The Eleventh Plague (7 page)

A
T THE EMBASSY
in Cairo, Godfrey Joyce was not a happy man. Far from joyous at the best of times, this morning he was possessed of a particularly foul distemper. He was facing pressure on all sides, and not all of it courtesy of the British government, for Mr Joyce was a duplicitous man. He had successfully juggled careers both as British attaché to Egypt and as a Hades Consortium spy for several years, feigning servitude to Her Majesty Queen Victoria whilst secretly plundering the Empire’s secrets. It was Joyce’s foremost desire to gain higher notoriety within the Hades Consortium’s inner circle, and he was fully prepared to sell his soul to achieve it. However, the urgent communiqué that he had just received was not sitting well on his portly stomach. His employers had requested his delivery of a certain casket, and with the Hades Consortium, a request was always construed as an order.

A gentle knock on his office door disturbed his discomfort, and a plump young man entered. ‘Good morning, Mr Joyce,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It seems you have two gentlemen to see you this morning. Aksak Faroud, of your previous acquaintance, and one other gentleman. A rather
unkempt
individual, if I may be so
bold, sir. They aren’t in the appointment book, so I thought I had better check with you.’

‘Faroud, eh? Oh, don’t you worry about that, Reginald. He’s got something of interest for me I hope,’ Joyce said. ‘Send him on in, lad.’

Joyce twisted around a small mirror mounted on his desk, checking his appearance studiously. His russet-red hair was greased flat against his head, sweeping down his pale face into two mutton-chopped sideburns that formed a thin moustache resting on his top lip. He was in his late forties yet his hair had a youthful vitality to it, apart from bushy eyebrows that perched like two white doves on his prominent brow. Despite the youthfulness of his hair, Joyce’s face did not lie as easily. It was wrinkled with heavy-set jowls under his chin, clearly displaying his age for what it truly was. Like the man himself, Mr Joyce’s face was one of conflicting allegiances.

A cough alerted him to another’s presence as Aksak Faroud entered the office.

‘Good day, Mr Joyce. I have the consignment from England, as requested,’ he said, placing the rough sack on Joyce’s desk.

‘Excellent work, Aksak,’ Joyce said. ‘I know a certain young woman most anxious to get her claws on this.’ He pointed at Nadir. ‘And who is this? I didn’t realise the Clan Scarabs were in the habit of picking up strays.’

Nadir offered a polite, but brief, bow. ‘Herr Joyce, my name is—’

‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ snapped Joyce, steering his eyes to Faroud.

‘Apparently he is called Nadir, the delivery man from the Hades Consortium, the one that transported that casket from England,’ answered Aksak Faroud.

‘I am a little more than a mere delivery man,’ said Nadir. ‘I come to you, Herr Joyce, to inform you of an important development.’

Joyce looked mildly interested. ‘You’re not here bringing yet more bad news from our mutual employers, I trust?’

‘Thankfully not,’ said Nadir. ‘In fact, I bring news of the highest quality. I have travelled from England to deliver that consignment as arranged, but there was something of far greater interest aboard the ship.’ His beady eyes floated around the office, never settling in one spot for long. ‘On my journey I met a very charming Frenchwoman. She is part of a travelling circus, acting as a teller of fortunes, but unlike most in her trade, her clairvoyant gift is genuine.’

Joyce snorted in sudden annoyance. ‘Have you been at the gin, man? A fortune-teller? Those charlatans are two a penny down any side street in Cairo, what makes you think this one is worth my notice?’

‘Her gift has been confirmed by an impeccable source, Herr Joyce, and one that carries all the confidence of the Hades Consortium, let me assure you,’ said Nadir.

‘And I take it that Lady Jocasta wants this fortune-teller for herself, does she?’ asked Joyce.

Nadir shook his head. ‘The Hades Consortium is not yet aware of this woman, Herr Joyce, nor her abilities. I came to you first.’

‘Did you indeed?’ said Joyce. He pulled a cigar from an ornate tortoise-shell box on his desk, and took a deep inhalation, savouring the rich taste of the tobacco permeating around his mouth. When he decided to speak, he locked eyes with Faroud and spoke without any hint of emotion: ‘Aksak, take this stunted simpleton out of my sight at once.’

‘Wait, sir – you must not dismiss this so swiftly!’ pleaded Nadir.

‘Why not? It’s utter nonsense, man! Even if I believed a word of it – which I don’t, by the way – what possible value could she be?’ barked Joyce.

‘
Value
, Herr Joyce?’ Nadir’s tongue darted from his mouth to coat his lips. ‘Surely you can see that she is of the utmost value! Foreknowledge of the future would give any man ultimate power!’

A fog of cigar smoke masked Joyce’s expression from Nadir’s sight, but if the German could have seen it, he would have noticed a glimmer of interest.

‘Yes…yes, it would. That sort of power would be of great interest to many, Mr Nadir…myself included.’ Joyce rolled the fat cigar between his lips, coating the tip with strings of saliva. ‘If it is true…if this woman really
can
see the future as you claim…then she would be a very valuable acquisition.’

‘I overheard her say she was headed to Agra Bazaar, Herr Joyce, not too far from Cairo’s main streets,’ Nadir added. ‘I can head there right away and intercept her! All I require is some assistance for her capture, should her companion decide to be a problem.’

‘I have two of the Consortium’s best assassins at my disposal for just this kind of job, Nadir. Silent, swift, deadly. Their résumé is really quite impressive.’ Joyce sat forwards in his chair, grasping his fists tight in front of him. ‘Go to Agra at once, Nadir! You must find her…find her and bring her to me! I will decide what to do with her
after
I have proof of her abilities – but if you are wasting my time, Mr Nadir, then my assassins might just take my frustrations out on you.’

‘Understood,’ said Nadir.

Joyce waited for Heinrich Nadir to scuttle from his office before glancing up at Faroud. ‘What do you make of it all, Aksak? A woman that can predict the future?’

‘If what the German says is true, then this woman is certainly worthy of attention,’ replied the Scarab. ‘And this news…you will share it with your superiors?’

‘Oh…I don’t think we need concern
them
at this stage, do you?’ said Godfrey Joyce, blowing a flume of smoke into the air. ‘No…I think that I would prefer to keep this little titbit to myself for now.’

T
HE SMALL DISTRICT
of Hosni was decidedly off the beaten track.

For all its bare bones, this was Cornelius Quaint’s destination. The intense heat had bitten at him all the way from Cairo, and so he had altered his attire accordingly. Discarding his jacket, his waistcoat was buttoned over his open-necked shirt and he wore a loose-knotted neckerchief around his neck. He adjusted his felt hat and placed his hands on his hips, sizing up the town.

It was like stepping back in time – how many years? Aside from various trading stores, scattered domiciles and a ramshackle tavern, there was little to entice anyone there. The uneven road was compacted by the frequent tread of foot and hoof, small two-storey buildings blasted sugar-white by the sand-whipped wind were dotted randomly about and a hubbub of chatter emanated from around every corner.

‘Thanks for the ride, Joran,’ said Quaint to a young Egyptian sitting in front of the cart. He had an inane grin fixed upon his face, seemingly finding great joy from something in the air around him. Somehow, Cornelius Quaint suspected that it was at his expense. ‘Is something amusing you, son?’

Joran wore a small fez perched upon his head at a jaunty angle, but as if that was not comical enough, when the young man spoke, his voice rose and fell sharply between high and low octaves. ‘My sister is very glad you come back to Hosni, Mr Cornelius.’

Quaint beamed. ‘She is?’

‘Yes, she said you owe her lots of money,’ Joran snickered.

Quaint offered him an affected smile. ‘Alexandria’s got a better memory for an outstanding account than a Glaswegian ledger-keeper.’

Madame Destine sat in the rear of the cart, twirling her parasol over her shoulder.

‘Another gambling debt, Cornelius?’ she asked.

‘Not in the way you might think.’ Quaint motioned towards the young Egyptian. ‘You should be fine with Joran, Destine. Just don’t give him any money until you get back to the ship, or you’ll never see him again. Oh, and keep an eye on your valuables. He’s a damn magpie – anything gold and shiny goes straight into his pocket. He was five years old the last time I saw him, and the tyke stole my watch!’

Joran produced a fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and swung it by its chain tauntingly. ‘You mean this one? You listen to him, lady. He speaks the truth. Joran still has his watch, and very nice it is too. Tick-a-tick! Still works, Mr Quaint.’

‘Well, fancy that,’ marvelled Quaint. ‘Mind if I take a look?’

Joran was reluctant to hand the watch over – even to its rightful owner – but he begrudgingly did as he was asked.

‘Would you look at that!’ Quaint exclaimed, as he inspected the fob watch with his eyes aglow. ‘I haven’t set eyes on this old thing for…Oh, it must be twelve, maybe thirteen years! Lord, has it really been that long? I’ve got to hand it to you, Joran, you’ve kept it in remarkable condition.’

‘It is the
best
thing I own, Mr Quaint,’ Joran beamed with pride. ‘I know that it was very wrong to steal it from you. Now I am all grown up, I would never make the same mistake again.’

Quaint grinned up at him. ‘I’m glad you’ve seen the error of your ways.’

‘Now I would go straight for your wallet,’ Joran chuckled.

Quaint shook his head contemptuously. ‘Just like your sister,’ he said, as he returned his attention to the fob watch. It had a battered brass casing, with a large, expressive fascia. He depressed a protruding button atop the timepiece, and the watch’s face snapped open within his hand. Poking carefully around inside the watch with his little finger, he plucked something from its insides.

Joran’s eyes grew wide with wonderment as they spied a shining, golden coin.

‘It’s still here!’ said Quaint, as Joran looked on jealously. ‘It’s a French doubloon from the wreckage of Napoleon’s flagship
L’Orient.
Sunk at the Battle of Aboukir in 1798. It spent forty years lying at the bottom of the ocean before I found it whilst diving off the coast of Alexandria – the very same place your sister is named after, as a matter of fact. It is very rare and quite,
quite
priceless to certain maritime antiquity traders.’

‘Priceless?’ mumbled Joran, transfixed. ‘I like that word.’

‘Tell you what, lad…I’ll make a trade with you,’ said Quaint, holding up the golden coin. ‘If you give me back my watch, I’ll let you keep that coin. What do you say?’

The word ‘priceless’ still buzzed around the young Egyptian’s ears and he took no time with his reply. ‘I agree! You are most kind.’ Quaint tossed the coin to Joran, and he turned it over in his eager hands. ‘I think my sister is wrong about you. She says: “Cornelius Quaint is an arrogant man who breaks women’s hearts as indifferently as a cow breaks wind.”’

‘That sounds like Alex,’ said a disgruntled Quaint, turning to Destine. ‘He doesn’t know it, but I would have gladly traded a whole chest of those coins to get this old trinket back,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Seeing this again certainly makes me think…the past does have a way of sneaking up on you, doesn’t it? Would you care for a look?’

Destine took the watch in her hand and inspected it more closely.

‘It is very…nice, Cornelius,’ she fibbed, ‘and clearly quite an antique.’

It was certainly that, all right. The casing was dented, the glass scratched, and it was a miracle the thing still ticked. Inside, underneath the main fascia, was displayed an engraved illustration of a large oval, with four circular discs positioned at the four points of the compass. Destine could tell by the expression on Quaint’s face that he was chomping at the bit to explain the watch’s function.

‘So…it is not solely a timepiece, I take it?’ she asked.

‘Indeed it is not,’ declared Quaint proudly. ‘Marvellous little toy! As well as a watch, it houses a device used by ancient astronomers for measuring the phases of the moon. Later, it became popular amongst mariners as the moon not only provided them with illumination, but its phases also impacted on the tides.’ Quaint clearly enjoyed the opportunity to elucidate on a subject that he knew much about, but rarely got the chance to discuss. ‘It’s called a Luna-meter, named so after “Luna”, the Latin for “moon” – or the ancient Roman goddess, of course.’

‘
Of course
,’ sang Destine, finding it difficult to maintain a keen level of interest. ‘Cornelius, I am sorry, but I fail to be as impressed by a thing in such a poor state of repair. Could you not have replaced it from any market stall anywhere around the world? It is in dreadful condition, and surely not unique.’

‘Unique? Madame, if only you knew!’ laughed Quaint. ‘It was a gift to the Italian astronomer Galileo from the Vatican in 1639 as a sideways apology for his treatment at their hands. You see, Galileo theorised that the Earth was not anchored in the night sky, as most theologians believed at the time – but along with the other planets in the Solar System, it moved upon an axis
around
the sun. The Catholic Church condemned his findings as heresy. He was ostracised from society even though his studies were based upon scientific fact. The Vatican at the time even locked him up for it!’

‘And you mean…this is
his
watch?
Galileo’s
watch?’ asked Destine.

‘The very same, Madame,’ confirmed Quaint, with a broad smile.

‘In that case, my sweet, I stand corrected – I am
tremendously
impressed. So how did such a prize fall into your hands? Something else that you swindled from unsuspecting Prussians, perhaps?’

Quaint’s black eyes glanced away from her, an intense distraction burning within them, and he fought a falter to his voice. ‘It was a gift from my father just before he died. Back when I was a young boy.’

‘Oh, Cornelius, I am sorry for doubting what I thought was merely a boyish attraction,’ said Destine.

‘It means a lot to me. That’s why I would have given anything to own it once more,’ said Quaint. ‘Thankfully, Joran was not willing to barter more tenaciously, or it could have slipped through my fingers once again.’

‘
Oui
, on a second look, it does rather look like a gift that your father would give. And what is this inscription, my sweet?’ asked Destine, pointing to a row of odd symbols finely engraved into the watch’s fascia. ‘This language is unknown to me.’

‘Yes, to me also. It is supposedly an ancient Chinese dialect, never recorded by any lexicographers, unfortunately. I never got around to having it verified by today’s scholars, but supposedly it says “Fortune and Family”…my father’s favourite words. He knew that I’d be fascinated with it, and he was not wrong. I always had an interest in astronomy as a boy. Remember, my father erected a telescope on the flat roof at the rear of the manor, and the two of us would sit and watch the stars for hours upon end? I think you even took to bringing my supper up there.’

Madame Destine remembered. And she remembered Cornelius’s father too. Augustus Quaint had entrusted her to take care of his greatest possession – the man stood by her side. Cornelius had inherited much of his father’s charm, confidence and intelligence – and all of his stubbornness. When the Quaints had been tragically killed, young Cornelius’s world had fallen apart. Thankfully, Destine had been there to help him pick up the pieces. She had adopted the role of guardian angel ever since, long into his adulthood, vowing never to leave the conjuror’s side until she felt confident he could live without her. It had been almost fifty years, and still that day had yet to dawn. The old watch had stoked the embers of painful memory and the sting in the man’s eyes was clear to see.

‘Tender memories always linger longest in our thoughts,’ she said, softly stroking Quaint’s shoulder. ‘They are always the hardest to forget.’

‘And the easiest to recall,’ Quaint said, threading the gold chain through his waistcoat buttonhole. He pushed the timepiece snugly into his pocket, giving it a reassuring pat. ‘Now…Joran has strict instructions to escort you directly to Agra Bazaar. Try not to lose him, Madame. He’s not worth much, but he’s the only hope you have of getting back to the
Silver Swan
by nightfall.’

‘I will not take my eyes off of him for a moment.’ Leaning forwards in her seat, Destine kissed Quaint’s forehead gently. ‘
Bonne chance, mon cher.
’

‘Same to you,’ the conjuror replied.

With a ‘cluck-cluck’ from Joran, and a flick of the reins, the cart trundled off down the main concourse towards Agra Bazaar. As the conjuror disappeared amidst a cloud of dust, for once Madame Destine was grateful for being without her powers of premonition; for she feared they might only confirm the dull ache within her heart – a feeling that this was the last time she would see Cornelius Quaint alive.