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