.'

The Face of the Enemy

SIR GEORGE DRAY walked past the still-convulsing form of Godfrey Joyce, towards the small band of men at the far end of the audience chamber. He ignored Faroud and his two Scarabs – there was but one target for his attention.

'So here we are, eh?' he said. 'Once again we find ourselves on opposite sides, Cornelius…and once again the odds are stacked against you. I should have put a bullet in your head back in Peru and saved myself a lot of trouble.'

'Why are you here, George?' asked Quaint. There was a noticeable edge to the conjuror's voice, as if all he wanted to do was rip the old man apart one limb at a time. Had the guards not restrained him, he probably would have given it some serious consideration.

'I just wanted to say hello to an old friend, what's wrong with that?' Dray mocked.

'You don't have any friends, George – old or otherwise – you stabbed them all in the back years ago,' said Quaint. 'So you're the brains behind this plot, are you? I should have known. Poisoning the Nile is a bit dramatic for you, isn't it?'

Dray gave a grin that scarred his face. 'Actually, lad, this one's not my doing. Lady Jocasta here has a wonderful imagination when it comes to death…just take one look at that bleeding sack of guts over there.' He pointed at Joyce, twitching on the ground in a pool of blood. 'She will be greatly rewarded by the Hades Consortium.'

'How very like you, George. You're still surrounding yourself with pretty things lacking in intelligence, I see,' Quaint said dryly, his eyes nodding towards Lady Jocasta.

Dray laughed. 'And you are still surrounding yourself with inferiors to make yourself look better, I see.'

'I am no inferior, old man, I am Aksak of the Clan Scarabs!' snapped Faroud, struggling against his captors. 'And who are you, may I ask?'

'This is Sir George Dray, Scarab dog!' snarled Lady Jocasta, striding towards Faroud. She gripped his dark face between her fingernails and squeezed tight, drawing blood from his cheeks. 'And you will bow down before him!'

'I would sooner die,' snarled Faroud.

Sir George Dray blinked slowly, a granite expression on his face. 'I would be glad to accommodate that request, lad…as Cornelius knows only too well…so if you've finished with your interruptions, maybe I can finish my little chat with your friend, hmm? So you know all about Jocasta's wee project then, Cornelius? Renard told you, did he? With his dying breath and all that? And, of course, righteous Cornelius Quaint couldn't let such a terrible catastrophe occur, and so you came halfway around the world to try to stop us?'

'My social calendar was dry this month,' said Quaint. 'This plot is nothing short of mass murder, George. Surely you must know that? This is on a larger scale than anything the Consortium has attempted before. Killing so many people, it's inhuman! You're an evil old bastard, true – but this isn't your usual fun and games. I know you. You like to see the whites of your victims' eyes.' Quaint switched his verbal attack towards Lady Jocasta. 'Poison is the weapon of cowards. This plot is no better than a knife in Egypt's back!'

'How dare you?' Lady Jocasta stepped forward and slapped her hand across Quaint's cheek. 'It is far more civilised than that! Do you have any idea of the amount of planning necessary to engineer such slaughter? Can you possibly comprehend the complexity of it all? Of course not! You are an ant.' Lady Jocasta flicked her ponytail, preening herself, watching the spite in Quaint's eyes ignite. 'From what I hear about you, Mr Quaint, you like to muddy your hands in other people's business. You may have had luck in the past, but it has now run out.'

Quaint glared at Lady Jocasta. 'I don't know who you are, woman, but I wouldn't stick my neck out if I were you. You haven't won yet and I'm full of surprises.'

'Typical Englishman. All swagger and boast,' said Lady Jocasta. 'Is that not right, Sir George?'

'Oh, yes, dear. Quite so,' confirmed Dray. 'You're in for a bit of a shock, Cornelius, because you see, I knew you were coming. I led you here, for God's sake! So did you really think that I would just allow the schedule for our plot to continue, knowing the risk that you possess?'

'What's that supposed to mean?' asked Quaint.

'You put up a valiant effort getting this far, but really you never stood a chance,' said Sir George. 'I've just been waiting for you to catch up.'

Quaint shook his head. 'Your overconfidence will be your undoing, George.'

'Did I not tell you that he's an arrogant bastard, Jocasta?' Dray put on a sympathetic face, like a parent about to tell their child that Father Christmas doesn't exist. 'Cornelius, you really have no idea, do you? I hate to break it to you, son, but this battle was fought and won before you arrived, and unfortunately…you lost. Dear, oh, dear…how deluded you are,' he said, folding his tongue into his cheek. 'Stopping what's in motion is way beyond your grasp now…unless you are a better magician than I give you credit for. Jocasta, my dear, what is the latest status report for our plot? And you might want to pay attention to this, Cornelius.'

Lady Jocasta licked her lips. Watching Quaint's bluster deflate, her face could not express any more satisfaction if it tried. 'We had intended to implement the plan at midnight tomorrow, on New Year's Eve. However, due to your unwanted involvement, Mr Quaint, it was felt that the longer we waited, the greater the possibility of you upsetting things. You do, after all, come with a reputation for poking your nose in where it does not belong. So to that end, Elder Nastasi of the Clan Scarabs will begin facilitating the dispersal of the toxin tonight…in but a few hours, one day ahead of schedule.'