The Eleventh Plague (29 page)

S
IR
G
EORGE
D
RAY
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 had 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 from 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!’

‘George, listen to me…all I want is an end to this!’ snapped Quaint. ‘It’s within your power, you know it is! If you’re dying, then go out with some dignity…go out with some humanity, for God’s sake, man!’

Dray shuffled on the spot anxiously. ‘You could’ve let me squirm, twisted the knife in my guts even more. Lesser men certainly would have…I would have.’

‘I didn’t do it for you, George,’ said Quaint.

‘Aye…I know that,’ muttered the old man. ‘Whatever it was that poisoned Oliver, you and he were still friends once. Let’s say I could even the score between us – and only
this
score, mind…we still have others to occupy ourselves with – what would you ask of me?’

Cornelius Quaint did not ponder long. ‘Well, there is this one little thing…’

A
THIN TRICKLE OF
blood seeped from the corner of Aksak Faroud’s swollen mouth as he spat in the face of the brawny Hades Consortium jailer in front of him. The jailer cackled remorselessly and punched him in the gut. Faroud’s head snapped back, striking the base of his skull against the solid rock wall, and his eyes rolled listlessly in his head. Blood-soaked bile spewed from his mouth, dribbling down onto his bare chest.

‘You Clan Scarabs are not like us. You are filth, picking off any carrion weaker than you. Thieving…intimidating…killing. But no more,’ said Jailer Veriz, wiping his hand over his mouth as he savoured his attack. He leaned closer, his eyes scouring every inch of Faroud’s face in detail, as if he despised every speck of his being. ‘This is how the Hades Consortium treats animals like you.’

‘You…think yourself so different…to me?’ protested Faroud weakly, barely able to vocalise the words. ‘We do what we do…to survive. What is
your
excuse?’

Faroud was silenced by a blow to the ribs and the breath was purged from his lungs. His Scarab brothers, Kulfar and Nehmet, had been the lucky ones. Death had claimed them quickly. Faroud
knew that soon he would join them. He did not have the strength within him to fight any longer and falling into death’s embrace seemed more appealing by the second. As Jailer Veriz clenched his fists once again, Faroud closed his eyes tight, knowing this was the end. There was no one to save him now.

Or so he believed.

Faroud heard a sudden noise…a dull clang of metal striking against something solid. He opened his eyes slowly.

Standing over the unconscious body of his jailer was an elderly woman clad in an elegant mud-splattered dress, with a pair of heavy iron manacles swaying in her hands. Faroud blinked hard to remove the delusion, but to his surprise, it did not dissipate.

‘Who…are you?’ asked Faroud dazedly.

‘Escape first, introductions later,’ replied Madame Destine. ‘We have to find Cornelius!’

L
ADY
J
OCASTA ENTERED
the audience chamber clutching a large, cylindrical roll of parchment under her arm. Sir George Dray sat alone at the chamber’s table with an expectant look on his wrinkled face.

‘Sir George, I have brought the map as you requested,’ Lady Jocasta beamed. Not waiting for an invitation, she delicately placed the parchment upon the table and rolled it out, placing small brass weights at each corner, smoothing the creases. ‘In but a few hours, Nastasi and his Scarabs will deposit the vials of poison in the positions marked. Egypt will soon be crippled, and by then…it will be far, far too late to turn the tide.’ She looked to Dray for approval.

He offered Lady Jocasta a broad smile – in contrast, the cold glare in his green eyes told an altogether different story. Grasping his walking cane, he pulled himself to his feet. Without a word, he slid the four brass weights from each corner of the map. The parchment curled its edges up like a snail retreating into its shell. The Greek woman watched, pleasantly enthralled by Dray’s actions, but her expression faded as she saw Cornelius Quaint step from the shadows.

Lady Jocasta looked at the two men’s faces, matching their nondescript expressions with one of her own. Dray held the parchment in his skeletal fingers and silently passed it into Quaint’s hands.

There was no word of thanks during the exchange.

That was not part of the deal.

‘Sir George?’ Lady Jocasta enquired, seeking an explanation.

Dray ignored her. ‘Consider our debt repaid, Cornelius. Take it and leave this place whilst you still can. You’ve got ten minutes, no more.’ Quaint opened his mouth to speak. ‘Don’t bother thanking me…just pray our paths never cross again. This changes nothing between us.’

With an accepting nod, Quaint retreated back into the shadows as if he had never been there at all.

Lady Jocasta scowled incredulously as her whole world ground to a sudden halt.

‘That was the map!’ she said, unable to hide the ire in her voice.

‘I’m aware of that, lass,’ replied Dray.

‘Then…may I ask why you gave it to Quaint, sir?’ Lady Jocasta asked.

Dray replied, ‘As I said…I was repaying a debt.’

‘To him? What debt can you possibly owe that it is worth risking
everything
I have worked to achieve?’ demanded Lady Jocasta. She had either forgotten her position, or was in full acknowledgement of it, it was difficult to judge. Whatever the answer, her rage was unrestrained. ‘Now he has the means to destroy us – surely you must know that?’

‘I know only that I have made this game a wee bit more interesting.’ Sir George grinned maliciously. ‘It’s midnight in only a few hours. Even if he knows where the poison is being deposited,
he is still just one man…he cannot be in nine places at once. It would take a miracle to stop what’s in motion.’

Lady Jocasta’s bile did not recede. ‘But why take that risk?’

‘Because if any man alive can do it, it’s him!’ Dray shuffled his form around the table to stand behind her. ‘You have disappointed me, Lady Jocasta…and you have brought shame upon Baron Remus’s tutelage. This will serve as a reminder of what happens when every eventuality is not catered for.’

‘You have risked the success of my plot merely to reprimand me?’ Lady Jocasta lowered her head upon her chest and closed her eyes. ‘So…failure is to be my punishment.’

‘No, Lady Jocasta.’ Dray took his walking cane within both hands and pulled swiftly at the handle – removing a slender sword from within. With surprising ferocity, he slashed the blade’s keen edge into Lady Jocasta’s exposed, olive neck. Her head was cleaved from her shoulders. It rolled around directionless on the table, spilling a fine fountain of rich red blood as it went, coming to rest in the centre of the table with her big brown dead eyes staring at the ceiling.

‘That was your punishment,’ said Sir George. He consulted his pocket watch.

Cornelius Quaint had eight minutes.

Not enough time for a miracle, but still plenty of time to die…