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Authors: Darren Craske
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the ranks of the Hades Consortium for ever.
Except…
The face that stared back at him was that of a stranger.
Horrified, Nadir rushed to light the oil lamp on the bedside cabinet, which was quite a task considering how much his hands were shaking. Holding the lamp closer to the bed, he could not believe his eyes. The dead man was of a broad build, with a bushy grey beard lining his chin, branching into mutton-chopped sideburns, and very definitely not Cornelius Quaint.
‘This can’t be!’ Nadir gasped.
Just then, he was distracted by a woman’s scream in the cabin directly next door, as a familiar deeply toned voice apologised profusely. Nadir swore and dived to the door, listening intently.
‘This is E16, you lunatic! You want D16, one deck up!’ the woman screamed. ‘I’ll have you thrown overboard for this outrage!’
‘Dear madam,’ hiccuped Cornelius Quaint, ‘it is quite possible that my present orientation is a trifle out of order. ’
‘I’ll say! Now get out of here before I call the guard!’ the woman yelled, before slamming the door in Quaint’s face.
Heinrich Nadir smeared the blood from his hands across the bed sheets. Yet another body for the incinerator, he supposed. Once more Cornelius Quaint had evaded death, and Nadir had run out of chances. Killing him was obviously not as easy as he had first thought. Quaint was a wily foe, and not to mention blessed. Nadir’s options were decreasing, and a change in tactics was called for.
‘You have the gods on your side, Herr Quaint,’ he said. ‘But I wonder if your luck extends to your travelling companion? If I cannot kill you…perhaps I can make you seek out your death willingly.’
CHAPTER XII
The Awkward Silence
T HE REST OF the trip passed uneventfully.
If anything, Quaint was a little bored by the time the Silver Swan arrived in Egypt.
The amber-hued sun blazed low in the sky, caressing the flat rooftops of the buildings with elongated shadows. There was a tangible sense of excitement in the air. The gleaming sugar-white steamship was moored in the port, and the cacophony of dockside activity was in full swing. A succession of suitcases and cumbersome trunks were being carried from the cargo hold to the docks by a flurry of eager Egyptians. The infrequent visits from passenger ships always created a tingle of expectation among the dockland community. High-pitched whistles, wails and booming yells floated on the breeze as traders, workers, travellers and all those in between made their way around the port. It was rapidly approaching nine o’clock in the morning, and most of the Silver Swan ’s passengers were bustling about trying to grab the last remains of the breakfast service before it closed.
Bucking the trend, one passenger was decorum personified.
Cornelius Quaint grabbed the thin net curtain and peered out of the open porthole of his cabin at the chaos on the docks below.
‘Ah…there’s nowhere quite like Egypt,’ he said, taking a long sniff of the air.
He pulled on a dark grey pinstriped jacket over matching trousers, and ran a thumb down his braces before buttoning up a tan waistcoat. He rested a brown felt hat upon his nest of curls, and strode towards the door.
‘Room service,’ he called, knocking on Destine’s cabin.
‘I ordered a braised ox with a sour temperament and passing interest in bad manners,’ sang a French voice through the door. ‘I trust it is fresh?’
‘You’ve been spending too much time with the clowns,’ said Quaint. ‘Their poor excuse for humour is starting to rub off on you, Madame.’
Destine smiled to herself, as she snatched up a parasol and a wide-brimmed hat. The Frenchwoman was no lover of the sunshine and her pale, marble-like skin was painfully sensitive to the light. Today was no exception, and she placed a whitelace scarf around her neck to shield herself from Egypt’s harsh sun.
Pulling open her door, she looked Quaint up and down, giving him a satisfactory
Except…
The face that stared back at him was that of a stranger.
Horrified, Nadir rushed to light the oil lamp on the bedside cabinet, which was quite a task considering how much his hands were shaking. Holding the lamp closer to the bed, he could not believe his eyes. The dead man was of a broad build, with a bushy grey beard lining his chin, branching into mutton-chopped sideburns, and very definitely not Cornelius Quaint.
‘This can’t be!’ Nadir gasped.
Just then, he was distracted by a woman’s scream in the cabin directly next door, as a familiar deeply toned voice apologised profusely. Nadir swore and dived to the door, listening intently.
‘This is E16, you lunatic! You want D16, one deck up!’ the woman screamed. ‘I’ll have you thrown overboard for this outrage!’
‘Dear madam,’ hiccuped Cornelius Quaint, ‘it is quite possible that my present orientation is a trifle out of order. ’
‘I’ll say! Now get out of here before I call the guard!’ the woman yelled, before slamming the door in Quaint’s face.
Heinrich Nadir smeared the blood from his hands across the bed sheets. Yet another body for the incinerator, he supposed. Once more Cornelius Quaint had evaded death, and Nadir had run out of chances. Killing him was obviously not as easy as he had first thought. Quaint was a wily foe, and not to mention blessed. Nadir’s options were decreasing, and a change in tactics was called for.
‘You have the gods on your side, Herr Quaint,’ he said. ‘But I wonder if your luck extends to your travelling companion? If I cannot kill you…perhaps I can make you seek out your death willingly.’
CHAPTER XII
The Awkward Silence
T HE REST OF the trip passed uneventfully.
If anything, Quaint was a little bored by the time the Silver Swan arrived in Egypt.
The amber-hued sun blazed low in the sky, caressing the flat rooftops of the buildings with elongated shadows. There was a tangible sense of excitement in the air. The gleaming sugar-white steamship was moored in the port, and the cacophony of dockside activity was in full swing. A succession of suitcases and cumbersome trunks were being carried from the cargo hold to the docks by a flurry of eager Egyptians. The infrequent visits from passenger ships always created a tingle of expectation among the dockland community. High-pitched whistles, wails and booming yells floated on the breeze as traders, workers, travellers and all those in between made their way around the port. It was rapidly approaching nine o’clock in the morning, and most of the Silver Swan ’s passengers were bustling about trying to grab the last remains of the breakfast service before it closed.
Bucking the trend, one passenger was decorum personified.
Cornelius Quaint grabbed the thin net curtain and peered out of the open porthole of his cabin at the chaos on the docks below.
‘Ah…there’s nowhere quite like Egypt,’ he said, taking a long sniff of the air.
He pulled on a dark grey pinstriped jacket over matching trousers, and ran a thumb down his braces before buttoning up a tan waistcoat. He rested a brown felt hat upon his nest of curls, and strode towards the door.
‘Room service,’ he called, knocking on Destine’s cabin.
‘I ordered a braised ox with a sour temperament and passing interest in bad manners,’ sang a French voice through the door. ‘I trust it is fresh?’
‘You’ve been spending too much time with the clowns,’ said Quaint. ‘Their poor excuse for humour is starting to rub off on you, Madame.’
Destine smiled to herself, as she snatched up a parasol and a wide-brimmed hat. The Frenchwoman was no lover of the sunshine and her pale, marble-like skin was painfully sensitive to the light. Today was no exception, and she placed a whitelace scarf around her neck to shield herself from Egypt’s harsh sun.
Pulling open her door, she looked Quaint up and down, giving him a satisfactory
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