The Eleventh Plague (31 page)

D
ARKNESS HAD FALLEN
abruptly during Cornelius Quaint and Madame Destine’s journey to Bara Mephista. There was no dusk, no subtle degradation in light as the amber sky gave way to the night. There was just blackness. Quaint looked at the shadows of the Bara Mephista encampment before him. It was hard to believe that it had only been a matter of days since he had arrived in Egypt. He remembered the first time that he had seen this camp, striding resolutely towards the tavern, ready to take on the world – such was his belligerent nature (as Alexandria had called it).

‘This is Bara Mephista?’ Madame Destine said, looking around the settlement.

‘Yes, this is it,’ Quaint confirmed, dismounting his horse. ‘The Scarab camp…but I can’t tell if there’s anyone at home.’

He strolled towards the fire-damaged tavern, refusing to take his eyes from it in case Nastasi and his fellow Scarabs tumbled through the door at any moment. But he supposed that was unlikely. It was fast approaching midnight and those Scarabs loyal to Nastasi would have been in position along the Nile some time ago – as would Sobek’s band of renegade Scarabs, with any
luck. As he listened to the stillness inside the building, he was perfectly aware that Madame Destine’s eyes were upon him.

As she watched his broad shoulders rise and fall, she wondered what was passing through his mind. She could usually sense his emotions quite clearly, yet a part of him was shrouded from her sight, a part that she could not quite make sense of. He was consciously trying his best to hide it from her, whatever it was. He was fearful, yet not fear born of their situation – fearful that she might see what he had been forced to become in this struggle, how easily he had taken lives.

Quaint was desperate to mask it from her. He could not bear to see the look of disgust in her eyes. He could imagine it already and that was torture enough. Without his
compass
by his side, without her to question him, to guide him, he had been almost lost. He had made some questionable choices, yet he was sure that he was justified in what he was doing – but what if his judgement been impaired without her to guide his mind?

Destine approached him and stroked his shoulder gently, steering him back into the real world. She smiled at him. A smile that told him what he wanted to know. A smile that told him enough.

‘Shall we go and find your friend, Madame?’ he asked, offering her the crook of his arm.

Destine accepted and they approached the door of the unlit tavern. As Quaint pushed it open, it creaked like a cat’s meow. The place was deserted and, by the looks of it, it had been abandoned in a hurry.

Quaint took the lead. He walked past the bar, past the table where he had first sat and spoken to Aksak Faroud, and past the door to the room where he had first met Polly North. A slight palpitation took flight inside his stomach as he pressed onwards, pushing open a door at the far end of the tavern, seeking Ahman.

Shafts of pearl moonlight illuminated a sheet-clad shape laid out on a table in the furthest room of the building. Destine pushed past Quaint’s shoulder, her heart quickening in pace.

Ahman was so serene, so silent.

Tears flooded Destine’s eyes. ‘Is he…?’ she said, her hands running themselves over his motionless body. ‘Ahman, can you hear me?’ She cupped his bristled cheeks and planted a kiss full on the man’s lips. ‘Ahman, please…’

Ahman slowly opened both his eyes, as if a spell had been broken.

‘D-Destine?’ he murmured. ‘Is…is that really
you
?’

Destine beamed a smile back at him and the room seemed to get a little brighter.

‘
Oui, mon cher
,’ she said, each word a caress. ‘I feared you were dead.’

Ahman squinted. ‘I was only sleeping.’ He yawned, rubbing his thumbs into his eyes. ‘What is all the fuss about, ah?’

‘I am so happy you are alive!’ Destine cried, with another kiss.

‘As am I,’ agreed Ahman, ‘especially if this is to become a regular side-effect!’

‘When you fell, I thought I would never see you again,’ said Destine. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Better, now that I have had a day to rest. My shoulder still aches though…and I am thirsty,’ Ahman said.

Quaint reached into his satchel for a canteen of water and offered it to the elderly carpet trader. Ahman drank heartily, slurping mouthful after mouthful as if he would never stop.

‘So who is this, Destine?’ he asked eventually, water dribbling down his beard.

‘How rude of me!’ Destine scolded herself. ‘Ahman, this is Cornelius…Cornelius, this is my good friend Ahman.’

‘We’ve met.’ Quaint shook Ahman’s hand and the carpet trader winced in pain, his hand shooting to his shoulder. ‘I’m glad to see you well, sir. It was my band that found you by the road in Umkaza’s outskirts, do you remember?’

‘So I have
you
to thank for saving my life, ah?’ said Ahman. ‘Without your aid, I would not be here. Destine has told me much about you, Cornelius.’

‘I wish I could say the same,’ Quaint said. ‘I’m glad the Professor took good care of you. So where is she anyway? Don’t tell me the Scarabs put a sack on her head.’

Ahman pulled at his bearded chin. ‘Hmm. I have not seen her today. I have been very tired, you see, and have hardly spent more than a few hours awake at a time. I do not blame her for occupying herself in more stimulating company! Perhaps you should check with one of the Scarabs located herein, ah?’

‘I would, but the place is deserted,’ said Quaint. ‘They’ve all left.’

‘Without saying goodbye? Just like a Scarab. No manners!’

Destine rubbed at Ahman’s bearded cheeks. ‘I am glad to see your smile once again,
mon cher.
There was a time when I thought that I would never see it again.’

‘Maybe I’ll give you two some time to catch up,’ Quaint said, with a wink to Destine. ‘I need to check this place out more thoroughly. Polly’s got to be around here somewhere.’ The conjuror started towards the door, when something caught his attention on the floor.

It was a solitary envelope.

Something willed him to pick it up. He turned the letter over and his eyes darted left and right across the address on the front.

‘Here, Madame…you must have dropped this,’ he said.

Destine snatched the letter from his hands, recognising her handwriting immediately.

‘Madame Destine Renard – Letter 3 of 3.”

Quaint looked over at her. ‘You look surprised to see it, Destine.’

‘Indeed I am, my sweet,’ the Frenchwoman muttered. ‘Where did it come from?’

‘It was just down here on the floor,’ said Quaint perplexed. ‘It’s addressed to you, right? So…did you not drop it?’

‘
Non
,’ Destine said simply, sensing a fiery tingle at the back of her mind.

‘So what’s it doing here?’ Quaint asked.

When he received no reply, he looked first at Destine and then at Ahman.

‘I will explain later, my sweet…but if this letter runs true to the form of the others then I must read it at once!’ Destine snapped, as she opened the envelope hastily and snatched out the letter inside.

Her heart pounded as she read aloud:

‘Dear Destine,

If you are reading this letter, then you have found the third of my markers, and now your task is almost complete. Aloysius sacrificed his life so that the Pharaoh’s Cradle would never be unearthed. His journal contains the only record of its location, and so if you are to prevent the unthinkable, the book must be destroyed.

We cannot allow this secret to be discovered.

The past and the present shall entwine once more. Beware the dawn of the Eleventh Plague.

May God bless you.

All my love,

Destine.’

‘
M
ADAME
,
WHAT DOES
that note mean?’ asked Quaint, staring at the fortune-teller’s wide eyes.

‘This was the third marker…this letter!’ Destine exclaimed.

‘You’ve had more than one of these?’ Quaint asked.

‘
Oui
! This latest is but one of three. The others I stumbled across in Agra Bazaar when I was reunited with Ahman. We set forth from Agra desperately trying to piece together the legacy that my younger self had left for me. I had to discover what Aloysius was trying to tell me.’

‘Yes, but this note talks about Aloysius’s journal,’ said Quaint. ‘The same journal that Godfrey Joyce was going on about last night. He seemed awfully keen on getting his hands on it. He was convinced that I had it, for some unknown reason.’

‘No, it is all right, Cornelius,’ said Ahman, happy to join the conversation. ‘I took the journal from Destine. It must be right here with my things.’

‘The book!’ Destine snapped impatiently. ‘We must destroy it if the Pharaoh’s Cradle is never to be found.’

‘The Pharaoh’s Cradle?’ asked Quaint. ‘But that’s the artefact
that Polly was after. Why would you not want it to be found? What does this letter mean?’

‘It is my last warning,’ said Destine.

‘Yes, but a warning about what?’ snapped Quaint. ‘Is anyone going to explain any of this to me?’

Madame Destine huffed at his impetuousness. ‘Cornelius, on our journey here, I explained to you that I was in Umkaza in 1833 when Joyce and Nastasi attacked, remember? They wanted to get hold of the Pharaoh’s Cradle, but I learned that it was a most dangerous treasure, and one that if it saw the light of day again would trigger a catastrophic event.’

‘Define “catastrophic event”,’ said Quaint warily.

‘Back then, my premonitions warned me that the tomb was not all it seemed. It was infected with a bacterium that could be passed on by the merest touch of flesh upon flesh. It was deadly within one month of infection,’ explained Destine. ‘Once Aloysius learned of his benefactor’s plot, he dug up the Pharaoh’s Cradle and hid it away so that the Eleventh Plague would be contained…killing himself in the process.’

Quaint scratched his curls, lost in confusion, but then he clamped his hand onto Destine’s shoulder. ‘What did you just say?’

Destine began, ‘Killing himself in the—’

‘Not that bit!’ yelled Quaint, startling the fortune-teller. ‘What did you mean about his benefactor’s plot? Which plot?’

‘The plot to use Aloysius as a means to transport the bacterium to England, where he would unknowingly infect the greatest minds of the Empire…not to mention anyone else whom he came in contact with,’ said Destine, lowering her head. ‘Aloysius was tricked and betrayed by so many. Godfrey Joyce, Nastasi…and finally by his benefactor, a Chinaman named—’

‘
Cho-zen Li
,’ Quaint gasped. ‘Professor North’s benefactor.’

‘Professor North…your companion?’ asked Destine.

‘The very same,’ said Quaint grimly. ‘Cho-zen Li sponsored her dig…her dig to Umkaza…to find the—’

‘
Pharaoh’s Cradle?
’ Destine gasped. ‘Just like he did in 1833. When was this?’

‘Recently…’ mumbled Quaint, pacing the floor.

Madame Destine’s hand darted to her mouth. ‘How recently?’

‘As in right now!’ Quaint snapped. ‘That’s why she was in Umkaza! To find the bloody thing – and on Cho-zen Li’s instructions, to boot. He promised her that it was there…’

‘That is what he told poor Aloysius also,’ said Destine.

Quaint snatched at the air in frustration. It was as if the truth was playing hide and seek within him. ‘But this is utterly preposterous! Why would Cho-zen Li hire the Professor?’

‘To finish what he began?’ suggested Destine. ‘As preposterous as it sounds, is it any less so than the other coincidences that have befallen us, Cornelius.’ She folded her arms and presented Quaint with a cold glare. ‘Think about it, my sweet: I arrive in Egypt to discover an unknown past from twenty years ago, when I was a friend to Aloysius – a man who just
happened
to be your old school tutor and father of your old flame! Meanwhile, you have allied yourself with a professor who just
happened
to be searching for the exact same artefact that Aloysius was seeking in 1833 – and just
happened
to be sponsored by the very same man.’

‘All just happenings, Destine,’ said Quaint.

‘These are twists of fate, my sweet – they are not just happenings! Aloysius told me last night that his journal pointed the way, but I just assumed that he meant his account of Joyce’s betrayal. He told me that I must warn others of the danger that sleeps
beneath the sand. He said that I must warn them of the danger of the Eleventh Plague.’

Quaint scowled. ‘Now I’m even more confused. You just said that Aloysius told you this last night. I thought he was supposed to be dead.’

‘He is,’ confirmed Destine. ‘His ghost told me.’

‘His
what
?’ asked Quaint.

‘His ghost,’ Destine repeated.

‘His
ghost
?’ asked Quaint.

Destine stamped her foot resolutely. ‘
Merde
, this is insufferable! This letter must have been hidden in the journal all along. Curse me for not spotting it! I could have saved us a long journey and a heap of trouble, Ahman.’

Quaint turned to Ahman; he had forgotten he was in the room. ‘Bedford’s journal, can I see it?’

‘Yah, it is right here,’ said Ahman, pushing himself unsteadily onto his elbows. He searched amongst his pile of clothes, frowning intensely. ‘At least it…it
was
right here.’ He produced a folded piece of paper and handed it to Destine. ‘Look! You have written another letter! Perhaps this explains things in more detail, ah?’

Destine’s heart missed a beat as she darted to pick up the letter, but her anxiety quickly subsided. ‘
Non, mon cher
, this appears to be a note from someone called “Pollyanna”. It is not one of mine and I am thankful for that!’

‘Pollyanna?’ asked Quaint, as he snatched the note from Destine’s hand.

The moments that it took him to read the words seemed to hang in the air for ever, and his face grew steadily darker by the second.

‘Oh, Polly…what have you done?’ he whispered, before reading aloud:

‘30th December 1853.

Mr Ahman, I pray that when you wake you can forgive me. Please know that I only have the truest intentions. As an archaeologist, just as Aloysius Bedford was, I have a zest to see the truth unburied. When he disappeared all those years ago, all his findings vanished with him, as well as his fantastic journal. There is enough in this book alone to spend a lifetime decoding. Now, at last I have a chance to complete the work that he began in Umkaza.

Pollyanna.’

Destine grabbed for Quaint’s arm as he concluded the note.

‘But, Cornelius…if this woman has Aloysius’s journal…then she knows where he buried the Pharaoh’s Cradle! If she is going to Umkaza, then all my efforts to avert a tragedy will be undone!’

‘
Was
going to Umkaza, you mean,’ corrected Ahman. ‘Look at the date at the top of that letter. Today is New Year’s Eve, ah?’ The room fell silent as realization dawned. ‘This letter was written
yesterday.
’

‘
C’est mauvais!
’ said Destine.

‘It’s worse than that, Madame,’ said Quaint, chewing his lip. ‘The Professor told me that she’s got to get back to England in time for a function in her honour at Buckingham Palace…in the presence of Queen Victoria herself.’

‘But…if she has opened that tomb—’ started Destine.

‘Then she’ll be giving the Queen a hell of a lot more than just treasure,’ Quaint said, completing the sentence. ‘Just when I thought this thing was at an end…’