‘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.
CHAPTER XVI
The Vulture and the Viper
TO THOSE THAT knew of its existence, the Hades Consortium was a secret cadre of powerful individuals populating all corners of the world. It delighted in causing – and then profiting from – global unrest of its own design. It had influenced practically every landmark conflict in history, rocking the foundations of the globe, shattering alliances and shifting the balance of power in its favour. Its members were positioned throughout all levels of society in offices of power and influence, like chess pieces waiting patiently for the game to begin.
Scattered around the globe were many so-called ‘sancta sanctorum’ – places where members of the Hades Consortium could scheme away to their dark hearts’ content. Beneath the ancient ruins of the city of Fantoma, two senior members had recently taken up residence – a fact that did nothing to placate Godfrey Joyce’s distemper. He sat in the rear of a horse-drawn cart with the sack-covered item by his side, cursing every bump in the road. The painful trip was seemingly endless, and his buttocks were as tenderised as a side of beef.
‘Have you ever thought of fitting cushions in this damned contraption?’ he barked at the driver, ignorant of the fact that the toothless Egyptian had no understanding of the English language.
It was approaching midday. The sun was high in the sky and its relentless heat was already biting the back of Joyce’s neck, igniting his irritability even further. But then his driver muttered something incomprehensible, pointing to the horizon. A wondrous sight greeted Joyce’s woeful eyes.
The crumbled stone walls of Fantoma rose up from the sand all around him. Towering obelisks, once-great columns, temples and stone monoliths ascended into the sky. Abandoned centuries before, inhabited only by the ghosts of the desert, the city had been left to die, covered in a shroud of sand and dust. This was Godfrey Joyce’s destination, and as the cart drew ever closer, the itch that smarted his nerves increased tenfold.
After a claustrophobic trek through chokingly dry tunnels carved from the rock itself, a very sweaty Godfrey Joyce finally arrived at a pair of tarnished stone doors, easily twice his size in both height and width. They were inset with a lavish picture of a pyramid, decorated in its centre by a golden ankh with rays of light emanating outwards. Joyce smiled at their grandeur. How their majesty was wasted on the Hades Consortium. He pushed hard on the doors, their hinges grinding against each other. In a blink, two large-bodied guards carrying spears stepped out from the shadows of the cavern beyond. They wore dark red robes, draping their bodies from their hooded heads to their ankles, with armoured adornments covering their forearms. They lowered their spears to bar Joyce’s entry.
‘I’ve got a delivery for Lady Jocasta. She’s expecting this!’ Joyce said, lifting the sack-covered box. ‘So if I were you, I’d best not hold me up.’
The guards parted their spears.
As Joyce moved deeper into the cavern, wall-mounted torches gave him a better view of his surroundings. The underground cavern opened up before him with every step he took. He made his way cautiously up a series of stone steps to an oval-shaped marble table positioned directly underneath a stream of natural sunlight, breaching the darkness from ground level. Pulling a chair to one side, Joyce sat down in silence, placing the sack next to him. His face was pale and sweaty – a symptom not of the listless dry heat in the place, but of the presence of the two occupants seated at the table.
Baron Remus sat in stony silence with his elbows on the table. His grey eyes stared intently at Joyce as if he was attempting to read his mind. Remus’s peers respected his tolerance of neither fools nor failure, and his presence in Egypt only heightened Godfrey Joyce’s very palpable fear. Remus had been an inhabitant of the Hades Consortium’s higher echelons for decades. In that time he had carved some sizeable and not to mention highly successful campaigns across most of Europe, and was regarded highly by the inner stratum.
Seated next to the Italian was his protégée, Lady Jocasta. Her jet-black hair was tied into a long ponytail, interwoven with golden strands of decoration – although she needed none, for her beauty was captivating enough. Her dark eyes sparkled intensely, and her complexion glowed, exquisite in its texture. Although still an apprentice, Lady Jocasta was a powerful architect of chaos in her own right. Born into an affluent and influential Greek family, she had grown bored with an abundance of wealth and sought to entertain herself with more challenging pursuits. One day on the streets of Athens, her recklessness brought her into a fateful encounter with the Baron when she had tried to pick his pocket. Seeing qualities within the young woman that he could make use of, he took her under his wing, indoctrinating her into the Hades Consortium. Both were cut from the same cloth – a brooding vulture and a calculating viper.
‘I must apologise for my lateness,’ Joyce said, his palpitating heart choking his words. ‘My driver was unfamiliar with the territory in these parts.’
‘Buona mattina a voi,’ Baron Remus said, waving away Joyce’s words with a swipe of his hand. ‘My ap
prentice has been eagerly awaiting this delivery for some time, Signor Joyce. A few hours will not kill her.’
Lady Jocasta’s eyelids fluttered. ‘Is that it? Is that the consignment from Renard?’
Joyce lifted the sack and slid it along the table. ‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘Signor Joyce, well done,’ commended the Baron, as he stroked his striped beard, tugging at chunks of grey bristle on his chin. ‘Your lackey in the Clan Scarabs performed his duty well. We should enlist him for our own uses.’
‘Those damned Scarab dogs!’ Lady Jocasta hissed. ‘I do not know why we must resort to employing such diseased thugs!’
‘Now, Jocasta, you know very well why,’ appeased the Italian, his deep, baritone voice booming off the dry cavern walls. ‘Should the need arise, those “diseased thugs” will make ideal sacrificial lambs. As you will learn one day, cara mia, the secret of good business is making alliances with those who are expendable. And do not let it slip your mind that had your plot in London succeeded we would not need the Scarabs’ aid at all.’
Lady Jocasta bit her tongue. Her teacher’s words were like vinegar on a cut, but he was right. It was his way of exerting his superiority, and she had no choice but to take notice, for the alternative was not a pleasant one.
Godfrey Joyce’s eyes flicked to ground. ‘Baron? My Lady? Do you still require my services? It’s just that I have other matters at the Embassy to attend to.’
‘Of course, Signor Joyce…you may go,’ said Baron Remus. ‘But continue to monitor events in the Black Sea and report back when you have news. I am most anxious to hear when the British Empire is thinking of throwing her lot in with the Ottomans. I have spent months laying the foundations and the Hades Consortium has much to gain from such a conflict.’
‘As you wish, Baron,’ said Joyce as he turned on his heel. He walked down the stone steps as quickly as he could without breaking into a sprint, eager to be as far away from Remus and Jocasta as soon as possible.
Remus stood swiftly and glared at Lady Jocasta as if she were his most hated enemy. His large nostrils flared as he gripped the backrest of his chair until his knuckles turned almost as white as his bared teeth.
‘Why must you continually question me in front of others?’ he seethed. ‘I have a reputation to uphold and I will not see it whittled away in front of the lowers! I am your teacher, and as such you need to mind your tongue, cara mia…lest I order it removed! The Clan Scarabs are essential to the Consortium’s anonymity in Egypt. Should anyone decide to sniff around our movements, they will take the fall. Are we clear on this?’
‘Yes, Baron, of course,’ said Lady Jocasta.
‘And be wary of Joyce,’ continued the Italian, his rage abating. ‘His lust for power has not gone unnoticed. He does not care over whom he tramples.’
‘Agreed,’ said Lady Jocasta. ‘Joyce is an integral part of my plot, but when it is done he will cease to be of any use to us. My plan will be a success, I swear to you!’
The Baron scratched at the marble table with his fingernails, fighting an obvious irritation. ‘So you say…but still I await assurances. It is time that you explained in detail this plot of yours. Why can we not just dump the poison in the Nile and forget about it? Why must we wait?’
‘If it is assurances that you seek, teacher…then I shall give them to you.’ Lady, Jocasta reached across the table for a large roll of parchment and unfurled it, revealing a map. ‘This represents the length of the Nile,’ she said, tracing her finger along the river’s course. ‘Each year the Nile floods its banks, known locally as the spiritual awakening of the year. The flooding has signified the rebirth of this land for generations, and the ancient ones even built their calendar around it.’
‘Spare me the history lesson, Jocasta,’ growled Remus. ‘Details.’
Lady Jocasta continued with haste, seeing the impatience within her teacher’s eyes. ‘Once the flooding subsides, it leaves behind large tracts of black silt all along the Nile’s banks. The silt is rich in fertile moisture, and Egypt comes alive once more. On New Year’s Eve, the poison will be dispersed where the Nile’s current is strongest. It will not only lay waste to half the population of this country, it will lay dormant in the silt, polluting agriculture for years to come. What brings life to Egypt will eventually deliver its death…over and over and over again and nothing can turn back the tide now.’
CHAPTER XVII
The Familiar Strangers
STOOD OUTSIDE THE small tailoring establishment in Hosni, Cornelius Quaint felt an unanticipated smile creep onto his lips. It was an odd feeling looking at the sand-whipped paint on the shop’s door, as if a tiny piece of him was coming home. Above the rattling din of a pedal-powered sewing machine, a woman’s voice could be heard singing away from the other side of the door. Quaint knocked his knuckles hard against the dry wood, and immediately the noise abated. A beautiful woman with a mass of wild dark hair and even wilder dark eyes swung open the door.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded, looking Quaint up and down as if he had arrived at her door purely for her personal inspection.
‘A “hello” would be nice,’ Quaint teased. ‘Is that any way to greet your visitors?’
Unrestrained inside her blouse, the woman’s ample bosoms sashayed back and forth and Quaint was unintentionally mesmerised. ‘Are you going to tell me what you want, or do you intend to stand there all day gawping at my chest?’
‘Can I give me a minute to decide?’ smiled Quaint.
She slapped his face and he quickly made up his mind, redirecting his eyes.
‘You are English, am I right?’ the woman asked. ‘All Englishmen think they are so charming, with their pleases and their thank yous. Well, do not think for one moment that I will fall for any of your mucking about. Charm does not work on me – only money! And I hope you are not going to ask for a discount, because I do not do discounts.’
‘Alex, will you shut up for a moment and let me speak?’ said Quaint.
‘How do you know my name?’ the Egyptian woman asked.
‘Because it’s me!’ Quaint insisted.
The woman’s face glowed with a spark of recognition.
‘Cornelius? Cornelius Quaint?’ She quickly bundled him inside her premises, slamming the door shut behind him. ‘Come inside, I am so glad to see you!’
Quaint looked at her dubiously. ‘You are?’
‘Of course – you owe me money!’ exclaimed the tailor. ‘And it is Alexandria, not Alex, if you please…I am a grown woman now.’
Quaint’s eyes were drawn back to the woman’s breasts. ‘It hadn’t escaped my notice.’
Alexandria linked her arm through Quaint’s, leading him to her workshop along a corridor cluttered with rolls of material, clothing rails and dusty mannequins.
‘My word, Cornelius, what are you wearing?’ Alexandria said. ‘You would not have been seen dead in pinstripes when you and I were…’ She forced herself to look away for a moment, ‘…in the old days, I mean. And tell me, what has happened to your hair? Not a hint of grey when we last met, and now you are…what is the English phrase…as white as a sheep?’
‘It’s sheet,’ said Quaint.
‘I know what I mean,’ said Alexandria dryly. ‘Please do not tell me that I have aged as poorly as you.’
‘As sensitive to my feelings as ever, Alex,’ said Quaint. ‘The years are unkind to us all eventually. I like to think of myself as a vintage wine…I grow in value with each passing year.’
‘In that case, you must be worth a fortune,’ Alexandria said. ‘Well, for all your chips and cracks, I am relieved to see you are still intact, Cornelius.’
‘And let me take a good look at you, eh?’ said Quaint, stepping back to avoid further inspection. She wore a white blouse under an embroidered waistcoat, a flowing crimson skirt, and from a wide belt around her slender waist hung an assortment of bobbins of yarn and reels of thread. ‘There is no doubt about it…you are still the most ravishing woma
n in all of Egypt. Surely if you’d been born in the old days, you would be revered as a goddess.’
Alexandria slapped his broad chest playfully. ‘The same old lines to make a lady’s heart beat faster, Cornelius? Shame on you.’
‘Actually, that’s a brand new one just for you,’ said Quaint
‘I very much doubt it,’ Alexandria said. ‘As much as I would like it to be true, I do not believe that you came halfway around the world just to see me. So tell me, what brings you back to Egypt after all these years?’
‘Just a little bit of business…of the unfinished variety,’ Quaint replied, as he began a stroll around the workshop. ‘You know me, Alex. Nothing changes.’
Alexandria watched him, unable to take her eyes off him for a moment.
‘No…nothing changes,’ she said.
Quaint brushed his hands over the array of tailored shirts, jackets, coats and dresses. The workshop was an organised mess, with reams of silks and cottons arranged how a lover of books might display their collection. A large overcoat adorning a headless mannequin caught his eye, and he beamed at it as though it were a familiar face. It was an indigo, three-quarter length, split-tailed long-coat, with wide lapels and thick cuffs. As he stepped closer to the garment, the colour seemed to dance before his eyes, changing from blue to black, like oil across water.
‘One of yours I take it?’ he asked.
Alexandria nodded. ‘It meets with your approval?’
‘It’s a work of art, my dear. It belongs in a museum,’ Quaint answered.
‘Hmm, well…it was a special order for a Chinaman named Cho-zen Li over six months ago. If he does not send payment for it soon, it might as well hang in a museum for all the good it is doing here,’ Alexandria said gloomily, casting her eyes around the workshop as if it were her prison cell, and she its captive.
Quaint spied the anxious look in her eyes, despite her utmost efforts to hide it.
‘I take it business is a little slow at the moment?’
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