The Eleventh Plague (14 page)

‘How so?’ asked Destine, hungry for more.

‘Well, instead of death, Ptah was actually associated with the exact opposite – with creation, with life beginning anew,’ replied Mouk, eager to feed his audience’s curiosity. ‘In fact, some scriptures tell that the world itself sprang forth from his dreams! Ptah was the creator of
everything.
Literally translated, his name means “the opener” – as in the opener of worlds, the opener of minds, the opener of mouths even – such is his misinterpreted symbolism with death.’

‘The opener of mouths?’ repeated Destine in a whisper.

‘Yes, indeed, ma’am!’ cried Feron Mouk. ‘The act of an undertaker opening the deceased’s mouth is still practised to this day, and stems back to the ancient times. Ptah believed that if the mouth were closed during the burial process, the soul would be trapped for ever within the mortal shell, denied its eternal life amongst the stars only to crumble to dust.’ Destine and Ahman were quite uncertain what to say, and the curator seemed positively thrilled that he had provoked such a response. ‘Marvellously macabre, is it not?’ he chuckled.

‘And what of the story I have heard that the sun only strikes this place twice a year?’ asked Destine, hoping to cement the meaning within the words of her letter. ‘How can that be so? We are right out in the middle of the desert – surely the sun will
always
strike this temple?’

Mouk clasped his palms together eagerly, enjoying another opportunity to show off. ‘I am glad you asked, ma’am, for that is the reason for my bringing you to this place! It is what piqued my curiosity in your tale, in fact. Ptah’s story is integral to the history – and indeed, the
mystery
– behind this very temple. Allow me to explain,’ said Mouk, and Destine and Ahman gladly obliged. ‘The sun does indeed strike the exterior of Sekhet Simbel
all year round…but not the interior. You see, this temple was purposefully oriented in such a way that twice a year – in February and October – the light of the sun penetrates this very sanctuary from the main entrance behind us, illuminating the gods to which Sekhet Simbel pays homage.’ Mouk proudly pointed to the four statues behind him and smiled, dropping an overlong pause. ‘That is…all except one! Unlike the other gods deified here, Ptah’s statue is
never
illuminated by the sun’s rays…not once! But why not? I hear you ask. If the axis of the temple was of an intentional design, then why purposefully keep him shrouded?’

‘Why?’ Destine found herself asking.

‘Why indeed, ma’am,’ said Mouk. ‘There are many theories as to why this is, of course, but we may never reveal the truth behind the mystery. Poor old Ptah…the god bathed eternally in the shadow of the sun, destined never to see its light again. Such is life…such is history. Sometimes the past refuses to give up its secrets.’

‘I could not agree more,’ said Destine.

‘When you mentioned it earlier, there was only one piece in this temple that sprang to mind,’ said Feron Mouk, clasping his hands. ‘Am I correct, ma’am?’

‘
Oui
, monsieur, it is all coming back to me now,’ lied Destine. ‘Such beauty. How could I have forgotten it? You have my sincere thanks, Monsieur Mouk.’

Mouk bowed. ‘You are most welcome, ma’am. I have to attend to some other business in the archives. Why not stay awhile and admire Sekhet Simbel’s majesty some more. If you do not mind seeing yourselves out, that is?’

Destine nearly bit his hand off. ‘Of course!
Merci beaucoup!
Thank you.’

‘Good day, ma’am…and sir,’ Feron Mouk said cheerily, as
he departed for a tunnel leading from the main hall. ‘Do come again!’

‘What a nice man,’ said Destine. ‘A trifle overzealous. But nice.’

Ahman snatched her hand and squeezed it tight. ‘What next?’

‘I have no idea,
mon ami
,’ admitted Destine. ‘We search for the third marker, I suppose – whatever and wherever it might be. We are not quite at the end of this riddle yet.’

Gathering her composure, still unsure exactly how the statue of Ptah might assist her, Destine caressed her hands over the stone. Her fingertips invaded every groove, every crack and every gap in the statue from its head down to its solid rock base. She froze like one of the temple’s petrified exhibits as her fingertips touched against something embedded within the base of Ptah’s sculpture. Something solid and thick wrapped in rough material. She quickly stowed it away within the folds of her bodice, not daring to even look at it.

‘Destine?’ Ahman asked, seeing the look on her face. ‘What is it?’

Destine fought to gather her voice. ‘Answers,
mon cher
…I hope.’

D
ESTINE MADE A
hasty egress from the temple, with Ahman rushing behind her. Clutching the smuggled item close to her chest, her eyes darted around her. She was barely able to contain her excitement. The letter was correct. It had said that there was something to find in Sekhet Simbel, and she had found it. That confirmation proved much. It proved that everything in the letters was true. It was her legacy to find that cloth-wrapped parcel; perhaps even her destiny.

‘Quickly, we must find somewhere safe to examine it,’ she said to Ahman.

‘Safe?’ he asked, looking around. ‘Are we not safe
here
? Who else do you think would be interested in whatever it is that you have there, ah?’

‘I will not know until I open it, will I?’ Destine said. The parcel seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat, radiating warmth as if it were alive. ‘But I have no wish to do so right on Mr Mouk’s doorstep. I am sure he takes a
very
dim view of people stealing from his temple!’ Before Ahman had even finished untying his horse’s reins, Destine was already sat in the rear of the cart.

‘It is getting late in the afternoon and we should think about
making camp for the night. I know a little place on a lake not far from here that is suitable,’ said Ahman. ‘It is not wise to be out in the open once darkness falls.’

‘
Très bien
! Please…just let us be on our way.’

Although Madame Destine was clairvoyant no more, it seemed that she retained a slight semblance of her gift, for she was somewhat prescient in her earlier estimation that she was not safe.

As she and Ahman began their journey, a pair of furtive eyes watched their cart with interest from an overlooking hill. His eyes fixed upon the duo, a knife’s edge of a smile sliced across Heinrich Nadir’s face. He turned to the two men at his side – men swathed head to toe in dark red rags that climbed their bodies, coiling around their heads into an all concealing hood. Only their dark eyes peered through an inch-wide slit. These men were trained in the art of dealing death, and its stench clung to their clothes like must.

‘There are your targets,
meine freunde
!’ Nadir said. ‘When the order is given, you may kill the male…but whatever you do, ensure that the female is unharmed or the Hades Consortium will have your heads. Whilst the Frenchwoman is certainly valuable, she is but the bait to snare an even greater prize.’

C
ORNELIUS
Q
UAINT KNEW
that walking boldly into Clan Scarab territory was always going to be a gamble, but he maintained a fondness for gambles – especially when the stakes were high. As things stood, for him (and for Egypt) the stakes were astronomical.

‘So, Chullah,’ said Quaint (now on first name terms with the bartender), ‘what time can I expect your Aksak to arrive, anyway?’

‘When he gets here,’ replied Chullah. ‘As I said…he is on Scarab business some miles away. He should be back before nightfall. Why did you wish to speak with him again?’

‘I have a question that I hope he’ll have the answer to,’ replied Quaint.

At that moment, the tavern door was wrenched open, and a guttural voice spoke an inch from Quaint’s ear:

‘And what would that question
be
, stranger?’

Quaint turned around to face the grim-faced Clan Scarab leader standing in the open doorway of the Bara Mephista tavern.

‘Aksak Faroud, I presume?’ Quaint asked.

‘You have me at a loss, Mister…?’ asked Faroud, narrowing his gaze.

Quaint opened his mouth to speak. ‘My name is—’

‘Surely you remember your old friend Cornelius Quaint!’ said Chullah.

‘
Friend?
’ asked Faroud.

Quaint could almost hear the ice cracking beneath his feet.

‘Yes, from your old pickpocket days in Cairo! Your secret is out, boss – Cornelius here has been telling us some wild stories of your childhood together!’

‘
Has
he now?’ asked Faroud, eyeing the conjuror curiously. His voice was tempered and calm but his eyes bubbled away furiously, barely restrained.

‘This man is a wonder, Aksak! He has been showing us miracles with a deck of cards – just do not play blackjack with him, eh? I have lost two bottles of gin already!’ grinned Chullah.

Aksak Faroud ignored the bartender’s cheer and leaned closer to Quaint.

‘Whoever you
really
are, stranger, it seems that my men have warmly accepted you…otherwise I would have had to step over your corpse on my way in. However, you will find that it takes more to appease me than fancy card tricks.’

Quaint winced. ‘Well, they weren’t exactly
tricks.
You see—’

‘Silence!’ yelled Faroud at the top of his voice. The atmosphere in the tavern became a static moment in between breaths as every pair of Scarab eyes surveyed the stand-off between Faroud and Quaint. ‘You are in
my
world now…and in
my
world,
I
make the rules.’

‘Good policy,’ said Quaint. ‘Keeps any visitors in check.’

‘We receive very few of them here,’ said Faroud. ‘Those who know of our presence steer well clear, and those who stumble across us by accident do not live to boast of the tale. You must either be very brave…or very stupid. Which is it?’

‘That depends on who you ask,’ Quaint replied, pushing his luck.

‘What do you want here?’ demanded Faroud.

‘I just need information…and it’s a matter of life or death,’ said Quaint.

‘The Clan Scarabs are not an information service, stranger. I hope your journey here was worth it, for it will be the last you ever take.’ Faroud drew a dagger from a scabbard at his waist, and thrust it against Quaint’s neck. The blade grazed the conjuror’s Adam’s apple and he dared not swallow. ‘If you thought you could just walk into my camp and request information, then you must have a lust for death…and I am only too willing to feed it! Now tell me, what information could a man like you possibly expect from a man like
me
?’

‘The Hades Consortium,’ Quaint wheezed.

The words had a remarkable effect on Aksak Faroud, and he released the blade at Quaint’s neck. ‘Did Joyce send you?’

Quaint shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘So what do you know of the Hades Consortium?’ demanded the Aksak.

‘A bit,’ replied Quaint. ‘I know what they’re capable of, and I know what they’re planning to do in Egypt very soon. The real question, Aksak Faroud, is: what do
you
know?’

‘I can see that you are determined to pique my curiosity, Mr Quaint’ said Faroud.

‘I hear that a lot,’ Quaint quipped.

‘So speak on,’ urged Faroud, tightening his grip on his knife once more.

‘Righto,’ sang Quaint. ‘The Hades Consortium is planning to deposit a consignment of highly toxic poison into the River Nile at New Year.’ He slid his finger inside his collar and touched
gently at the thin wound on his neck, taking a brief look at the dab of blood on his fingertips. ‘You wondered why I would come here knowing that I was risking my life? To see an end to their plot is why, so I need to know whose side you are on, Aksak: the Hades Consortium’s…or Egypt’s?’

Quaint was relieved to see Faroud’s full interest flicker into life.

‘My mother always said I was too curious for my own good,’ said the Aksak, replacing his knife into its scabbard. ‘You have just earned yourself a reprieve, Mr Quaint. We shall discuss this further once I have concluded my other business. But if I fail to be impressed by your explanation, you will be
begging
to die.’ Faroud snapped his fingers and several of his men barged into the tavern obediently.

Quaint watched the procession of Scarabs with keen interest. As the last man entered the tavern and pushed past him, Quaint noticed that he was carrying someone kicking and screaming over his shoulder. By the shapely rear end, Quaint could tell it was a woman, and for one awful moment he thought it was Alexandria – until the woman cursed at her captors – a series of unmistakably unladylike oaths – and his heart relaxed. Alex would never use such colourful language – unless it was aimed in his direction. Whoever this woman was, Quaint had a nagging suspicion that she was about to disrupt all his best laid plans…

‘Take her out back. I will join you in a moment,’ Faroud said to his men, then spun on his heel back to Quaint. ‘I must leave you for a time…time that you should spend thinking of a reason why I should not stake you to the ground and let the vultures peck at your carcass.’

Quaint grinned boldly. ‘Well, for one I’m all gristle. Not good for the digestion.’

‘Your wit is not endearing you to me, Mr Quaint,’ said Faroud.

‘I hear that a lot too,’ said Quaint.

Aksak Faroud led Quaint to a small booth at the rear of the tavern, obscured by a ragged curtain. The Aksak ripped the curtain open and ushered Quaint to take one of the two chairs at the table. Two Scarab guards armed with curved swords approached and waited for their leader’s commands.

‘Watch this man,’ said Faroud. ‘If he becomes a nuisance, quieten him.’

As he slid himself into the confines of the chair, and as the curtain around him was drawn, Quaint heard Faroud’s footsteps resound against the wooden floor. He heard a door directly next to him open, and then slam shut.

Chullah scuttled into the booth and placed a bottle on the table. As he removed the cork stopper, a sharp scent of anise flooded Quaint’s senses.

‘You like absinthe, Cornelius?’ asked the bartender.

‘I’m not sure “like” would be the correct measure of my appreciation, Chullah. The last time I had some, I felt as though I’d played ten rounds of croquet.’

‘That sounds like fun!’

‘As the ball?’

‘Well…if you want my advice – enjoy the Aksak’s hospitality whilst it lasts,’ said Chullah, as he poured a glass of the pale green liquid. ‘And I would think very carefully about how long you wish to live for.’

‘It’s crossed my mind, believe me,’ said Quaint.

Once Chullah had gone, Quaint strained in his seat to hear the conversation in the room next door.

In that room, Professor Pollyanna North was bound to a wooden chair, her face covered with a rough sack. As Faroud strode over to her and ripped it off, Polly gasped for air, her eyes squinting madly. She looked around the room in a daze.

‘Welcome to my camp, Professor,’ said Faroud.

Polly spat in his face.

‘I see you are not yet house-broken,’ he said, wiping the spit from his cheek.

‘You Scarab bastard! You wrecked my dig site! Your thieves have set my project back by six months!’ Polly screamed, malice dripping from every word like hot candle wax. ‘And you didn’t even
take
anything!’

‘On the contrary, Professor,’ said Faroud. ‘We took
you.
’

Listening as best he could on the other side of the wall, Quaint’s attention was ensnared by this newcomer. So she was a professor – and a feisty one at that. But a professor of what? What could the Clan Scarabs possibly want with a professor?

‘You’re filth!’ Polly snarled, her anger just about keeping her tears at bay. ‘You scared off my entire crew! Do you know how long it took me to recruit that damn team?’

‘The show of force was necessary to maintain your compliance,’ said Aksak Faroud. ‘My employer told me of your commitment, Professor…how you fight with honour to preserve the secrets of my country’s past. For that you have my respect, but I know that you are an intelligent woman…and not to mention tenacious. No woman would come to Egypt without spirit, and no woman would dig so tirelessly in a place such as Umkaza unless they held a strong love for the land and its history. Your mother was Egyptian, was she not?’

‘Did you bring me out here to discuss my family tree?’ stormed
Polly. ‘What are we going to do next, swap embarrassing childhood stories? What could a group of thieving murderers like you want from an archaeological site? We weren’t causing any harm, and we’ve got the permission of the Egyptian government to dig there!’

‘Permission is not my employer’s concern, Professor…
you
are,’ Faroud said. ‘He wishes you to pack up your equipment from Umkaza and move on. The city of Anuk-Suresh has many treasures yet to be uncovered.’

‘Anuk-Suresh is old news! Its people were smart. They made their treasures easy to find to keep the lazy diggers busy, distracting them from other more plentiful sites hidden elsewhere,’ Polly said. ‘That might work for the rest of my colleagues, but I don’t follow the pack, and when someone tells me not to dig in Umkaza, it only makes me wonder
why.
My guess is that there
is
something worth finding there, after all…something I’ve yet to uncover, and I’ll bet your “employer” is just trying to scare me off so he can get his hands on it! Who is it? Alberto San Marco, that slimy little snake? Or is it that hairy old bear Horace Arlow? He’s been after the Pharaoh’s Cradle almost as long as I have!’

‘Those names mean nothing to me,’ replied Faroud. ‘You need not concern yourself with the whys and wherefores of your capture, Professor North.’

On the other side of the wall, Quaint’s eyes widened. Professor North?
Polly
North? Quaint retained a healthy interest in Egyptology from his youth, and Pollyanna North’s name was known to him. Her reputation was impressive, but not as impressive as her present display of bravery.

‘If this is the part where you expect me to plead for my life, then you’ll have a long wait! Just do what you have to do…kill me or let me go – either way, just get on with it,’ yelled Polly.

‘I have no wish to kill you, Professor. My services were hired merely to relay a warning – stay away from Umkaza. For good. Or next time I will not ask you so politely,’ said Aksak Faroud.

‘You could have warned me off in Umkaza. Why am I here?’ asked Polly of her captor. ‘Not that I even know where “here’ is because some idiot stuck a bag on my head!’

‘You are in Bara Mephista, Professor,’ confirmed Faroud.

‘The old Nubian settlement?’ Polly asked. ‘That’s quite a trek from Umkaza. I must have been unconscious for some time.’

‘For the sake of my eardrums, thankfully so,’ said Faroud.

Polly replied with a sarcastic smile. ‘So this employer you mentioned…I didn’t realise you lot loaned your services out for hire. Since when did the Clan Scarabs become someone else’s lapdogs?’

‘The Scarabs are
nobody’s
lapdogs, woman!’ shouted Faroud. The back of his hand came from nowhere, striking Polly’s left cheek. She crashed to the floor, still bound to the chair. Multicoloured flashes burst before her eyes. Faroud clenched his shaking fists tight, as if he held the entirety of his rage within them and he was desperate for it not to escape. He glared with furious venom at Polly, but then noticed a thin crease of blood at the corner of her mouth.

‘No! I did not mean—’

He rushed over and righted the chair back onto its four legs. Grabbing the hem of his ragged robes, he dabbed at her mouth, wiping the blood as Polly struggled against him. ‘Professor…I am truly sorry, I…I lost control of myself. Please forgive me.’

Quaint looked around quizzically. Was he hearing things? Had the Clan Scarab leader really just apologised? But that made no sense at all. It seemed that the rules of this game were changing by the second.

‘Faroud, what the hell’s going on in there?’ he yelled.

‘This is none of your concern, Cornelius Quaint,’ snapped Faroud.

In an exact mirror of Quaint’s expression, Professor North frowned deep grooves in her forehead as she tried to measure the voice of the newcomer next door. Who was he? Cornelius Quaint, the Scarab had said. It was certainly an odd name – ancient Roman in origin, if she was not mistaken. But was he to be a help or a hindrance? An enemy or an ally? Perhaps he was the Scarab’s mysterious “employer”, and the man that sought to steal the Pharaoh’s Cradle out from under her nose?

‘Sounds like the Professor touched a nerve, Faroud,’ continued Quaint. ‘Someone
is
pulling your strings! That Mr Joyce you mentioned? The Hades Consortium, perhaps?’

‘You do not know of what you speak, Englishman – so silence your tongue before I rip it out!’ yelled Faroud through the wall.

‘What has the Consortium promised you, Aksak?’ asked Quaint, with no intention of silencing his tongue. ‘Do your lot get the spoils of war once the Nile is done with? Or perhaps they just appealed to your sense of fear. Is that it? They
scared
you into doing their dirty work for them?’ Quaint knew that he was risking a beating by provoking the Egyptian’s temper – but that was exactly his intent. If Faroud concentrated his anger upon
him
, it meant that he was no longer aiming it in Polly North’s direction. ‘Don’t take it personally; the Hades Consortium has a thousand little thugs like you on their payroll. To them you are nothing!’