The Discarded Debris
QUAINT, NORTH AND Faroud travelled the road leading east away from Umkaza. Their plan to infiltrate the British Embassy and question Godfrey Joyce firsthand was certainly one fraught with risk, but Quaint was blissfully optimistic of its success. But as is always the way with best laid plans, they seldom run their course without incident – especially plans laid by Cornelius Quaint.
A mile outside the limits of Umkaza, his keen eyes spotted something by the side of the road that made his heart lurch in his chest.
It was the motionless body of an old man.
He was caked in dust and grit, with a nasty wound on his arm that spewed a puddle of blood onto the sand. He was quite still, just another piece of discarded debris on the road. Quaint and Polly were off their horses in a second. Polly lifted the fallen man's head and cradled it in her lap, as Quaint pulled his canteen from the pannier on his horse and splashed water over the man's face. The liquid washed away a fine layer of grime from his spectacles, and cleared specks of dirt from his thick moustache and beard. The old man coughed and spluttered as the water shook him back into consciousness.
'Sir? Can you hear me?' asked Polly. 'What is your name?'
'Ahman…but where am I?' he spluttered.
'You're about a mile from Umkaza. Who did this to you?' asked Quaint in Arabic, spying the deep gash to Ahman's shoulder.
'Desert riders…two of them,' mumbled Ahman, his face twisted in pain. Tears welled in his large brown eyes as he tried to roll onto his side.
'Lie still, sir,' Polly said, as she looked at Quaint. 'Cornelius, this wound is fresh, but it's deep and he's lost a lot of blood.' She looked appealingly towards Faroud. 'Scarab, you know these territories better than us, is there anywhere we can take him for medical treatment?'
'I hardly think he has enough time left,' Faroud replied, gripping his horse's reins tightly, eager to be on his way. 'Leave him. He is no concern of ours.'
'But he was attacked, you animal! Did you not hear what he said?' Polly shouted.
Faroud reluctantly bowed his head. This woman was going to be the death of him.
'Very well,' he said. 'In my camp…there is a man named Bephotsi who can assist him. He has many medical supplies.'
'Then we've got to get back there immediately!' Polly said looking at Quaint.
'Not a chance,' said the conjuror. 'Cairo is this way…Bara Mephista is in totally the opposite direction.'
Polly motioned to the injured man. 'But we can't just leave him here.'
'I know, but…what can we do for him? You said it yourself, he's lost a lot of blood. Who says he'll even make it as far as Bara Mephista. Polly, this thing with Joyce is a much larger affair. The whole of Egypt is at stake. We can't just derail now, not when we're so close to getting somewhere. We just don't have the time.'
'Neither does he!' snapped Polly.
'I'm sorry, Polly. The answer is no.'
'Fine! Then I shall take him back myself!'
'Then I shall pray for you both,' interrupted Faroud coldly. 'Tell Bephotsi that I sent you. He will give you any assistance that you require. That is the only solace I can offer this man.'
Quaint looked down at Ahman, searching his round face. 'Sir, can you hear me? The Professor here is going to take you somewhere…somewhere you can get some help, do you understand me?'
'Where…where is she? Can you see her?' Ahman wheezed.
'She is right here, sir,' answered Quaint.
'No! Not her…' Ahman said. 'Not…her.'
'The heat has already begun to addle his mind.' Polly looked at Quaint and then down at Ahman. 'You are here alone, sir. We have to get you out of this sun. Just hold onto me and we'll be all right.' She nodded to Quaint. 'Cornelius, give me your scarf, I need to patch his shoulder or he won't make it a mile.' Quaint did as he was instructed, and Polly began binding the large gash in Ahman's shoulder. She was putting on a brave face, but not brave enough that the conjuror could not see right through it.
'Are you going to be all right?' he asked her.
'I'll be fine!' she snapped. 'You two are off on your little boys' adventure, and I'd hardly be any use to you in a fight anyway…because you are going to have a fight. You realise that, don't you? If Godfrey Joyce really is involved in this plot, then he could have all manner of tricks up his sleeve!'
'No doubt, Polly,' said Cornelius Quaint, 'but I've got a few of my own.'