Seahorse in the Sky

CHAPTER TEN

ABSU MES MARUR, lord of sept Marur, gonfalonier of the western keeps, charioteer of the red spice caravans, holder of the royal falchion and elected sire of the unknowns, lay unconscious for more than two days in one of the rooms of what it amused Mohan das Gupta to call the Erewhon Hilton. His wounds were grievous, but none by itself was fatal. If he had been a terrestrial, he would probably have died of trauma, infection and loss of blood. But, whatever else he was, Absu mes Marur was not a man of Earth; and, late in the afternoon of the third day, after the fever had worn off, he opened his eyes.

Marion Redman had stayed with him much of the time. She had cleaned his wounds, bathed his burning forehead and had generally endeavoured to make him as comfortable as possible. While this was going on, John Howard and Tore Norstedt had been despatched north, south, east and west in turn on short scouting trips to see if they could contact any of the stranger’s companions. But they found no one.

Grahame was unwilling to let them go more than three or four kilometres away for obvious reasons. If any of the knight’s friends—or enemies—showed up of their own accord and chose to be truculent, there could be some rather serious problems.

Grahame was present in the room when Absu mes Marur returned to consciousness.

“Do not move,” said Grahame evenly. “No one here wishes you any harm. You have been very near to death. When you have rested and recovered yourself. We will—if you wish—escort you home… That is, if we can discover where you live.”

The man on the bed rolled his eyes and shuddered. He felt for his armour, but Marion had cut the harness to get it off him two days before. He felt for his sword, but that also had been removed.

Grahame sensed the man’s unease at what he obviously considered to be his nakedness. With some wisdom, he took the sword from a cupboard where it had been kept and laid it on the bed so that the knight could rest his hand on the hilt. He was rewarded with a look of gratitude.

“Whether you be man, ghost, or demon,” said the knight quaintly, “I would hear the sound of your name, rank and titles. Here before you, shamed in his own eyes, as in yours, lies Absu mes Marur, lord of sept Marur.”

“How do you do,” said Grahame carefully. “I am called Russell Grahame.”

“Lord of your sept?”

“I do not understand.”

Absu mes Marur was still very weak, and he was rapidly tiring himself out. But he was clearly determined to find out as much about his circumstances as possible.

“This woman,” he said faintly, “she is your woman?”

“No, she is not.”

The knight sighed. “Then I shall not speak with you. Bring to me the lord of your sept.”

Marion got the message first. “He wants to know if you are our leader, Russell. Set the poor fellow’s mind at rest before he pushes his temperature into overdrive.”

“I am the chosen leader of my people,” said Grahame. “I hope you can understand. We do not have a sept, as you call it, but I am the chief man, if you like, among my friends and companions.”

Absu mes Marur smiled faintly. “You are the lord of your sept. Know that your metal will not be disgraced when I am able to lift my sword.”

“I will not willingly fight you,” said Grahame. “Now or ever.”

“It is your duty.”

“It is not my duty. My duty is to take you to your home when you are well enough to travel.”

Again the knight shuddered. Then he attempted to pull himself together. “I am gonfalonier of the western keeps, charioteer of the red spice caravans, holder of the royal falchion and elected sire of the unknowns,” he announced with some pride. “Whoso dares to disgrace me may, in the end, need many squadrons of lances to preserve him.”

“No one wishes to disgrace you,” said Grahame patiently. “I and my companions wish only to help you… We will fight if we must, but we wish to live in peace. We desire to be your friends. We desire also that you and your people should be our friends. Now rest, Absu mes Marur. No one will harm you.”

The knight was breathing heavily, and sweat beaded on his forehead. “What is your rank?”

“I have no rank.”

Absu mes Marur groaned.

“For Christ’s sake, Russell!” exclaimed Marion. “Tell him something. The poor bastard is off his trolley with anxiety.”

“My dear,” said Grahame, “wasn’t it Oscar Wilde who said: we are separated by the barrier of a common language? He appears to speak English—though we know he can’t and his lips make different word shapes—so he has probably had something done to his head, like us. The trouble is, although we can communicate, his concepts are completely alien—medieval alien, I imagine.”

“Your rank!” shouted Absu mes Marur desperately.

Russell shrugged. “Oh well, here goes.” He turned to the knight. “I am Russell Grahame, Member of Parliament,” he announced impressively. “Voice of the queen’s people, creator of the royal laws, holder of the 1939–45 star, and member of the Royal Automobile Club.”

Absu mes Marur nodded eagerly and uncomprehendingly. “Then you are in truth lord of your sept

?”

“So be it. I am lord of my sept… But we belong to different worlds, you and I. Try to understand that. I and my people come from a world that is beyond the stars and on the far side of the sun. We were brought here in a way which—”

Absu mes Marur opened his eyes wide, uttered a piercing cry and retreated once more to the merciful haven of unconsciousness.