"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."