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,