Curse of the Pharaoh: A Brock Stone Adventure

Brimble gaped at him, utterly bemused. “You are a fascinating specimen. Why don’t you come with me down to the gaming hall on the second deck?”

“Well, spank my behind and call me Sally!” Stone exclaimed. “How about you, Rose? Want to join us?”

“Thank you, but I don’t have my father’s money to lose. I’m going to say hello to a few more friends. Take good care of him, Brimby.”

Brimble gave a mocking bow. “Worry not, my dear. I will see to it he has the time of his life.”

15 The Gambling Hall

Stone and Brimble descended to the middle deck. It was crowded with gamblers. Cigar smoke and loud conversation filled the air. They passed a table where men cheered and waved cash around while scarab beetles raced in a specially designed box. At another table with high glass sides, men wagered on a pending scorpion battle. Each combatant was currently contained inside a small glass box on either side of the table. The yellow scorpion scurried about, looking for an escape. His counterpart, black with a fat tail, sat so still it might have been dead.

“The yellow scorpion is called a Deathstalker,” Brimble said. “It is one of the most aggressive and venomous scorpions in the world. Most countries have banned their importation.”

“How about the black one?” Stone asked.

“That is a Spitting Thicktail from Transvaal in South Africa. Its venom is nearly as deadly.”

“Can it literally spit venom?” Stone said.

“It can spray up to three feet. Hence the glass around the table. Trust me, you don’t want to be in the line of fire.” Brimble winced at the thought.

“Definitely not. I bought this tie in Paris, paid a pretty penny for it.” Stone swallowed hard. Get Paris out of your head.

Brimble laughed, gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Lord Rockwell, you are an absolute treasure. Would you care to have a flutter on the outcome?”

“I surely would.” Stone reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of Egyptian currency. He peeled off a bill with the image of Tutankhamun on the right side and a watermark of the Great Sphinx of Giza on the left. “A pound on Black Betty!” he proclaimed. It was a respectable bet — roughly half what a working man back home would earn in a week. Assuming, of course, he could manage to find a job during a worldwide depression.

“I shall do the same,” Brimble said.

An obsequious man in a red jacket accepted their money, made a note of their orders, and gave a hasty bow to each. While they waited for the match to begin, a young woman in an indecently short silk dress offered them glasses of wine. She had fair skin, thick, wavy black hair, high cheekbones, and deep-set gray eyes. Clearly one of the many Eastern European women who had fled the economic collapse and political repression of their homelands and found their way to Cairo. Stone swirled the glass and was about to raise it to his nose for a whiff of the bouquet, but just in time, he remembered the role he was playing.

“What I wouldn’t give for some good Texas whiskey.”

“Not Scotch Whisky?” Brimble asked.

“No bueno.” Stone shuddered. It wasn’t play-acting. He had never developed a taste for the stuff. “I reckon it’s better than Irish Whisky, though.”

“What do you expect?” Brimble said. “It’s the Irish.”

Stone’s family tree had its share of Irish roots, but he pretended to share the English noble’s prejudice. He laughed and clapped Brimble on the back a little harder than necessary. The baron grunted and sloshed his wine onto the floor.

“I am so sorry,” Stone said. “My daddy always said I had more strength than sense.”

“Your father sounds like a wise man,” Brimble said. He signaled to the serving girl and she brought him a fresh drink. “But no harm done.” He raised his glass. “To victory.”

“And God bless Texas.” Stone drained his glass. The liquor burned on the way down, warmed his insides. “What time is high noon?”

“I’m not certain I understand the question, but if you are asking when the fight begins…” He gave a nod toward the table, where two anxious-looking men in red coats prepared to release the combatants. The onlookers began a countdown.

“Five… four…” A man gave the table a hard shake, causing both scorpions to scurry around. “Three… two… one!” The servants raised the glass doors and the deadly little gladiators charged into their glass colosseum. The Deathstalker charged the Thicktail, who immediately spat venom at its enemy, but it appeared to have no effect.

“Thicktails have two sorts of venom,” Brimble explained. “The first spray is always a warning, and is not nearly as deadly as the second. Of course, venom spat or sprayed is ineffectual against the Deathstalker’s tough exoskeleton.”

“How do you know so much about scorpions?” Stone asked. “We got them by the bushel in Texas, but all I really know about them is they like to homestead in a man’s boots at night. If you don’t shake them out before you put them on, you’re in for a world of hurting.”