The Eleventh Plague cq-2

by Darren Craske

  'You toyed with me,' said Quaint, with not a tinge of surprise in his voice.

  'And you were fantastic!' replied Dray, inching himself forward on his cane. 'I may look like a foolish old man, but we both know I am anything but.'

  'That's true,' said Quaint. 'You are Satan himself clothed in the ragged old shell of a crippled body!'

  Dray curled his lips. 'That's mildly insulting at best, Cornelius – you can do better than that.'

  'You used me! You used Joyce…and you're using Nastasi too? Is that all people are to you? Currency to barter with?' yelled Quaint.

  'Joyce's ambition brought about his fate, not me. He thought he was a big spider in the middle of his web, catching flies left, right and centre. But little did he know that he was just another fly…in a web much larger than he could possibly imagine. And look where it got him.'

  'Ever the puppeteer…just like you were with Oliver, always in control, your word above everyone else's – even to your own flesh and blood! Your filthy Consortium was pulling his strings for years!'

  'My son has nothing to do with this!' barked Dray. He caught the eyes of the head guard gripping Quaint's arms. 'Take him and his Aksak friend to Jailer Agnafar! Secure them…and do it properly or I'll have your head on my mantelpiece! Break them…make them bleed, but do not kill them…not just yet.'

  Faroud's eyes flicked to Kulfar and Nehmet at his side. 'What about my men here? I am their Aksak and they are merely following my orders. They mean nothing to you!'

  'That is very true,' said Dray. 'Guards, release the Aksak's men.'

  'So you do have some dignity, after all,' said Faroud.

  'You interrupted me, Aksak,' said Dray. 'I was going to say release them…of their lives.'

  Faroud watched helplessly as the guards holding Kulfar and Nehmet removed their blades from their scabbards in unison and thrust them into the Scarabs' bodies. Once more, wailing screams echoed around the cavern – and then promptly ceased.

  'Remove these two from my sight!' said Sir George to his guards.

  'George, wait!' shouted Quaint as he was dragged away. 'Think about what you're doing. Think about Oliver! Would he have wanted you to go this far?'

  Sir George watched Quaint and Faroud disappear from his sight into the belly of the Consortium's sanctum sanctorum. He turned his head slowly to Lady Jocasta.

  'You see what I mean, lass? Like a lit torch in a haystack!'

  'But an intriguing foe, nonetheless,' replied Lady Jocasta.

  'Oh, he's intriguing all right,' Dray muttered, nodding his agreement. 'I wonder what he meant.'

  'By what, sir?'

  'His parting shot about my son. He said: "Would he have wanted you to go this far?"' replied Dray. 'Seems an odd choice of last words, don't you think?' He pondered this, tugging at his large earlobes thoughtfully. 'Before Mr Quaint is executed, I think that perhaps he and I should have one last chat.'

  Lady Jocasta felt her nerves constrict inside her stomach. If Cornelius Quaint was implicated in the failure of her plot in London, she could not possibly allow him to speak to Sir George.

  She watched the old man drag his racked body from the chamber. When she was certain he had left, and she could no longer hear his grunting groans, she slowly set off towards the detention block. Cornelius Quaint would be dead long before he had a chance to open his mouth.

  CHAPTER LIX

  The Beacon of Hope

  MADAME DESTINE MADE her way along the carved stone corridors. She was barefoot and the many skirts of her long dress trailed snakelike behind her. The Hades Consortium guard had thought it perfectly reasonable to lead her directly to the holding cells, and had even unlocked the main gate for her before returning to his duties with a vague scratch of his head, as if enchanted by a spell. Entering through the main gate, she heard muffled voices close by. The corridor was populated with an array of cells – some large enough to hold many men, and some no bigger than a wardrobe. Every so often she would freeze as the voices rose in anguish, her nerves on a knife's edge. Finding Cornelius was Destine's primary objective, and her sensitivity to emotions gave her an advantage. All she had to do was close her eyes and focus on the soul in the most torment and her gifts would surely lead her right to him.

  But in the Hades Consortium detention block, torment was a common emotion.

  She heard a man cry out in pain.

  Moving unerringly towards the sound, the closer that she got, the more obvious it was that someone was at the receiving end of a vicious beating. Her sensory gifts were working overtime trying to compensate for such raw emotion – fear, pain, anger, misery. They were everywhere within the jail, but none more so than in a cell less than ten feet away from her. With her curiosity driving her onwards, Destine slipped into the empty cell next door and pressed her ear against the wall.

  'Scream for me, Scarab pig!' yelled a man's voice, followed by another man's forced exhalation. The victim wheezed, desperate to catch a breath. 'Jailer Mullah, this will take some time!' he called to his colleague in the adjoining cell.

  'My one is not talking either, Jailer Veriz,' snarled the Consortium jailer. 'Come on, dog – plead for your miserable life…what is left of it! Lady Jocasta has ordered you to die quickly – and I am more than happy to accommodate!'

  This other prisoner was struck. Destine heard the victim gasp for breath, before retching. She heard three whispered words, more than enough to recognise the speaker.

  'Go to hell,' snarled Cornelius Quaint.

  Destine rested her head against the cell wall and muttered a silent prayer. Now came the hard part…how was she to get him out of that place? Charming a guard was one thing – but charming a whole platoon of them? A faint, melodic whistle wafted down the corridor behind her. Someone was coming! She squashed herself against the wall behind the cell's iron door, hearing the jangle of keys and heavy footsteps. Moments later, a broad-shouldered guard strode down the hallway and into the cell next door to hers.

  'Sir George has sent an urgent command!' said the booming voice of the head jailer. 'He wants the white-haired one to be taken to the audience chamber immediately! Hang on…what is this?' He stopped and Destine's heart missed a beat. 'Look at him! The man is half dead!'

  'We…we were merely following Lady Jocasta's orders, Jailer Agnafar. She wishes this Englishman killed for his treachery to the Hades Consortium.'

  'That order has since been countermanded by Sir George! You are lucky, Jailer Mullah. Had this man died, it would not have been long until you would have joined him!' snarled the burly Agnafar. 'Do what you will to the Scarab, but take the Englishman to the audience chamber right now, or these dogs will not be the only ones at the receiving end of a beating!'

  'Yes, Jailer Agnafar.'

  'Sorry, Jailer Agnafar.'

  There was a sudden sound of jangling keys and unlocking locks.

  Destine's heart sank into the pit of her stomach as she witnessed Cornelius's unmistakable shock of curly hair dragged past her hiding place by his guard. He was soon out of her sight, and out of her grasp.

  'Right, you piece of camel dung, now it is just you and me,' yelled the voice of Jailer Veriz. 'You are the leader of those Scarabs, yes? Aksak Faroud, they call you? Well, Aksak…let us see if you are still as high and mighty once I have finished with you!'

  The chains binding Faroud to the wall shook and rattled, followed by the sickening dull thud of knuckles against flesh. Destine winced as Faroud's pain jolted through her. If she was going to make a move she had better do it soon. The man in the next cell did not have long to live, and her instincts told her that if she and Cornelius were to escape the Hades Consortium's lair, they would need Aksak Faroud's help…

  CHAPTER LX

  The One Little Thing

  SIR GEORGE DRAY looked up from the table as a badly beaten Cornelius Quaint entered the audience chamber flanked by two Hades Consortium guards. The old man flashed a brief smile to himself at the sight. His enemy was broken and he ha
d waited so very long to witness it. Without a word, Quaint took a seat at the large marble table opposite Dray. He sat bolt upright, his elbows on the table. His eyes were defiant and his spirit was not nearly as beaten as his body.

  'Guards, you can leave us,' the Scotsman said, causing the two guards behind Quaint to exchange glances, as if they had both heard incorrectly. 'Don't worry, I've got a tight grip on his leash. He'll not be a bother if he wishes to see his Madame Destine alive again. Send in the maid on your way out too. It's so damn dry down here, I need a bloody drink!'

  Cornelius Quaint sat in silence, staring into Dray's hooded eyes. The man had grown old. Like an exhumed corpse, his thin flesh hung from his fragile bones limply, as if it were dripping from them. But quite aside from his physical degradation, Dray's soul had decayed into something that went beyond misguided, beyond spiteful – beyond evil. The man was now the embodiment of festering contempt, lacking in any redeeming qualities whatsoever.

  An Egyptian servant girl arrived from the tunnels carrying a metal tray containing a large carafe of dark, full-bodied Burgundy and two glass goblets. Dray silently observed the girl as she placed the goblets on the table and nervously filled them, her hands shaking with obvious anxiety. A single droplet of red wine escaped the neck and fell onto the marble tabletop. The servant gasped.

  'Master, I-' she began.

  Sir George waved her away with a decrepit hand. 'Think nothing of it, lass. Accidents happen, eh? Now off with you, this is grown-up talk.' He watched her swift exit with a twisted sense of satisfaction. 'You see, Cornelius…that is something that you'll never command,' he said, swallowing down a mouthful of wine. 'Respect!'

  'Is that what you think that was?' Quaint asked. 'That wasn't respect, George – that was fear. Pure and simple fear.'

  Sir George wriggled in his seat as if he was trying to get comfortable on a pincushion. 'You should try your wine,' he said.

  'It's a little bitter all of a sudden,' Quaint replied. 'So why am I here, George? Why did you not just let your guards finish me off? They were just getting in their stride.'

  'So I see,' Dray said, spying the many cuts, abrasions and bruises littering Quaint's face. 'I just wanted to set eyes on you one last time…to see if I can finally figure out what makes you tick. You intrigue me, Cornelius. You always have. Why would you knowingly risk your life to interfere with the Hades Consortium's plans yet again? Was the last time you and I tussled not enough of a warning? When we first met, you were an arrogant little snot sitting in such self-righteous judgement…if it hadn't been for my son standing up for you, you'd be dead.'

  Quaint said, 'The last intelligent thing Oliver did.'

  'You leave him out of this!' Dray yelled.

  'You brought him up,' said Quaint. 'But you're wrong. I don't seek to judge you, George…a higher authority than I will do that.'

  'Are you really so blind? Look around you…things have changed since the old days. The world has changed!' Sir George's eyes glazed over with an opaque, glassy sheen as his rage thundered forth from his mouth. 'No one needs heroes any more. They're a dying breed…the Hades Consortium has seen to that. You are finished, Cornelius, your job is done. Just like me, you're a man waiting to die.'

  'Die? You?' Quaint laughed. 'Now that I'd like to see! The hourglass may be running low, but you're one of those types that have a nasty habit of surviving. Oliver was lucky that he never lived to see what a wraith you've become!'

  Dray squinted, uncertain what he was hearing, as if the conjuror was speaking gibberish. 'What do you mean by that?'

  'He was a victim, George!' Quaint snapped. 'His soul was poisoned the minute you indoctrinated him into this damned club of yours! His blood is on your hands, just like so many others.'

  'His blood?' Dray replied in a whispering wheeze. 'What…are you saying?'

  'Are you that detached from reality?' snapped Quaint, his physical body like a stone statue, his wrath peppering every syllable. 'George, don't tell me you don't even know!'

  'Cornelius, you're not making sense,' said Dray. 'If this is supposed to be some sort of threat it is absurd.'

  'Threat?' squawked Quaint. 'George, this is no threat! Has no one told you what happened in Crawditch?' He pushed his chair from the table, and it screamed an obscenity against the stone ground as he rose swiftly to his feet. 'Don't you know what happened to your son?' He searched Dray's face, trying to read the old man's expression but there were so many grooves, wrinkles and liver spots that it was hard ascertaining any sense of emotion whatsoever.

  Dray looked at Quaint with equal curiosity. He knew Cornelius Quaint well, but he had never seen that look in his dark eyes before. It was not just anger. It was pity. The old Scot tempered his breath. 'You're enjoying this, aren't you? Getting your own back…playing me at my own game? Honestly, lad, I'm surprised that you'd stoop down to my level?'

  'Damn it all, George!' yelled Quaint. 'No matter what you might be you need to know the truth…if only to awaken the embers of a conscience in you.' He strolled around the table, closer to the old man. Amazingly, his voice exhibited genuine grief, despite what a treacherous and evil creature he was facing. 'Your son is dead.'

  Sir George looked at Quaint. He knew that parlour tricks were not part of Quaint's arsenal. In a duel such as this, his weapon of choice would be the truth, for it would wound far more deeply.

  'Oliver is…dead?' he mumbled. 'But…he can't be!'

  'It's true, George,' confirmed Quaint.

  'What…what happened to my son?'

  'You did,' Quaint replied.

  Oliver Dray had been no saint, and responsible for many a crime of his own, most notably throwing his lot in with Quaint's enemy, Renard. Perhaps he deserved his fate. As Police Commissioner in the dockland district of Crawditch, Oliver had used his position to flout the very laws that he was sworn to protect.

  'Cornelius, tell me what happened, I beg of you!' Dray pleaded.

  Quaint whispered through a sharp intake of breath. 'You beg of me?' The conjuror took pleasure from Dray's pain. He was looking weaker and paler by the second as he tried to consume the information. Quaint wanted to prolong it. He resented giving the old man any sense of peace. He did not deserve it. But as Quaint looked into the eyes of the monster for the briefest of moments, he did not see a devil, no demon clad in human flesh – he simply saw a father, in mourning for his son. 'George, are you that detached from your conscience that you thought your machinations would never come back and bite you in the arse?'

  Dray clawed madly at the downy hair on top of his balding scalp, drawing blood. 'I know what life I gave Oliver! I'm not that detached from my conscience…but he was a grown man…he could have walked away at any time. But I don't understand…how did it happen? How did my boy die?'

  Quaint submitted to his own conscience. 'I can tell you the how, where and when he died…but you already know the why, don't you? The how: Oliver was murdered by a psychotic killer named Tom Hawkspear on Renard's orders. The where: Crawditch in London, in the yard of his own station. The when: around the end of November.'

  'And no one even told me? How is it that I don't know? How is that it takes you – you of all people – to tell me of this?'

  Silence manifested itself between Dray and the conjuror. They sat in a kind of restrained, unspoken conversation, as if waiting for something to happen.

  'November, you say. And Oliver died…as a result of a Consortium plot in London? But that can only mean-' Sir George Dray sat back in his chair, as if an elusive equation had plagued him all day and he had just deciphered the answer. 'Tell me this is all part of your plan, Cornelius, please. Tell me this is you!'

  Quaint shook his head vehemently. 'Once I'd found out just how deeply Oliver had been pulled into the plot, I went to him. I wanted to save him. But I was too late…too late to keep him from the rot that had set in…too late to save him from himself. He wasn't just killed, George – he was mutilated horrifically. He was hung by his entrails fr
om his station, his blood painting the pavement, naked apart from his regulation jacket. Was that the sort of death that you wanted for him?'

  George Dray snatched up his walking cane and hoisted himself to his feet, his green eyes aflame. He was remarkably agile, imbued with the potent medicine of vengeance.

  'Where are you off to?' asked Quaint.

  'To vent some anger!' snapped back Dray. 'I know who was running the plot in London in November…the one who was supposed to be holding Renard's leash…and I aim to find out exactly what she's got to say about it!'

  'George, wait!' yelled Quaint, snatching hold of the old man's arm.

  'I'll have plenty of time for waiting later. Right now it's answers that I want…that and a little revenge,' Dray seethed, the veins in his head pulsating under his flesh. 'Crawditch was Jocasta's project and I want her head on a pissing plate for this! She has to be brought to bear!'

  'You want to settle a score, that's fine! I don't blame you…but you can do a whole lot more than just make her pay her penance. You can right a wrong…reset the balance of Oliver's death.'

  Dray turned, his eyes almost looking through the conjuror. When he spoke, his words were sharp enough to cut diamonds. 'If you're trying to appeal to my conscience, you're wasting your breath. I'm detached from it, remember? But my vengeance, now that's another thing entirely…that I am very much in concert with. I'm sick, Cornelius. Dying to be exact. I don't know how much time I have left, but I promise you this…before I draw my last breath that bitch is going to pay!'