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