Storm Season

EXERCISE IN PAIN by Robert Lynn Asprin

There must be trouble. Saliman had been gone far too long for his mission to be going smoothly. Some might have had difficulty judging the passage of time during the period of time between sundown and sunrise, but not Jubal. His early years as a gladiator in the Rankan capital had included many sleepless nights before arena days, or Blood Days as those in the trade called them; he knew the darkness intimately. Each phase of the night had its own shade, its own texture and he knew them all ... even with his eyes blurred with sweat and tears of pain as they were now.

Too long. Trouble.

The twin thoughts danced in his mind as he tried to focus his concentration, to formulate a contingency plan. If he was right; if he was now alone and wounded what could he do? He couldn't travel far pulling himself painfully along the ground with his hands. If he encountered one of those who hunted him, or even a random townsperson with an old grudge, he couldn't defend himself. To fight, a man needed legs, working legs. He knew that from the arena,

too. The oft-repeated words of his arena instructor sprang into his mind, crowding out all other thoughts.

"Move! Move, damn you! Retreat. Attack. Retreat. Circle. Move! If you don't move, you're dead. If I don't kill you myself, your next opponent will! Move! A still fighter's a dead fighter. Now move! move?"

A half-heard sound wrenched Jubal's fevered thoughts back to the present. His hand dropped to his dagger hilt as he strained to penetrate the darkness with his erratic vision.

Saliman?

Perhaps. But in his current state he couldn't take any chances. As his ally knew his exact location, the information could have been forced out of him by Jubal's enemies. Sitting propped against a tree with his legs stretched out before him, Jubal cast about looking for new cover. Not two paces away was a patch of knee high weeds. Not much, but enough.

The ex-gladiator allowed himself to fall sideways, catching himself on one hand and easing his body the rest of the way to the ground. Then it was reach, pull; reach, pull, slowly making his way towards and finally into the weed patch. Though he used his free hand to maintain his balance, once one of the broken arrowshafts protruding from his knees scraped along the ground, sending a sheet of red agony through his mind. Still, he kept his silence, though he could feel sweat running off his body.

Reach, pull. Reach.

Safely in the weeds now, he allowed himself to rest. His head sank completely to the ground. The dagger slid from its scabbard and he held it point down, hiding the shine of its blade with his forearm. Trembling from the efforts of his movement, he breathed through his nose to slow and silence his recovery. Inhale. Exhale. Wait.

Two figures appeared, patches of black against deeper black, bracketing the tree against which he had recently lain.

"Well?" came a voice, loud in the darkness. "Where is my patient? I can't treat a ghost."

"He was here, I swear it!"

Jubal smiled, relaxing his grip on the dagger. The second voice was easy to recognize. He had heard it daily for years now.

"You're still no warrior, Saliman," he called, propping himself up on one elbow. "I've said before, you wouldn't recognize an ambush unless you stumbled into it."

His voice was weak and strained to a point where he scarcely recognized it himself. Still, the two figures started violently at the sound rising from a point near their ankles. Jubal relished their frightened reaction for a moment, then his features hardened. "You're late," he accused.

"We would have been quicker," his aide explained hastily, "but the healer here insisted we pause while he dug up some plants."

"Some cures are strongest when they are fresh," Alten Stulwig announced loftily as he strode toward Jubal, "and from what I've been told-" He stopped suddenly, peering at the weeds around his patient. "Speaking of plants," he stammered,' 'are you aware that the particular foliage you're laying in exudes an irritating oil that will cause the skin to itch and bum?"

For some inexplicable reason the irony contained in this recitation of dangers struck Jubal as hilarious, and he laughed for the first time since the Stepsons had invaded his estate. "I think, healer," he said at last, "that at the moment I have greater problems to worry about than a skin-rash." Then exhaustion and shock overtook him and he fainted.

It wasn't the darkness of'night, but a deeper blackness-the blackness of the void, or of a punishment cell.

They came for him out of the black, unseen enemies with daggers like white-hot pokers, attacking his knees while he struggled vainly to defend himself. Once, no twice, he had screamed aloud and tried to pull his legs close against his chest, but a great weight held them down while the torturer did his work. Unable to move his hands or arms, Jubal wrenched his head about, drooling and gibbering incoherent, impotent threats. Finally his mind slipped onto another plane, a darker plane where there was no pain-no feeling at all.

Slowly the world came back into focus, so slowly that Jubal had to fight to distinguish dream from reality. He was in a room...no, in a hovel. There was a guttered candle struggling to give off light, crowded in turn by the sun streaming in through a doorway without a door.

He lay on the dirt floor, his clothes damp and clammy from his own sweat. His legs were wound from thigh to calf with bandages... lumpy bandages, as if his legs had no form save for what the rags gave them.

Alten Stulwig, Sanctuary's favored healer, squatted over him, keeping the sun's rays from his face. "You're awake. Good," the man grunted. "Maybe now I can finish my treatment and go home. You're only the second black I've worked on, you know. The other died. It's hard to judge skin tone in these cases."

"Saliman?" Jubal croaked.

"Outside relieving himself. You underestimate him, you know. Warrior or not, he kept me from following my better judgment. Threatened to carve out my stomach if I didn't wait until you regained consciousness."

"Saliman?" Jubal laughed weakly. "You've been bluffed, healer. He's never drawn blood. Not all those who work for me are cut-throats."

"I believed him," the healer retorted stiffly. "And I still do."

"As well you should," Saliman added from the doorway. In one hand he carried a corroded pan, its handle missing; he carried it carefully, as if it, or its contents, were fragile. In his other hand he held Jubal's dagger.

When he attempted to shift his body and greet his aide, Jubal realized for the first time that his arms were bound over his head-tied to something out of his line-of-vision. Kneeling beside him, Saliman used the dagger to free Jubal's hands, then offered him the pan, which proved to be half-full of water. It was murky, with twigs and grass floating in it-but it did much for removing the fever-taste from the slaver's mouth.

"I shouldn't expect you'd remember," Saliman continued, "but I've drawn blood at least four times-with two sure kills-all while getting you out of the estate."

"To save my life?"

"My life was involved too," Saliman shrugged. "The raiders were rather unselective about targets by then-"

"If I might finish my work?" Stulwig in-terupted testily. "It has been a long night-and you two will have much time to talk."

"Of course," Jubal agreed, waving Saliman away. "How soon before I can use my legs again?"

The question hung too long in the air, and Jubal knew the answer before the healer found his voice.

"I've removed the arrows from your knees," Stulwig mumbled. "But the damage was great... and the infection-"

"How long?" This time the slaver was not asking; he demanded.

"Never."

Jubal's hand moved smoothly, swiftly past his hip, then hesitated as he realized it was not holding the dagger. Only then did his conscious mind understand that Saliman had his weapons. He sought to catch his aide's eye, to signal him, before he realized that his ally was deliberately avoiding his gaze.

"I have applied a poultice to slow the spread of the infection," Alten went on, unaware that he might have been dead, "as well as applied the juice of certain plants to deaden your pain. But we must proceed with treatment without delay."

"Treatment?" the slaver glared, the edge momentarily gone from his temper. "But you said I wouldn't be able to use my legs-"

"You speak of your legs," the healer sighed. "I'm trying to save your life though I've heard there are those who would pay well to see it ended."

Jubal heard the words and accepted them without the rush of fear other men might feel. Death was an old acquaintance of all gladiators. "Well, what is this treatment you speak of?" he asked levelly.

"Fire," Stulwig stated without hesitation. "We must burn the infection out before it spreads further."

"No."

"But the wounds must be treated!" the healer insisted.

"You call that a treatment?" Jubal challenged. "I've seen burned legs before. The muscle's replaced by scar tissue; they aren't legs-they're things to be hidden."

"Your legs are finished," Stulwig shouted. "Stop speaking of them as if they were worth something. The only question worth asking is: do you wish to live or die?"

Jubal let his head sink back until his was staring at the hovel's ceiling. "Yes, healer," he murmured softly, "that is the question. I'll need time to consider the answer."

"But-"

"If I were to answer right now," the slaver continued harshly, "I'd say I'd prefer death to the life your treatment condemns me to. But that's the answer a healthy Jubal would give-now, when death is real, the true answer requires more thought. I'll contact you with my decision."

"Very well," Alten snarled, rising to his feet. "But don't take too long making up your mind. Your black skin makes it difficult to judge the infection-but I'd guess you don't have much time left to make your choice."

"How much?" Saliman asked.

"A day or two. After that we'd have to take the legs off completely to save his life-but by then it might only be a choice of deaths."

"Very well," Jubal agreed.

"But in case I'm wrong," Stulwig said sud-'denly, "I'd like my payment now."

The slaver's head came up with a jerk, but his aide had fore-reached him. "Here," Saliman said, tossing the healer a small pouch of coins, "for your services and your silence."

Alten hefted the purse with raised eyebrows, nodded and started for the doorway.

"Healer!" Jubal called from the floor, halting the man in mid-stride. "Currently only the three of us know my whereabouts. If any come hunting us and fail to finish the job, one, or both, of us will see you suffer hard before you die."

Alten hesitated then moistened his lips. "And if someone finds you accidentally?"

"Then we'll kill you-accidentally," Saliman concluded.

The healer looked from one set of cold eyes to the other, jerked his head in a half-nod of agreement and finally left. For a long time after his departure silence reigned in the hovel.

"Where did you get the money?" Jubal asked when such thoughts were far from his aide's mind.

"What?"

"The money you gave Stulwig," Jubal clarified. "Don't tell me you had the presence of mind to gather our house-funds from their hiding places in the middle of the raid?"

"Better than that," Saliman said proudly, "I took the records of our holdings."

From the early beginnings of Jubal's rise to power in Sanctuary, he had followed Saliman's advice-particularly when it concerned the safety of his wealth. Relatively little of his worth was kept at the estate but was instead spread secretly through the town as both investments and caches. In a town like Sanctuary there were many who would gladly supplement their income by holding a package of unknown content for an equally unknown patron.

Jubal forced himself up into a sitting position. "That raises a question I've been meaning to ask since the raid: why did you save me? You placed yourself in physical danger, even killed to get me out alive. Now, it seems, you've got the records of my holdings, most of which you've managed. You could be a wealthy man-if I were dead. Why risk it all in an attempt to pluck a wounded man from the midst of his enemies?"

Saliman got up and wandered to the doorway. He leaned against the rough wood frame and stared at the sky before he answered. "When we met-when you hired me you saved me from the slave block by letting me buy my freedom with my promises. You wouldn't have me as a slave, you said, because slaves were untrustworthy. You wanted me as a freeman, earning a decent living for services rendered-and with the choice to leave if I felt my fortunes might be better somewhere else."

He turned to face Jubal directly. "I pledged that I would serve you with all my talents and that if I ever should leave I would face you first with my reasons for leaving. I said that until then you need never doubt my intentions or loyalties...

"You laughed at the time, but I was serious. I promised my mind and life to the person who allowed me to regain my freedom on his trust alone. At the time of the raid I had not spoken to you about resigning, and while I usually content myself with protecting your interests and leave the protecting of your life to yourself and others, I would have been remiss to my oath if I had not at least tried to rescue you. And, as it turned out, I was able to rescue you."

The slaver studied his aide's face. The limbs were softer and the belly fuller than the angry slave's who had once struggled wildly with the guards while shouting his promises-but the face was as gaunt as it ever had been and the eyes were still bright with intelligence.

"And why was that resignation never offered, Saliman?" Jubal asked softly. "I know you had other offers. I often waited for you to ask me for more money-but you never did. Why?"

"I was happy where I was. Working for you gave me an unusual blend of security and excitement with little personal risk-at least until quite recently. Once, I used to daydream about being an adventurer or a fearless leader of men. Then, I met you and learned what it took to lead that sort of life; I lack the balance of caution and recklessness, the sheer personal charisma necessary for leadership. I know that now and am content to do what I do best: risking someone else's money or giving advice to the person who actually has to make the life and-death decisions."

A cloud passed over Saliman's expression. "That doesn't mean, however, that I don't share many of your emotions. I helped you build your web of power in Sanctuary; helped you select and hire the hawkmasks who were so casually butchered in the raid. I, too, want revenge- though I know I'm not the one to engineer it. You are, and I'm willing to risk everything to keep you alive until that vengeance is complete."

"Alive like this?" Jubal challenged. "How much charisma does a cripple have? Enough to rally a vengeful army?"

Saliman averted his eyes. "If you cannot regain your power," he admitted, "I'll find another to follow. But first I'll stay with you until you've reached your decision. If there's anyone who can inspire a force it's you-even crippled."

"Then your advice is to let Stulwig do his work?"

"There seems to be no option-unless you'd rather death."

"There is one," Jubal grinned humorlessly, "though it's one I am loathe to take. I want you to seek out Balustrus, the metal-master. Tell him of our situation and ask... no, beg him to give us shelter."

"Balustrus?" Saliman repeated the name as if it tasted bad. "I don't trust him. There're those who say he's mad."

"He's served us well in the past-whatever else he's done," the slaver pointed out. "And, more important-he's familiar with the sorcer-ous element in town."

"Sorcery?" Saliman was genuinely astounded.

"Aye," Jubal nodded grimly. "As I said, I have little taste for the option, but it's still an option nonetheless . . . and perhaps better than death or maiming."

"Perhaps," the aide said with a grimace. "Very well, I'm off to follow your instructions."

"Saliman," the slaver called him back. "Another instruction: when you speak to Balus-trus don't reveal our hiding place. Tell him I'm somewhere else-in the charnel houses. I trust him no more than you do."

Jubal bolted awake out of his half-slumber, his dagger once again at the ready. That sound- nearby and drawing closer. Pulling himself along the floor toward the doorway the slaver wondered, for the first time, just whose hovel Saliman had hid him in. He had assumed it was abandoned-but perhaps the rightful owner was returning. With great care he poked his head out the bottom corner of the doorway and beheld-

Goats.

A sizable herd meandered toward the hut, but though they caught the ex gladiator's attention, they did not hold it. Two men walked side-by-side behind the animals. One was easily recognized as Saliman. The other's head came barely to Saliman's shoulder and he walked with a rolling, bouncy gait.

Jubal's eyes narrowed with suspicion and puzzlement. Whatever Saliman's reason for revealing their hideaway to a goat-herd it had better be a good one. The slaver's mood had not been improved by the time the men reached the doorway. If anything it had darkened as two goats strayed ahead of the rest of the herd and made his unwilling acquaintance.

"Jubal," Saliman declared, hardly noticing the goats that had already entered the hovel. "I want you to meet-"

"A goat-herd?" the slave spat out. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Not a goat-herd," the aide stammered, surprised by Jubal's erupting anger. "He's a Lizerene."

"I don't care where he was born-get him and his goats out of here!"

Another goat entered as they argued and stood at Jubal's feet, staring down on him with blandly curious eyes while the rest of the herd explored the corners.

"Allow me to explain, my lord," the little man said quickly and nervously. "It's not where I'm from but what I am: the Order of Lizerene ... a humble order devoted to the study of healing through sorcery."

"He can mend your legs," Saliman blurted out. "Completely. You'll be able to walk-or run-if you wish."

Now it was Jubal's turn to blink in astonishment, as he absently shoved one of the goats aside. "You? You're a wizard? You don't look like any of the magicians I've seen in town."

"It's a humble order," the man replied, fussing with his threadbare robe, "and, then again, living with the goats does not encourage the finery my town-dwelling colleagues are so proud of."

"Then, these are your goats?" Jubal shot a dark look at Saliman.

"I use them in my magics," the Lizerene explained, "and they provide me with sustenance. As I said: it-"

"I know," Jubal repeated, "it's a humble order. Just answer one question: is Saliman right? Can you heal my legs?"

"Well-I can't say for sure until I've examined the wounds, but I've been successful in many cases."

"Enough. Begin your examination. And, Saliman-get these damn goats out of the hut!"

By the time Saliman had gotten the animals into the yard the Lizerene had the bandages off and was probing Jubal's legs. It was the first time the slaver had seen the wounds and his stomach rebelled at the sight of the damage.

"Not good... not good at all," the magician mumbled. "Far worse than I was told. See here-the infection's almost halfway up the thigh."

"Can you heal them?" Jubal demanded, still not looking at the wounds.

"It will be costly," the Lizerene told him, "and with no guarantee of complete success."

"I knew that before I sent for you," the slaver snarled. "Your profession always charges high and never guarantees their work. No sellsword would stay alive if he demanded a sorcerer's terms."

The wizard looked up from his examination. His expression had gone hard. "I wasn't speaking of my fee," he corrected his patient, "but of the strain to your body and mind. What is more it is your strength, and not mine which will determine the extent of your recovery. Strength of muscle and of spirit. If I and others have fallen short in our healings it is because most arrogant warriors have greater egos than skills and are also lacking-" he caught himself and turned again to the wounds. "Forgive me, my lord, sometimes being of a 'humble order' is wearing on the nerves."

"Don't apologize, man," Jubal laughed. "For the first time I begin to have some faith in your ability to do what you promise. What is your name?"

"Vertan, my lord."

"And I am Jubal-not 'my lord,' " the slave told him. "Very well, Vertan. If strength is what's needed then between the two of us we should be able to renew my legs."

"How much strain to the mind and body?" Saliman asked from the doorway.

Jubal glared at his aide, annoyed by the interruption, but Vertan had already turned to face , Saliman and did not see.

"A fine question," the Lizerene agreed. "To grasp the answer you must first understand the process." He was in his own element now, and his nervousness melted away. "There will be two parts to the healing. The first is relatively simple, but it will take some time. It involves drawing out the infection, the poisons, from the wounds. The true test lies in the second phase of the healing. There is damage here, extensive damage-and to the bones themselves. To mend bone takes time, more time that I'd venture, m'lord Jubal wishes to invest. I would therefore accelerate the body processes, thereby shortening the time required. While in this state you will consume and pass food at an incredible rate-for the body needs fuel for the healing. What would normally require days will transpire in hours; the processes of months compacted into weeks."

"Have you ever used this technique before?" Saliman asked.

"Oh, yes," Vertan assured him. "m fact, you know one of my patients. It was I who healed Balustrus. Of course, that was back in the capital before he changed his name."

"Balustrus," Jubal scowled, an image of the crippled metal-master flashing in his mind.

"I know what you're thinking," the Lizerene injected hastily, "but I have done much to perfect my skills since then. I was surprised, though, that he recommended me. At the time he was not at all pleased with the results of my work."

"I see," the slaver murmured. He shot a look at Saliman who nodded slightly, acknowledging that the metal-master would have to be investigated more closely. "But, if I follow your program twill be able to use my legs-normally?"

"Oh yes," Vertan assured him confidently. "The key factor is exercise. Balustrus remained abed throughout the process, so his joints fused together. If you have the strength and will to work your legs constantly you should regain full mobility."

"Do that for me and I'll pay you double your fee, however large, without question or complaint. When can you begin?"

"As soon as your man there takes his leave of our company," the sorcerer said.

"What?" Saliman exclaimed, rising to his feet. "You said nothing about-"

"I'm saying it now," Vertan cut him short. "Our methods are generally known, but our techniques are guarded. If one undisciplined in our order were to learn them and then attempt to duplicate our efforts without complete understanding of the signs and dangers, the results would be not only disastrous but demeaning to our humble order. No-one but the patient may witness what I propose to do. The laws of our order are most strict about this."

"Let it pass, Saliman," Jubal ordered. "I had other plans for you. I get no pleasure or support from having others see me in this weakened condition-even you. If I am to rebuild my force I will need two things: my normal physical health, intact; and current information of happenings in Sanctuary. The healing is my task; one you cannot help me with. But, for the information I must rely on you, as I have so many times in the past." He turned to the Lizerene. "How long will your healing take?"

The healer shrugged. "The time is not exact. Perhaps two months."

Jubal spoke again to Saliman. "Return to town and don't come back for three months. You have access to most of our hidden funds; use them and live well. Anyone hunting hawkmasks will not think to look among the wealthy.

"That hunting should serve as a weeding to test the fitness of our remaining swords. Learn their whereabouts and watch them-but let none know I'm still alive. After three months we'll meet and decide who is to be included in the new organization."

"If you are as wealthy as your words," Vertan interjected cautiously, "might I make an additional suggestion?" Jubal cocked an eyebrow, but indicated the wizard should continue. "There are several wizards in Sanctuary who have the power to ferret out your location. If I were to provide a list of their names and estimates of their bribe-price, you could insure your safety during the healing process by paying them not to find you."

Saliman snorted. "That way they'll take our money and still sell their services to the first hunter that asks. How trustworthy do you really think your colleagues are, healer?"

"No more or less trustworthy than a sell-sword," the Lizerene countered. "Every person has weaknesses, though some are weaker than others. While a few might be unscrupulous enough to accept double-service at least you can eliminate the danger from the honest practitioners."

"See that it's done," Jubal instructed Saliman. "There're two other things I'll want when you return. Find Hakiem and let him accompany you to witness my recovery-"

"The storyteller? Why?"

"He has amused us with his tales in the past," Jubal smiled, "as well as providing occasional bits of timely information. Sharing this story with him will guarantee that all will hear of my return to power."

Saliman frowned but did not protest further. "What else?"

"A sword," Jubal stated, his eyes suddenly fierce. "The finest sword you can find. Not the prettiest, mind you: the best steel with the keenest edge. There will some who will be less than happy at the news of my recovery and I want to be prepared to deal with them."

"That's enough for today," Vertan announced shakily, removing his hands from Jubal's knees.

Like a drowning man encountering a log, the healer grabbed the goat tethered nearby and clung to it while the animal bleated and struggled to free itself. The slaver averted his eyes, nauseated by the now-familiar ritual.

The first day he had watched intently and what he had seen was now branded into his memory. Though he had always loathed magic and its practitioners he now admitted a grudging admiration of the little wizard who labored over him. He would rather face a hundred swords than subject himself to what the Lizerene endured voluntarily.

Vertan drew the poison from Jubal's legs as promised, but what the ex-gladiator had not realized was that the wizard drew it into his own body. He had seen Vertan's hands after the first session: swollen and misshapen; dripping pus from deep-cracked skin-caricatures of hands in the flickering candlelight. The poison was then transferred to one of the goats whose body would then undertake to heal the invading infection. Over a dozen of the herd now had swellings or sores from taking part in the treatments. Jubal was astounded, frightened by the volume of poison in his ravaged legs. While several animals now coped with his infection, thereby lessening its power, it had all passed through Vertan. Rather than being annoyed with the little wizard's frequent recuperative rests, Jubal was amazed at the Lizerene's tenacity.

"A few... more days... will complete this phase of the treatment," Vertan said weakly, releasing the goat. "Then the real trial begins."

Jubal gagged at the smell wafting from Vertan's kettle. He had known odors before which others found revolting: the rotting smell of blood and entrails which the wind carried from the chamel house to his estate; the stink of unwashed bodies, alive or dead; the clinging aroma of the excretions of penned animals; the acrid bite of the stench of the swamp at low tide. All these he had suffered without comment or complaint, but this . . . Whatever bubbled in Ver tan's pot was an abomination. No such odor had ever been generated by nature or civilization-of that Jubal was certain.

"Drink," Vertan ordered, thrusting a ladle into the slaver's hands. "Two swallows, no more."

The contents of the ladle were still bubbling; they had the appearance and texture of vomit- but Jubal drank. The first swallow was surprisingly cool on his tongue but the second had the warmth and pulse of something alive. Jubal took it down with the same detached resolve he had used to kill his first helpless, crippled opponent and handed the ladle back to the wizard.

With a satisfied nod, the Lizerene tossed the utensil back into the kettle, then extended his hands, palms down, until they were each a few inches above Jubal's knees. "Brace yourself, swordsman," he ordered. "You're about to begin learning about pain."

Something moved under the skin of the slaver's right knee, sending a quick stab of agony along his leg. Another piece moved, grating against the first. Then the movement began in his left knee. Despite his resolve an animal howl of pain escaped Jubal's lips, a wordless note that rose and sank as the pieces of his shattered kneecaps shifted and realigned themselves. The world had faded from knowledge when Vertan's voice came to him through the red mists.

"Now move your legs. Move them? You must flex your knees."

With a giant effort Jubal bent his right knee, sliding his foot along the dirt floor. The pain was beyond sound now, though his mouth strained with silent screams.

"More. You must bend it completely. More, swordsman! Do you want to be a cripple? More? The other knee-more! Move it!"

Spittle ran down from the corner of the slaver's mouth; he soiled himself from the agony but he kept moving, bending first one knee then the other. Right knee straighten. Left knee- straighten. Right knee...

He was disoriented in time and space. His entire world had been reduced to the effort of repeating the simple exercise.

"Where's that will you bragged about," the torturer taunted. "More! Bend those knees completely. Move!"

* * *

He was growing used to the taste of Vertan's vile potion. It still disgusted him, but the repeated doses had made the nausea familiar and therefore acceptable.

"Today you stand," the wizard announced without fanfare. '

Jubal hesitated, a piece of roast goat-meat halfway to his lips. As promised he was now eating five meals for every one the Lizerene ate. "Am I ready?"

"No," Vertan admitted. "But there's more involved here than your knees.. Your muscles, "especially -yow-leg muscles, must be worked if you are to keep any strength in them. Waving your feet in the air isn't enough for your legs; they must bear weight again-and the sooner the better."

"Very well," the slaver agreed, finishing the last of the meat and wiping his hands on his sleeves. "Let's do it now-before I've got to relieve myself again." That function, too, had increased five-fold.

Seizing the wall with one hand, Jubal drew his feet under him then pushed with his legs. Standing up had once seemed so simple; nothing he ever thought about. Now sweat popped out on his brow and his vision blurred. He kept pushing; by now agony was as familiar as the Lizerene's face. Slowly, his hands scrabbling against the walls, he rose until his weight was on his feet.

"There," he stated through clenched teeth, wishing he could stop the waving motion of the floor and walls around him. "As you said, nothing is impossible if the will is strong enough."

"Good," Vertan said with a malicious laugh, "then you won't mind walking back and forth a bit."

"Walking?" Jubal clutched at the wall, a wave of dizziness washed over him. "You said nothing about walking!"

"Of course," the wizard shrugged. "If I had, would you have attempted to stand? Now, walk-or don't you remember how?"

The thunderstorm raged, giving added texture to the night. Jubal practiced alone without Ver-tan's supervision. This was not unusual now that his mobility was returning. He slept and woke according to the demands of his healing body and was often left to exercise by himself.

The rain had driven the goats away from the hut; they sought and usually found better shelter, so even his normal audience was absent. Still, the slaver practiced, heedless of the sucking mud at his feet. He held a stout branch in one hand-a branch the length of a sword.

Block, cut, block behind. Turn and duck. Cut at the legs. Move. Move. Move! Over and over he practiced a death-dance he had learned as a gladiator. The pain was a distant ache now, an ache he could ignore. He had something else on his mind now.

Turn, cut. Move. Block, turn, block, cut! Finally he stopped, the raindrops collecting in the wrinkles of his forehead.

Slow-all of it. Slow.

To the untrained eye his swordwork might seem smooth and expert, but he knew he had a mere fraction of his old speed. He made to test his suspicions; he stooped and picked up two clods of dirt with his left hand and tossed them into the air. He swung at them with his improvised weapon. One clod splattered as the limb connected with it but the other splashed into the mud with a sound Jubal heard as a death knell.

One! There had been a time when he could hit three. The healing was going far too slowly, taking too much of his strength. At times he felt his reflexes were getting worse instead of improving. There was only one solution.

Moving quietly he crept back into the hut, listening carefully to the unchanging rhythm of the wizard's soft snores. The kettle of vile potion was bubbling vigorously, as always. The slaver carefully dipped the ladle in and lifted it to his lips. For a week now he had been sneaking extra swallows, relying on the Lizerene's growing fatigue to blind that normally watchful eye. Still, a few swallows had not made a difference.

Ignoring the smell and taste, Jubal drained the ladle, hesitated, then refilled it. He drained it a second time then he crept back into the rain to continue his practice.

"Jubal, are you there?"

The slaver rose from his pallet at the sound of his aide's voice. His counting had been correct. It was three months since Vertan's arrival.

"Don't come in," he cautioned, "I'll be out in a moment."

"Is something wrong?" his aide asked in a worried voice. "Where's Vertan?"

"I sent him away," the slaver responded, leaning heavily against the wall of the hut. He had been anticipating this moment, but now that it was here he found himself filled with dread. "Is the storyteller with you?"

"I'm here," Hakiem said for himself. "Though just the news that you are indeed alive is story enough for a dozen tellings."

"There's more," Jubal laughed bitterly, "believe me-there's more. You won't regret your trip."

"What is it?" Saliman insisted, alerted by the odd tone of the slaver's voice. "Wasn't the cure successful?"

"Oh, I can walk well enough," Jubal grimaced. "See for yourselves." With that he stepped through the doorway and into the sunlight.

Saliman and Hakiem each gasped at the sight of him; open astonishment was written large on their faces. If the slaver had any doubts of his recent decision, the confirmation was now before him. He forced himself to smile.

"Here's the finale for your tale, Hakiem," he said. "Jubal will be leaving these parts now. Where so many others have failed, I myself have succeeded in out witting Jubal."

"What happened?" Saliman stammered.

"What the Lizerene said would happen-if we'd had the wit to listen to him closely. He healed my legs by speeding my body's processes. Unfortunately he had to speed them all-not just those in my legs."

Jubal was old. His hair was white and his skin had the brittle, fragile texture of parchment once wet then left to dry in the sun. Though his muscle tone was good there was none of a young man's confidence in his stride or stance-only the careful, studied movements of one who knows his natural days are nearing an end.

"It's as much my fault as his," the ex-gladiator admitted. "I was sneaking extra doses of his potion, thinking it would speed the healing. By the time he realized what was happening the damage had been done. Besides, he filled his part of the bargain. I can walk, even run-just as he claimed. But as a leader of men, I'm finished. A common merchant with a cane could beat me in a fight-much less the swordsmen we had planned to challenge." A silence fell over the group, one which Jubal felt with ever-increasing discomfort. "Well, Hakiem," he said with forced cheerfulness, "you have your story. Tell it well and you'll have wine money for a year."

The old talespinner sank slowly into his favored squat and scratched absently. "Forgive me-I had been expecting a better ending."

"So had I," Jubal snarled, his carefully rehearsed poise slipping before Hakiem's insolence. "But I was given little choice in the final outcome. Am I not right, Saliman? Look me in the eye and tell me that at this moment you are not pondering where you may go now in search of someone who can give you your revenge? Or are you going to lie and say you think I still have a fighting chance against Tempus?"

"Actually, that was one of the things I meant to speak to you about," Saliman admitted, looking away. "I've done much thinking in the time since we parted and my current feeling is that under no circumstances should we pursue Tempus at all."

"What-but he..."

"He did nothing anyone else wouldn't have done had he the strength," Saliman said over Jubal's objections. "The fault was ours. We were far too open at the end, flaunting our wealth and power, strutting through the streets in our hawkmasks-an easy target for anyone with the courage and skill to oppose us. Well, someone did. If you issue enough challenges someone, sooner or later, is going to call you. Gladiators know the penalty of pride-of displaying strength when it isn't necessary. A wise opponent will listen quietly and use knowledge against his enemy. Tempus has done what we should have done."

Jubal listened with growing astonishment. "Then you're saying we just let him go unmolested?"

"Our goal has always been power, not vengeance," Saliman insisted. "If we could ever seize power without confrontation, that's the route we'd take. Is confronting Tempus the only way to regain control over Sanctuary? If not- then we should avoid it."

"You keep saying 'we.' Look at me. What good is a leader who can't fight his own battles?"

"Like Prince Kitty-cat? Like Molin Torch-holder?" Saliman asked with a dry chuckle. "Or the Emperor himself?"

"How often have you used your sword in the last two years?" Hakiem interrupted. "I may have missed some accounts, but as near as I can figure it's only once-and you could have avoided that fight."

"I used it the day of the raid-" Jubal replied, unimpressed.

"-And it didn't help you then-when you were at the peak of health and skill," his aide picked up the thread of the argument. "There're ways to fight other than with a sword. You've been doing it for years but your gladiator's brain won't let you admit it."

"But I can't fight alone," the slave insisted, his greatest fear finding voice at last. "Who would join with an old man?"

"I would," Saliman assured him, "if that old man were you. You have your wealth, you know the town and you have a mind that can use power like your hands used a sword. You could run the town. I'm sure enough of it to stake my future on it."

Jubal pondered a moment. Perhaps he was being hasty. Perhaps there were others like Saliman. "Exactly how would we build a secret organization? How could we be unseen, unknown and still be effective?" he asked carefully.

"In many ways it would be easier than working openly as we have in the past," Saliman laughed. "As I see it-"

"Excuse me," Hakiem got to his feet, "but I fear you are getting into matter not safe for a tale-spinner to hear. Some other time I will listen to your story-if you're willing to tell it to me, still."

Jubal waved farewell to the storyteller, but his mind was already elsewhere carefully weighing and analyzing the possibilities Saliman had set forth. He just might be able to do it. Sanctuary was a town that thrived on greed and fear, and he was well-versed in the usage of both.

Yes. Barring any major changes in the town, he could do it. Pacing thoughtfully, he called for Saliman to brief him on everything that had happened in Sanctuary since the raid.