The Mask of Guilt
DARKNESS HAD FALLEN abruptly during Cornelius Quaint and Madame Destine's journey to Bara Mephista. There was no dusk, no subtle degradation in light as the amber sky gave way to the night. There was just blackness. Quaint looked at the shadows of the Bara Mephista encampment before him. It was hard to believe that it had only been a matter of days since he had arrived in Egypt. He remembered the first time that he had seen this camp, striding resolutely towards the tavern, ready to take on the world – such was his belligerent nature (as Alexandria had called it).
'This is Bara Mephista?' Madame Destine said, looking around the settlement.
'Yes, this is it,' Quaint confirmed, dismounting his horse. 'The Scarab camp…but I can't tell if there's anyone at home.'
He strolled towards the fire-damaged tavern, refusing to take his eyes from it in case Nastasi and his fellow Scarabs tumbled through the door at any moment. But he supposed that was unlikely. It was fast approaching midnight and those Scarabs loyal to Nastasi would have been in position along the Nile some time ago – as would Sobek's band of renegade Scarabs, with any luck. As he listened to the stillness inside the building, he was perfectly aware that Madame Destine's eyes were upon him.
As she watched his broad shoulders rise and fall, she wondered what was passing through his mind. She could usually sense his emotions quite clearly, yet a part of him was shrouded from her sight, a part that she could not quite make sense of. He was consciously trying his best to hide it from her, whatever it was. He was fearful, yet not fear born of their situation – fearful that she might see what he had been forced to become in this struggle, how easily he had taken lives.
Quaint was desperate to mask it from her. He could not bear to see the look of disgust in her eyes. He could imagine it already and that was torture enough. Without his compass by his side, without her to question him, to guide him, he had been almost lost. He had made some questionable choices, yet he was sure that he was justified in what he was doing – but what if his judgement been impaired without her to guide his mind?
Destine approached him and stroked his shoulder gently, steering him back into the real world. She smiled at him. A smile that told him what he wanted to know. A smile that told him enough.
'Shall we go and find your friend, Madame?' he asked, offering her the crook of his arm.
Destine accepted and they approached the door of the unlit tavern. As Quaint pushed it open, it creaked like a cat's meow. The place was deserted and, by the looks of it, it had been abandoned in a hurry.
Quaint took the lead. He walked past the bar, past the table where he had first sat and spoken to Aksak Faroud, and past the door to the room where he had first met Polly North. A slight palpitation took flight inside his stomach as he pressed onwards, pushing open a door at the far end of the tavern, seeking Ahman.
Shafts of pearl moonlight illuminated a sheet-clad shape laid out on a table in the furthest room of the building. Destine pushed past Quaint's shoulder, her heart quickening in pace.
Ahman was so serene, so silent.
Tears flooded Destine's eyes. 'Is he…?' she said, her hands running themselves over his motionless body. 'Ahman, can you hear me?' She cupped his bristled cheeks and planted a kiss full on the man's lips. 'Ahman, please…'
Ahman slowly opened both his eyes, as if a spell had been broken.
'D-Destine?' he murmured. 'Is…is that really you?'
Destine beamed a smile back at him and the room seemed to get a little brighter.
'Oui, mon cher,' she said, each word a caress. 'I feared you were dead.'
Ahman squinted. 'I was only sleeping.' He yawned, rubbing his thumbs into his eyes. 'What is all the fuss about, ah?'
'I am so happy you are alive!' Destine cried, with another kiss.
'As am I,' agreed Ahman, 'especially if this is to become a regular side-effect!'
'When you fell, I thought I would never see you again,' said Destine. 'How are you feeling?'
'Better, now that I have had a day to rest. My shoulder still aches though…and I am thirsty,' Ahman said.
Quaint reached into his satchel for a canteen of water and offered it to the elderly carpet trader. Ahman drank heartily, slurping mouthful after mouthful as if he would never stop.
'So who is this, Destine?' he asked eventually, water dribbling down his beard.
'How rude of me!' Destine scolded herself. 'Ahman, this is Cornelius…Cornelius, this is my good friend Ahman.'
'We've met.' Quaint shook Ahman's hand and the carpet trader winced in pain, his hand shooting to his shoulder. 'I'm glad to see you well, sir. It was my band that found you by the road in Umkaza's outskirts, do you remember?'
'So I have you to thank for saving my life, ah?' said Ahman. 'Without your aid, I would not be here. Destine has told me much about you, Cornelius.'
'I wish I could say the same,' Quaint said. 'I'm glad the Professor took good care of you. So where is she anyway? Don't tell me the Scarabs put a sack on her head.'
Ahman pulled at his bearded chin. 'Hmm. I have not seen her today. I have been very tired, you see, and have hardly spent more than a few hours awake at a time. I do not blame her for occupying herself in more stimulating company! Perhaps you should check with one of the Scarabs located herein, ah?'
'I would, but the place is deserted,' said Quaint. 'They've all left.'
'Without saying goodbye? Just like a Scarab. No manners!'
Destine rubbed at Ahman's bearded cheeks. 'I am glad to see your smile once again, mon cher. There was a time when I thought that I would never see it again.'
'Maybe I'll give you two some time to catch up,' Quaint said, with a wink to Destine. 'I need to check this place out more thoroughly. Polly's got to be around here somewhere.' The conjuror started towards the door, when something caught his attention on the floor.
It was a solitary envelope.
Something willed him to pick it up. He turned the letter over and his eyes darted left and right across the address on the front.
'Here, Madame…you must have dropped this,' he said.
Destine snatched the letter from his hands, recognising her handwriting immediately.
'Madame Destine Renard – Letter 3 of 3."
Quaint looked over at her. 'You look surprised to see it, Destine.'
'Indeed I am, my sweet,' the Frenchwoman muttered. 'Where did it come from?'
'It was just down here on the floor,' said Quaint perplexed. 'It's addressed to you, right? So…did you not drop it?'
'Non,' Destine said simply, sensing a fiery tingle at the back of her mind.
'So what's it doing here?' Quaint asked.
When he received no reply, he looked first at Destine and then at Ahman.
'I will explain later, my sweet…but if this letter runs true to the form of the others then I must read it at once!' Destine snapped, as she opened the envelope hastily and snatched out the letter inside.
Her heart pounded as she read aloud:
'Dear Destine,
If you are reading this letter, then you have found the third of my markers, and now your task is almost complete. Aloysius sacrificed his life so that the Pharaoh's Cradle would never be unearthed. His journal contains the only record of its location, and so if you are to prevent the unthinkable, the book must be destroyed.
We cannot allow this secret to be discovered.
The past and the present shall entwine once more. Beware the dawn of the Eleventh Plague.
May God bless you.
All my love,
Destine.'