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.