The Indigo King - James A. Owen [66]
“Interesting,” said Hugo. “What does it mean?”
“It was a gift from Sam,” Hank explained as they entered the tent. “He said it used to represent Triumph over Adversity, but now better represents Impossible Quests and Lost Causes.”
“I think I preferred not knowing that,” said Hugo.
Hank grinned. “You’re a Sox fan too, hey?”
In the relative privacy of Hank’s camp, they were able to talk more freely, so Hugo related everything that had happened since the walk at Magdalen, and also about the dinner, and the mysterious Grail book. And he asked a torrent of questions along the way.
“I don’t know that much about it myself,” Hank said in response to Hugo’s inquiry about the Imaginarium Geographica. “I know a little, thanks to Sam. But there’s a fellow here who might be helpful. All the maps in here are his, as a matter of fact.” He swept his arm across the interior of the tent.
Hugo had at first assumed that the stacks were fabric of some kind, or bundles of supplies for the tournament. But looking at them more closely, he could see that they were dozens of carefully drawn maps.
“I daresay he might be able to help, at that,” said Hugo. “Did he make these all himself?”
“I haven’t asked,” Hank replied. “Didn’t feel it was my business. But they are the first thing unpacked at every stop, and he handles them as if they’re gold. After what you’ve explained to me, I half wonder if they aren’t part of the reason I was sent here to watch him.”
“Is he a knight or a king?” asked Hugo.
“Both and neither,” Hank said, “but you know of him by reputation alone, if nothing else.”
“That is either a charitable description of me, Sir Henry,” a stolid, commanding voice said, “or a condemnation. And today I cannot say which I deserve more.” A gloved hand parted the opening of the tent, flooding it with light, and a man, shorter than Hank but stouter than Hugo, stepped inside.
“Hugo Dyson,” Hank said, rising and bowing deferentially to the new arrival, “I’d like you to meet Merlin, Lord of Albion.”
Merlin was dressed formally but practically. His breeches and tunic were elegantly made, but of leather, studded throughout with iron. Not clothes for court, but for combat. He wore a headband, and his hair draped to his shoulders, flowing over the top of a cape that was fastened at his shoulders.
It occurred to Hugo that Merlin’s eyes showed a flash of recognition when he entered, but on reflection, that was probably more of a reaction to Hugo’s strange clothes.
“So,” Merlin said. “You know who I am?”
“I know what I’ve read of you, ah, sir,” Hugo stammered. “You’re a very great man.”
Merlin didn’t react to the compliment, except to frown and raise an eyebrow.
“What I mean is that you are a legend,” Hugo said quickly. “Everyone knows you.”
“Really,” Merlin replied, still unsure what Hugo was complimenting him for. “Would you say I’m a myth, then?”
It was Hugo’s turn to look confused. “I might have yesterday,” he said, “but I hadn’t met you then.”
Merlin burst into laughter. “Well met, then, Hugo Dyson,” he said, handing a parcel to Hank. “You should find the rest of the day’s events very enlightening.”
With that, he turned and left the tent.
“Drat,” said Hugo. “I should have asked for his autograph.” He looked at the tent opening, then back at Hank. “Does he know about … ?” He pointed delicately.
“About me?” Hank exclaimed. “Where and when I’m really from? I doubt it. I made up a story when I first got here, which I’m pretty certain he saw right through. But I’ve been helpful to him, and loyal. So he doesn’t press the matter.”
“And you’re here at the behest of Sam Clemens?”
“His and that of his former apprentice, a Frenchman called Verne. Do you know him?”
Hugo shook his head. “Not personally.”
“Well,” Hank continued, “he’s the one who worked out a lot of the underlying principles