Storm Season

by Edited By Robert Asprin

  ****

  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 interupted 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 suddenly, “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.”

  Alten hefted the purse with raised eyebrows, nodded and started for the doorway.

  “Healer!” Jubal called from the floor, halting the man in mid-stride. “Currently only the three of us know my whereabouts. If any come hunting us and fail to finish the job, one, or both, of us will see you suffer hard before you die.”

  Alten hesitated then moistened his lips. “And if someone finds you accidentally?”

  “Then we’ll kill you—accidentally,” Saliman concluded.

  The healer looked from one set of cold eyes to the other, jerked his head in a half-nod of agreement and finally left. For a long time after his departure silence reigned in the hovel.

  “Where did you get the money?” Jubal asked when such thoughts were far from his aide’s mind.

  “What?”

  “The money you gave Stulwig,” Jubal clarified. “Don’t tell me you had the presence of mind to gather our house-funds from their hiding places in the middle of the raid?”

  “Better than that,” Saliman said proudly, “I took the records of our holdings.”

  From the early beginnings of Jubal’s rise to power in Sanctuary, he had followed Saliman’s advice—particularly when it concerned the safety of his wealth. Relatively little of his worth was kept at the estate but was instead spread secretly through the town as both investments and caches. In a town like Sanctuary there were many who would gladly supplement their income by holding a package of unknown content for an equally unknown patron.

  Jubal forced himself up into a sitting position. “That raises a question I’ve been meaning to ask since the raid: why did you save me? You placed yourself in physical danger, even killed to get me out alive. Now, it seems, you’ve got the records of my holdings, most of which you’ve managed. You could be a wealthy man—if I were dead. Why risk it all in an attempt to pluck a wounded man from the midst of his enemies?”

  Saliman got up and wandered to the doorway. He leaned against the rough wood frame and stared at the sky before he answered. “When we met—when you hired me you saved me from the slave block by letting me buy my freedom with my promises. You wouldn’t have me as a slave, you said, because slaves were untrustworthy. You wanted me as a freeman, earning a decent living for services rendered—and with the choice to leave if I felt my fortunes might be better somewhere else.”

  He turned to face Jubal directly. “I
pledged that I would serve you with all my talents and that if I ever should leave I would face you first with my reasons for leaving. I said that until then you need never doubt my intentions or loyalties…

  “You laughed at the time, but I was serious. I promised my mind and life to the person who allowed me to regain my freedom on his trust alone. At the time of the raid I had not spoken to you about resigning, and while I usually content myself with protecting your interests and leave the protecting of your life to yourself and others, I would have been remiss to my oath if I had not at least tried to rescue you. And, as it turned out, I was able to rescue you.”

  The slaver studied his aide’s face. The limbs were softer and the belly fuller than the angry slave’s who had once struggled wildly with the guards while shouting his promises—but the face was as gaunt as it ever had been and the eyes were still bright with intelligence.

  “And why was that resignation never offered, Saliman?” Jubal asked softly. “I know you had other offers. I often waited for you to ask me for more money—but you never did. Why?”

  “I was happy where I was. Working for you gave me an unusual blend of security and excitement with little personal risk—at least until quite recently. Once, I used to daydream about being an adventurer or a fearless leader of men. Then, I met you and learned what it took to lead that sort of life; I lack the balance of caution and recklessness, the sheer personal charisma necessary for leadership. I know that now and am content to do what I do best: risking someone else’s money or giving advice to the person who actually has to make the life-and-death decisions.”

  A cloud passed over Saliman’s expression. “That doesn’t mean, however, that I don’t share many of your emotions. I helped you build your web of power in Sanctuary; helped you select and hire the hawkmasks who were so casually butchered in the raid. I, too, want revenge—though I know I’m not the one to engineer it. You are, and I’m willing to risk everything to keep you alive until that vengeance is complete.”

  “Alive like this?” Jubal challenged. “How much charisma does a cripple have? Enough to rally a vengeful army?”

  Saliman averted his eyes. “If you cannot regain your power,” he admitted, “I’ll find another to follow. But first I’ll stay with you until you’ve reached your decision. If there’s anyone who can inspire a force it’s you—even crippled.”

  “Then your advice is to let Stulwig do his work?”

  “There seems to be no option—unless you’d rather death.”

  “There is one,” Jubal grinned humorlessly, “though it’s one I am loathe to take. I want you to seek out Balustrus, the metal-master. Tell him of our situation and ask… no, beg him to give us shelter.”

  “Balustrus?” Saliman repeated the name as if it tasted bad. “I don’t trust him. There’re those who say he’s mad.”

  “He’s served us well in the past—whatever else he’s done,” the slaver pointed out. “And, more important—he’s familiar with the sorcerous element in town.”

  “Sorcery?” Saliman was genuinely astounded.

  “Aye,” Jubal nodded grimly. “As I said, I have little taste for the option, but it’s still an option nonetheless … and perhaps better than death or maiming.”

  “Perhaps,” the aide said with a grimace. “Very well, I’m off to follow your instructions.”

  “Saliman,” the slaver called him back. “Another instruction: when you speak to Balustrus don’t reveal our hiding place. Tell him I’m somewhere else—in the charnel houses. I trust him no more than you do.”

  ****

  JUBAL BOLTED AWAKE out of his half-slumber, his dagger once again at the ready. That sound—nearby and drawing closer. Pulling himself along the floor toward the doorway the slaver wondered, for the first time, just whose hovel Saliman had hid him in. He had assumed it was abandoned—but perhaps the rightful owner was returning. With great care he poked his head out the bottom corner of the doorway and beheld—

  Goats.

  A sizable herd meandered toward the hut, but though they caught the ex-gladiator’s attention, they did not hold it. Two men walked side-by-side behind the animals. One was easily recognized as Saliman. The other’s head came barely to Saliman’s shoulder and he walked with a rolling, bouncy gait.

  Jubal’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and puzzlement. Whatever Saliman’s reason for revealing their hideaway to a goat-herd it had better be a good one. The slaver’s mood had not been improved by the time the men reached the doorway. If anything it had darkened as two goats strayed ahead of the rest of the herd and made his unwilling acquaintance.

  “Jubal,” Saliman declared, hardly noticing the goats that had already entered the hovel. “I want you to meet—”

  “A goat-herd?” the slave spat out. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Not a goat-herd,” the aide stammered, surprised by Jubal’s erupting anger. “He’s a Lizerene.”

  “I don’t care where he was born—get him and his goats out of here!”

  Another goat entered as they argued and stood at Jubal’s feet, staring down on him with blandly curious eyes while the rest of the herd explored the corners.

  “Allow me to explain, my lord,” the little man said quickly and nervously. “It’s not where I’m from but what I am: the Order of Lizerene … a humble order devoted to the study of healing through sorcery.”

  “He can mend your legs,” Saliman blurted out. “Completely. You’ll be able to walk—or run—if you wish.”

  Now it was Jubal’s turn to blink in astonishment, as he absently shoved one of the goats aside. “You? You’re a wizard? You don’t look like any of the magicians I’ve seen in town.”

  “It’s a humble order,” the man replied, fussing with his threadbare robe, “and, then again, living with the goats does not encourage the finery my town-dwelling colleagues are so proud of.”

  “Then, these are your goats?” Jubal shot a dark look at Saliman.

  “I use them in my magics,” the Lizerene explained, “and they provide me with sustenance. As I said: it—”

  “I know,” Jubal repeated, “it’s a humble order. Just answer one question: is Saliman right? Can you heal my legs?”

  “Well—I can’t say for sure until I’ve examined the wounds, but I’ve been successful in many cases.”

  “Enough. Begin your examination. And, Saliman—get these damn goats out of the hut!”

  By the time Saliman had gotten the animals into the yard the Lizerene had the 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 sell-sword 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 slaver told him. “Very well,
Vertan. If strength is what’s needed then between the two of us we should be able to renew my legs.”

  “How much strain to the mind and body?” Saliman asked from the doorway.

  Jubal glared at his aide, annoyed by the interruption, but Vertan had already turned to face Saliman and did not see.

  “A fine question,” the Lizerene agreed. “To grasp the answer you must first understand the process.” He was in his own element now, and his nervousness melted away. “There will be two parts to the healing. The first is relatively simple, but it will take some time. It involves drawing out the infection, the poisons, from the wounds. The true test lies in the second phase of the healing. There is damage here, extensive damage—and to the bones themselves. To mend bone takes time, more time that I’d venture, m’lord Jubal wishes to invest. I would therefore accelerate the body processes, thereby shortening the time required. While in this state you will consume and pass food at an incredible rate—for the body needs fuel for the healing. What would normally require days will transpire in hours; the processes of months compacted into weeks.”

  “Have you ever used this technique before?” Saliman asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Vertan assured him. “in fact, you know one of my patients. It was I who healed Balustrus. Of course, that was back in the capital before he changed his name.”

  “Balustrus,” Jubal scowled, an image of the crippled metal-master flashing in his mind.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the Lizerene injected hastily, “but I have done much to perfect my skills since then. I was surprised, though, that he recommended me. At the time he was not at all pleased with the results of my work.”

  “I see,” the slaver murmured. He shot a look at Saliman who nodded slightly, acknowledging that the metal-master would have to be investigated more closely. “But, if I follow your program twill I be able to use my legs—normally?”

  “Oh yes,” Vertan assured him confidently. “The key factor is exercise. Balustrus remained abed throughout the process, so his joints fused together. If you have the strength and will to work your legs constantly you should regain full mobility.”