The Eleventh Plague (27 page)

L
INES OF DARK
red robed Hades Consortium troops marched towards them from the rear, brandishing long-poled spears in their hands, swords at their backs or pistols at their belts.

Their retreat was blocked.

‘What do we do, Aksak?’ asked Nehmet of Faroud.

‘We stand our ground, my brother Scarab!’ Faroud bellowed, pulling the sword from his scabbard. ‘Stand shoulder to shoulder. This brigade will not halt our progression!’

‘That is good to know,’ said Kulfar, ‘but what about that one?’

On the other side of the vast stone doors, another troop of Hades Consortium guards appeared, blocking any advancement forwards. With the enclosed tunnels penning them in at each side there was nowhere to run. They were wedged between the two brigades.

‘It did not take them very long to mobilise,’ said Faroud to Quaint.

‘Almost as if they knew we were coming, eh?’ said Quaint to Faroud.

Gone was their element of surprise, and if they wanted to
salvage anything even remotely resembling the upper hand, they needed to act fast. The soldiers numbered over twenty in each platoon – so they were outnumbered at least eight to one. The guards were all garbed alike, wearing long, dark red robes from their hooded heads to their feet. Whereas the inner stratum functioned as the brains behind the Consortium’s campaigns, they were not without a reliance on hands and eyes to perform their menial tasks, and should any interlopers stumble across one of their hideaways, it paid to have some lethal measures on hand to deal with the situation.

Back to back with Quaint, Faroud called over his shoulder, ‘What shall we do?’

‘There’s only one course of action open to us if we want to live,’ replied Quaint.

‘You mean surrender? Never! A Clan Scarab never surrenders!’

Quaint spied the array of spears, knives, swords and guns trained at them.

‘Might I recommend a rethink of that policy?’

Faroud grimaced, clenching his jaw tight. Quaint was right, infuriatingly so.

‘Stand down,’ he said to his men. Kulfar and Nehmet exchanged quizzical expressions, first with each other and then with Faroud. ‘That is an order!’

The two Scarabs reluctantly complied and, eventually, Quaint’s band was relieved of all their weaponry. It was at that moment that Godfrey Joyce showed his colours.

He raised his hand, like a schoolchild begging his teacher’s attention.

‘Um…excuse me!’ he called, bobbing above the heads of the mass of guards. He took a step to the side in an attempt to
distance himself from Quaint’s group. ‘I’m not with these people. My name is Godfrey Joyce. I’m one of you! Check with your superiors if you don’t believe me. I work for Baron Remus!’ One of the Consortium troops stepped forward and Joyce took him to be the man in charge. ‘This is all some dreadful misunderstanding! If you would be so kind as to run along and tell the Baron of my arrival, we can sort this all out nice and peacefully, hmm?’

The head guard pulled back his dark red hood. Tattoos swirled from the sides of his face, across his cheeks and up to his eyes where the patterns merged in a pit of black ink. His eyeballs were buried somewhere within the darkness. From the grim look of distemper on his face, this man was not one to suffer fools gladly. He took another step nearer to Joyce, looking all around his face in uneasy close-up detail, and then took a brief sniff of the man.

‘What is he doing?’ asked Quaint, from the corner of his mouth.

‘He looks to be…
smelling
him,’ replied Faroud.

Quaint frowned. ‘What the hell is he, a Labrador?’

Just then, the head guard clapped his hands three times. At this cue, his men grabbed Joyce roughly by the arms and steered him back into Quaint’s pack.

‘Didn’t you hear what I just said? I’m not with
them
, I’m on
your
side!’ he cried, as he was led roughly to stand next to Quaint and Faroud. ‘This is intolerable. Do you know who I am?’

The head guard cuffed Joyce roughly across the face.

‘I’d take that as a yes,’ quipped Quaint.

Faroud exhaled, pondering their predicament. He was a leader of men, and not such a bad strategist himself if he was being honest, but this situation was impossible to escape from. With
over twenty men at the front and more than twenty at their rear, the odds were definitely against them. It was lucky for Faroud that he was partnered with Cornelius Quaint – a man that paid no heed to the odds.

‘Cover your ears,’ said the conjuror.

‘Cover my ears?’ asked Faroud, with a glower. ‘Why?’

‘Because there’s going to be a loud bang,’ replied Quaint.

He broke free from his guards’ grasp, and before anyone had a clue what he was doing – let alone tried to stop him from doing it – he lunged for one of the wall-mounted torches. He tore it from its housing on the wall and threw it down onto the ground directly behind him. With a cloud of black smoke, the torch sparked into a furious wall of fire six feet high.

All hell broke loose as the Consortium guards’ tongueless mouths screamed silent cries of alarm. They pressed themselves against the tunnel’s walls to avoid the ensuing inferno, watching mystified as the trail seemed to spring to life and sped off down the tunnel and into the distance.

‘What now?’ Faroud yelled.

‘Now?’ Quaint pulled out his timepiece and consulted it carefully. ‘We duck.’

The explosion that followed took everyone by surprise – especially the large group of Consortium guards that were crowded into the tight space behind Quaint. The force ripped through the brigade and the guards were thrown in all directions, crushed against the walls, slammed up into the ceiling. A large, violent crack formed itself in the tunnel roof and clouds of choking dust rained down.

Using the confusion to his advantage, Quaint grabbed hold of Faroud’s robes and wrenched him through the ensuing curtain of smoke, with the Aksak fumbling blindly for Kulfar
and Nehmet. They stumbled forward, barging straight into Godfrey Joyce, who was standing dumbstruck watching the events unfold. The men tumbled into each other through the huge stone doors and into the main audience chamber. Once through, Quaint looked around and saw a huge wooden beam by the doors.

‘Help me!’ he yelled, pushing the doors closed, containing the smoke-filled tunnel on the other side. Kulfar and Nehmet lifted the beam and fitted it in place, barring the doors.

With the entire brigade of guards trapped on the other side, Quaint afforded himself a brief respite, and he slid his bulk down the wall onto his backside, coughing violently. Faroud and the rest were also panting heavily as they tried to empty their lungs of the acrid smoke. Their faces were covered in a thick layer of red, chalky dust. Through the heavy stone doors they heard the stomach-churning screams of men as the fire consumed them. With nowhere to run, they were helpless. If the fire did not speed their deaths, the acrid, choking smoke that swamped the tunnel surely would.

‘What in Ra’s name was that?’ demanded Faroud, wiping dust from his eyes.

‘Backup plan,’ said Quaint, coughing a sticky brown mess into the palm of his hand. ‘I thought there was a risk of the tunnel being used against us…so I left a trail of gunpowder as we entered…leading right back to a stack of explosive sticks that I’d stashed by the main entrance.’

‘Quaint, you lunatic!’ squawked Godfrey Joyce, joining the fray. ‘You almost brought the whole bloody city down on our heads!’

‘Almost…but then I would’ve missed the pleasure of doing this.’ Quaint punched Joyce hard in the face and a trickle of dust-clad blood seeped from the man’s nose.

Aksak Faroud glared at Quaint. ‘Do you feel better now?’

‘Much,’ grinned Quaint, blowing on his sore knuckles.

‘But he has a point,’ said Faroud. ‘You are a lunatic. By now the whole base will know we are here.’

‘Quite so,’ agreed Quaint. ‘But at least we’re free to start some
serious
trouble.’

An icy expression graced Aksak Faroud’s face and he grasped at Quaint’s robes.

‘I would not exactly class our situation as “free”, my friend.’

Quaint looked in the direction of Faroud’s fixated eyes, and what he saw was not to his liking.

Standing upon a large, stone plinth behind them, with a fresh brigade of at least fifty armed Consortium troops surrounding her, was Lady Jocasta.

‘I do hate it when guests turn up uninvited,’ she said.

F
EELING THE SHOCKWAVE
of the explosion at the opposite end of the sanctorum, Madame Destine stood swiftly from her bed and then smiled.

‘Cornelius,’ she said.

Since Sir George had left her quarters, she had spent her time contemplating her renewed gifts of clairvoyance, wondering what she was going to do now that all the pieces of herself were back together. Everything was so much clearer – none more so than her present predicament. How was she supposed to ensure that her task was complete if she were imprisoned?

A mute Hades Consortium guard stood motionless at the doorway, although every now and again he would glare at her as if daring her to try to escape. She was a prisoner, unable to affect the winds that blew in her direction. She prayed that Cornelius would come for her, but the man was obviously busy causing his particular brand of trouble at that moment. He would sort everything out and restore order to the world. Cornelius always said that she could notice a single ray of sunshine in a rainstorm. Nevertheless, she looked over at the imposing figure of her guard, clad in his dark red robes, and surveyed her options:
she could sit and wait for Cornelius to arrive, or she could grasp Fate with both hands and bend it to her will.

If only I could bend the will of my silent guard, she thought.

And then, as the words graced her mind, they triggered something of interest. She knew that she possessed a fine-tuned perception of the emotions of others, a one-way link that gave her access to their private thoughts and feelings…but what if that link was not solely one-way? Aloysius Bedford had said that she had no idea what she was capable of. If she were not to try, how would she know her limits?

At her age, that thought intrigued her.

She glanced across the room at the guard. Wave after wave of her prying sensitivity drifted out from her mind. Her guard’s state of mind was an open book to her…and she decided to thumb through the pages.

Madame Destine could sense his hatred towards her, but it was misplaced. The guard had no idea just
why
he hated her – just that he did. His hatred had little foundation, he hated her merely because it was expected of him – or ordered of him. That worked in Destine’s favour. Hatred with no emotional grounding can be easily shaken. All she needed to do was tap into it and replace it with an emotion a little more hospitable…

Destine began to slowly push his thoughts to one side, diluting every speck of hatred within his heart, purifying him, instilling a sense of peace within his mind. It took mere moments and, when she had finished, the guard was visibly changed. He tottered slightly on his feet, more asleep than awake, drifting between the two. As Destine approached him, the guard did not even flinch.

‘That is right,’ Destine said softly. ‘Just relax…I mean you no harm.’

Her gentle, melodic accent lifted and fell poetically, captivating the young guard’s senses. He faltered a little, as if stirring from a deep sleep, but as he heard Destine’s songlike voice continue to massage his mind, he relaxed totally.

‘I just want to borrow these,’ she said, reaching for a large ring of keys affixed to the guard’s belt. ‘And I wonder, would you be able to escort me from this dreadful place? You see, I have a friend that has just arrived and I would love to meet him. You would? Oh, what a dear boy you are.’

‘
W
ELL
, G
ODFREY
?’ L
ADY
Jocasta put her bejewelled hands to her hips and glared into Joyce’s eyes. ‘I am
waiting
for an explanation. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me why you have led these men here?’

Joyce’s lower lip wobbled. ‘Well, I…I thought—’

‘Did you? Did you really?’ snapped Jocasta. ‘You mean to tell me that you actually put
thought
into betraying us?’

‘N-no, my Lady, no! I did not betray you,’ swore Joyce, the only one of the group not restrained. ‘This man here plots against you! He destroyed the tunnels and killed your men! He…he knows of your plan to poison the Nile! He said he would stop at nothing to put an end to it. I…I intended to deliver him here to you…I was only pretending to be on their side to gain their trust! It was all a part of my plan.’

‘More slithering, Joyce?’ asked Quaint, bound in ropes by the swarm of guards surrounding Faroud, Kulfar, Nehmet and him.

‘You must be Cornelius Quaint,’ Lady Jocasta said with a smile. ‘Do you not know it is impolite to interrupt a lady?’

‘Oh? Are there any about?’ smiled Quaint in reply.

Lady Jocasta fumed. ‘Guard, teach this man some manners.’ The guard at Quaint’s side smashed his iron gauntlet across the conjuror’s face. ‘So which of these men is the Aksak from Bara Mephista?’ Jocasta asked.

Joyce thrust out his finger and pointed at Faroud. ‘That one!’

‘You snivelling rat! You set us up!’ Faroud screamed, spitting a glob of saliva in Joyce’s direction. One of the guards chopped his hand upon the back of the Aksak’s neck and he flopped limply in his captor’s grip.

‘Lady Jocasta, the longer we wait, the more of a threat these men are,’ Godfrey Joyce yelled. ‘They have more friends positioned in the eastern hills! We must send a detachment of our troops to counter them immediately!’

‘How dare you bark orders at me!’ Lady Jocasta’s voice rose in volume, echoing off the dry walls of the vast cavern like an operatic singer delivering the greatest performance of her career. She nodded to two guards at her side. ‘This man has ceased to be a viable asset to the Hades Consortium. His employment is to be terminated immediately.’

‘
Terminated?
‘ questioned Joyce. ‘B-but please, my Lady…you’re not…you’re not going to k-kill me…are you?’

Lady Jocasta feigned surprise. ‘Kill you, Mr Joyce? No, of course not, whatever gave you that idea?’ she said, watching the colour flush back into Joyce’s face. ‘That would be far too compassionate. No, Mr Joyce…I am going to hurt you until you beg with me to kill you…and then
watch
it happen.’

The colour withdrew once again from Joyce’s face. ‘But…I brought Quaint here…to
you
…so that our forces could detain him, so he could no longer be a threat!’

Lady Jocasta said, ‘And we thank you for that. You have at least done one thing of value…that is why you are not already
dead.’ She turned her back on him and walked to the top of the stone stairs. ‘You have your orders, guards. Disarm him.’

Joyce wept openly. ‘But, Lady Jocasta…I don’t have any weapons!’

Jocasta smiled. ‘Figure of speech.’

From the contingent of dark red-clad Consortium guards stepped two wraith-like men. Flanking Joyce, they grabbed each of his arms and spread them wide like a scarecrow. Joyce’s head twisted back and forth, pointlessly trying to break free. The guards pulled him from both sides as if trying to wrench his arms from their sockets.

Sweat ran profusely from Joyce’s forehead.

Struggling against the guards restraining him, Aksak Faroud fought to catch the conjuror’s attention. ‘Do you not think we should—’

‘Intervene? Certainly not!’ scoffed Quaint. ‘Joyce deserves everything he gets.’

‘How can you be so callous?’

‘Not callous…
calculating.
I just know how to turn a situation to my advantage when I’ve got dozens of swords pointed at me,’ said Quaint.

‘You will forgive me if I seem pessimistic,’ said Faroud. ‘But at least then I will not be disappointed.’

‘Look, if it makes you feel better, I doubt there’s anything that we could say that would make any difference anyway. Once that cow is done with Joyce, we’re up next in the queue to die. So best we just sit tight and hope for a miracle, eh?’

‘Oh…as long as there is nothing to worry about,’ said Faroud despondently.

‘Don’t blame me,’ said Quaint. ‘You wanted the pessimistic version.’

‘I think I preferred the optimistic one.’

‘That’s the spirit!’ cheered Quaint.

Lady Jocasta smiled seductively in Quaint’s direction and pointed her bejewelled finger at him. ‘Do not think that you have escaped my wrath, Mr Quaint. Oh, yes! I know exactly who you are! I have organised something
special
for your arrival.’

‘You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble on my account,’ said Quaint.

‘Oh, it will be no trouble…in fact, it will be my pleasure,’ Lady Jocasta purred.

She signalled two more guards, who detached themselves from the mass of robed figures and took position in front of Joyce. He was a quivering mess of jellified flesh and bone. The two guards facing him unsheathed their swords from their scabbards, and by the sudden hush that descended upon the cavern, it quickly became evident what was about to occur. With a nod of Lady Jocasta’s head, both the guards sliced their raised swords through the air in a synchronised arc and Joyce’s arms were severed at the elbow, falling to the ground with a dull, wet thud. His gut-wrenching howl echoed around the cavern, filling every crack and crease in the rocks.

‘God…no,’ he mumbled through saliva-coated lips.

‘God…
yes
!’ screeched Lady Jocasta, her feral eyes wide with delight.

With her long white gown trailing behind her like a phantom, she walked down the steps and stood over him, dominating his blurred vision. She wanted to watch him die, she wanted to be the last thing he ever saw. She stared down at his severed arms, the fingers still grasping the air manically.

‘Pick them up!’ she whispered, pushing her heel into his chest
until he toppled over onto his back, his stumps still seeping blood. ‘Your arms, Mr Joyce…I want you to pick them up.’

‘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.’