Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

The Eager Pupil

FANTOMA, EGYPT, 1853

'IS IT TRUE, teacher? Is Antoine Renard dead?' The young woman stormed into the cavernous chamber. The meeting room was almost pitch-black save for a row of torches affixed to a far wall, and their flames snapped at her as she walked past.

The older man sitting at the oval-shaped table barely acknowledged her arrival. His grey eyes watched the olive-skinned woman scrape a wooden chair across the stone floor and slump herself into it before he spoke, a voice coated with a thick Italian accent. 'Si, la mia allieva. It is true,' he said.

'Then my operation here in Egypt is sunk! If Renard is dead, then so is everything that we worked so hard to procure in London. That poison was essential for what I have planned for the Nile.' Spying the look of discontent on the man's face, the woman quickly lowered her guilt-ridden eyes to the floor. 'I have failed, teacher.'

'Almost,' growled the man. 'Prior to his premature death, Renard was able to dispatch the consignment of poison into another operative's hands. The Hades Consortium has more than one dog in our kennel.' Without warning, the Italian slammed his fists down onto the marble table, sending a glass carafe crashing to the floor. 'London was a mistake, Jocasta! I was against it from the start! You allowed Renard too much slack on his leash, and look what happened as a result. He derailed a delicate operation that took months to plan – and for what? A petty feud with a circus magician of all things!'

The woman's eyes flared. 'But surely you do not think that I had any power over that, teacher. Antoine Renard was always reckless!'

'As are you, Jocasta, but as my protegee I keep you tamed – at least, that is what I tell the Hades Consortium's inner stratum. I am quickly running out of favour with the council, and more rides on the success of your plot than just your own fortunes. You have a lot of ground to make up.' The Italian twisted his bulk awkwardly in his seat as if constricted by a straitjacket, and he washed his tongue over his pearly teeth. 'It was not just Renard that we lost in London, remember? The Hades Consortium had been planning Commissioner Dray's ascension within Scotland Yard for years! Sir George will not be best pleased to hear of his son's death.'

All colour drained from the woman's face. 'He…does not know?'

'Sir George is busy with Consortium affairs in India at present. I do not think the news has reached his ears. Perhaps you would like to be the one to tell him, cara mia. After all, it was your botched operation that was to blame for his son's death.'

'Surely you are more experienced in reporting failure to Sir George, teacher – or need I mention China?' said the woman, with a vague smile. 'It is not just me that has lost cultivated resources of late.'

The Italian fumed. 'That bloated Chinaman was a stubborn fool. There was no way that he would allow us to encroach upon his boundaries, especially after what happened in the old days. There is bad blood between Cho-zen Li and me, let us leave it there. If I were you, I would be more concerned with my own affairs.'

'I promise you, this project will be a success!' said the eager pupil, her smile now in full bloom. 'On New Year's Eve, the River Nile will be awash with the deadliest poison known to man. Egypt will be on its knees begging for mercy, and there are no circus magicians to get in the way this time.'

The Fond Farewell

LONDON, ENGLAND

WHERE THE HECK is Mr Q?' the knife thrower asked the Chinese identical twins, as she coiled her hair nervously around her fingers. 'He should be here by now!'

Dressed in their matching leotards, decorated with the black and white symbols of their namesakes, Yin and Yang exchanged awkward glances and silent thoughts.

'He will be here soon, Ruby,' insisted Yang. 'The boss would not miss a party, especially one where he is the guest of honour. He is probably on his way here as we speak.'

'My brother is correct,' added Yin, also seeking to mellow Ruby's mood. 'The boss is a man of his word. When has he ever been late before?'

A sudden hush descended upon the trio. Poor Ruby, she had worked so hard to plan this party to be perfect. It was just a shame that she had not factored Cornelius Quaint's legendary unreliability into the equation. Although capable of great marvels whilst on stage, the conjuror's timekeeping was decidedly less than marvellous.

'Well…there was that one time in Spain,' said Yang. 'We had to perform the entire programme without him.'

'And Austria. Don't forget Austria,' added Yin, unhelpfully.

'Ah, yes. Quite right, brother,' nodded Yang. 'I had forgotten Austria.'

'He spent almost six hours being measured for a new suit and we missed getting our papers stamped, remember?' offered Yin. 'We had to wait three days at the border before they would let us in.'

'Now that you come to mention it…the boss is always late,' Yang said.

'Actually, he is renowned for it,' agreed Yin.

'Thanks, boys,' said Ruby through gritted teeth. 'You're just the tonic I needed. Remind me never to come to you if I'm feeling suicidal – which might be in about ten minutes if the boss doesn't show up!' The young woman threw her arms in the air and moved swiftly away from the acrobats, leaving them to practise their routine.

The platform at Grosvenor Park railway station was a crowded affair. Colourfully decorated banners, streamers and flags adorned the side of the circus steam train. A hand-painted sign reading 'Bon Voyage' hung from the iron girders of the roof, and all the company's performers and crew had flocked onto the platform awaiting the arrival of their employer. Clowns, jugglers and acrobats were decked out in all their glory in readiness to perform a proper send-off befitting the much-respected – albeit currently absent – circus proprietor.

Jeremiah the clown had painted himself up (reluctantly, if the look on his face was any indication) and stepped into his most garish outfit alongside his co-performer, Peregrine, who was dressed in a striped shirt and high trousers – high trousers, indeed, for the dwarf, who measured just shy of two and a half feet tall. Whilst Jeremiah gulped from a bottle of nondescript brown liquid, Peregrine seemed oddly transfixed by the cuffs of his shirt.

'Perry, you've got a face like a slapped arse,' said Jeremiah. 'Have a swig of this stuff – it'll cheer you up no end.' He offered the bottle to the dwarf, who pushed it away as if it were arsenic.

'Is that your homemade liquor?' squawked Peregrine. 'Christ, I ain't drinkin' that stuff again, Jerry. I'll be chuckin' me guts up all night like last time.' The dwarf took sniff of his cuffs, and retched. Standing on tiptoes, he presented his wrist to Jeremiah. 'Do us a favour and 'ave a sniff of this, will you?'

Jeremiah leaned down and took a brief sniff of Peregrine's cuff. He recoiled, clamping a hand over his mouth. 'What the hell's that stench?'

Peregrine scowled. 'It's that flippin' tiger, I swear! The bloody thing has been usin' me trunk as a bleedin' lav' again.'

'You want to have a word with Kipo, mate – that stuff stinks!'

'No wonder no one's botherin' to come over and chat!' grumbled Peregrine.

'Oh, I don't think that's got anythin' to do with it, mate.'

Peregrine looked up hopefully. 'You don't?'

'Course not. Tiger piss is a darn sight more fragrant than the stink you normally give off,' said Jeremiah with a toying grin.

As Ruby approached, the two clowns stood to attention and saluted.

'Officer on deck!' chimed Peregrine.

'Everything's ship-shape and ready for your inspection, ma'am,' added Jerry.