The Change in Luck
THE SHARP TIP of Aksak Faroud's knife was pressed into the small of Godfrey Joyce's back for the entire duration of the short journey to the holding cells in the basement of the British Embassy. Soon they came to a pair of iron doors with large iron rivets around the seams, almost like the vault of a bank. Quaint wondered why an embassy would have need of such a secure environment.
'In there you will find what you seek,' Joyce said, motioning towards the heavy doors. 'But you must do as you promised…you must let me live.'
'Rakmun was here all this time?' asked Faroud. 'I should slit your throat right here and now!'
'Then you will never get your brother out of this place alive!' squawked Joyce. 'We don't tend to get many knife-wielding Egyptians turning up on our doorstep with prisoners, you see – especially British citizens! The Embassy guards would have been on high alert from the moment you rang the doorbell. Only I can get you, and your companions, out of here in one piece.' Joyce removed a large, brass key and turned it in the door's lock with a snap. He buried his head in his hands, and slid his back down against the wall, his shoulders rising and falling. 'Just let me live, I beg of you.'
'Leave him, Faroud,' Quaint said. 'He's not worth it.'
He snatched open the doors and stepped inside. The room was almost completely dark, save for two small barred windows positioned up high within the wall, catching a sliver of moonlight from the darkening sky outside. Both cells were completely empty, and as Quaint and Faroud's eyes eventually adjusted to the light, they came to a startling realization.
In perfect symmetry, they turned their heads to look at each other.
'Trap,' said Faroud.
'I should say so,' replied Quaint.
The words had not even left his lips before he darted towards the open doors, but he was too late. Joyce was not as incapacitated as he had made out – and he was a lot closer to the doors than Quaint was. He slammed the cell block doors shut. The sound of the key being turned in the lock echoed around the basement before mocking laughter resonated through the thick iron.
'How trusting of you gentlemen,' cackled Joyce, 'and how stupid. Now you are my prisoners, just as your companions were before you. It's such a shame. You missed them by a matter of minutes. If you're lucky, the benches might still be warm.'
On the other side of the fortified doors, Quaint cursed.
He looked around the prison feverishly. Although he and the Aksak were not imprisoned within one of the cells, they might just as well have been. The room was bereft of anything. There was no trap door, nothing to use as a battering ram, no windows large enough. No way out.
'Now what?' asked Faroud.
'We wait for our luck to change, my friend,' answered Quaint.
An hour later, they were still waiting.
Sitting with his back against the wall, Quaint glanced up at Faroud, who had not stopped pacing back and forth ever since Joyce had turned the key in the lock.
'Are you attempting to burrow out of this place?' Quaint asked him.
'What else is there to do? I thought you were supposed to be a conjuror – can you not pick the lock, or make us disappear in a puff of smoke or something like that?' the Scarab asked.
'That only works on doves,' quipped Quaint. 'And that lock is far too fortified for my meagre knowledge of escapology. Don't worry, we won't be here long. Joyce is not just going to leave us to rot…not when he can hand us over to the Consortium. This is all part of my plan…although I admit, it is not without its complications.'
'And what happens if Joyce decides to kill us himself and deliver our corpses to his masters?' asked Faroud, finally ceasing his pacing.
'Ah…yes, that's one of those complications that I mentioned,' said Quaint.
Just then, the lock snapped in the door and it swung wide open, revealing Joyce's pet assassins, their dark red hoods shielding their faces in shadow like executioners of old. They produced lethal swords from scabbards at their backs and brandished them menacingly towards the Scarab and the conjuror.
Quaint looked at Faroud. 'Friends of yours?'
'They are Hades Consortium foot soldiers,' answered Faroud. 'I have seen them before. Do not expect much in the way of polite conversation, my friend. They have their tongues removed upon joining the Consortium's ranks…it helps keep them subordinate.'
'I know a couple of clowns who could do with that treatment,' said Quaint.
Joyce then stepped into view between the two assassins. 'Your time has come, gentlemen. Guards, bind their wrists together so they can't escape,' he said, tapping one of his silent guards on the shoulder. 'Bind them like the cattle they are.'
Quaint recalled a similar predicament from the previous night. 'Let's hope you don't talk as much as my last partner,' he said.
'Did you two really expect me to betray the Hades Consortium?' laughed Joyce, satisfied that he had Quaint right where he wanted him. 'I knew that you and Faroud were en route, my source within the Clan Scarabs informed me before you even left Bara Mephista.' Joyce was noticeably more confident now that he was flanked by two Hades Consortium assassins.
'Source? Within my camp?' Faroud yelled. 'Nonsense! None of my men would ever dare betray me.'
Joyce grinned. 'Oh, they would if they had something to gain, Aksak. In your absence, there is much in Bara Mephista for an ambitious sort to get his hands on, were he that way inclined.'
'Where is Madame Destine?' sought Quaint. 'What have you done with her?'
Joyce laughed a throaty chuckle. 'Your French companion, as charming as she was, is now in the hands of the Hades Consortium.'
'And my brother? Where is Rakmun?' asked Faroud.
'At a location of my choosing,' said Joyce. 'Until you get to Fantoma, I need you compliant…and his life will be dramatically cut short should you or your friend Mr Quaint decide to make things difficult. If you abide by my commands, both of your companions will be set free. They are useless to the Hades Consortium. But if not, they will die – and not at all pleasantly.'
'You filthy-' Quaint lunged, just as one of the Consortium assassins stepped into his path and brought the handle of his sword down hard onto the back of the conjuror's neck. He crashed to the floor.
'What spirit you have, Mr Quaint…Lady Jocasta will no doubt enjoy breaking that for you,' said Joyce. 'Men, escort these two out to the stable yard. We ride to Fantoma!'