Saliman frowned but did not protest further. "What else?"

"A sword," Jubal stated, his eyes suddenly fierce. "The finest sword you canfind. Not the prettiest, mind you: the best steel with the keenest edge. Therewill some who will be less than happy at the news of my recovery and I want tobe prepared to deal with them."

"That's enough for today," Vertan announced shakily, removing his hands fromJubal's knees.

Like a drowning man encountering a log, the healer grabbed the goat tetherednearby and clung to it while the animal bleated and struggled to free itself.The slaver averted his eyes, nauseated by the now-familiar ritual.

The first day he had watched intently and what he had seen was now branded intohis memory. Though he had always loathed magic and its practitioners he nowadmitted a grudging admiration of the little wizard who labored over him. Hewould rather face a hundred swords than subject himself to what the Lizereneendured voluntarily.

Vertan drew the poison from Jubal's legs as promised, but what the ex-gladiatorhad not realized was that the wizard drew it into his own body. He had seenVertan's hands after the first session: swollen and misshapen; dripping pus fromdeep-cracked skin-caricatures of hands in the flickering candlelight. The poisonwas then transferred to one of the goats whose body would then undertake to healthe invading infection. Over a dozen of the herd now had swellings or sores fromtaking part in the treatments. Jubal was astounded, frightened by the volume ofpoison in his ravaged legs. While several animals now coped with his infection,thereby lessening its power, it had all passed through Vertan. Rather than beingannoyed with the little wizard's frequent recuperative rests, Jubal was amazedat the Lizerene's tenacity.

"A few... more days... will complete this phase of the treatment," Vertan saidweakly, releasing the goat. "Then the real trial begins."

Jubal gagged at the smell wafting from Vertan's kettle. He had known odorsbefore which others found revolting: the rotting smell of blood and entrailswhich the wind carried from the chamel house to his estate; the stink ofunwashed bodies, alive or dead; the clinging aroma of the excretions of pennedanimals; the acrid bite of the stench of the swamp at low tide. All these he hadsuffered without comment or complaint, but this . . . Whatever bubbled in Vertan's pot was an abomination. No such odor had ever been generated by nature orcivilization-of that Jubal was certain.

"Drink," Vertan ordered, thrusting a ladle into the slaver's hands. "Twoswallows, no more."

The contents of the ladle were still bubbling; they had the appearance andtexture of vomit- but Jubal drank. The first swallow was surprisingly cool onhis tongue but the second had the warmth and pulse of something alive. Jubaltook it down with the same detached resolve he had used to kill his firsthelpless, crippled opponent and handed the ladle back to the wizard.

With a satisfied nod, the Lizerene tossed the utensil back into the kettle, thenextended his hands, palms down, until they were each a few inches above Jubal'sknees. "Brace yourself, swordsman," he ordered. "You're about to begin learningabout pain."

Something moved under the skin of the slaver's right knee, sending a quick stabof agony along his leg. Another piece moved, grating against the first. Then themovement began in his left knee. Despite his resolve an animal howl of painescaped Jubal's lips, a wordless note that rose and sank as the pieces of hisshattered kneecaps shifted and realigned themselves. The world had faded fromknowledge when Vertan's voice came to him through the red mists.

"Now move your legs. Move them? You must flex your knees."

With a giant effort Jubal bent his right knee, sliding his foot along the dirtfloor. The pain was beyond sound now, though his mouth strained with silentscreams.

"More. You must bend it completely. More, swordsman! Do you want to be acripple? More? The other knee-more! Move it!"

Spittle ran down from the corner of the slaver's mouth; he soiled himself fromthe agony but he kept moving, bending first one knee then the other. Right kneestraighten. Left knee- straighten. Right knee...

He was disoriented in time and space. His entire world had been reduced to theeffort of repeating the simple exercise.

"Where's that will you bragged about," the torturer taunted. "More! Bend thoseknees completely. Move!"

* * *

He was growing used to the taste of Vertan's vile potion. It still disgustedhim, but the repeated doses had made the nausea familiar and thereforeacceptable.

"Today you stand," the wizard announced without fanfare. '

Jubal hesitated, a piece of roast goat-meat halfway to his lips. As promised hewas now eating five meals for every one the Lizerene ate. "Am I ready?"

"No," Vertan admitted. "But there's more involved here than your knees.. Yourmuscles, "especially -yow-leg muscles, must be worked if you are to keep anystrength in them. Waving your feet in the air isn't enough for your legs; theymust bear weight again-and the sooner the better."

"Very well," the slaver agreed, finishing the last of the meat and wiping hishands on his sleeves. "Let's do it now-before I've got to relieve myself again."That function, too, had increased five-fold.

Seizing the wall with one hand, Jubal drew his feet under him then pushed withhis legs. Standing up had once seemed so simple; nothing he ever thought about.Now sweat popped out on his brow and his vision blurred. He kept pushing; by nowagony was as familiar as the Lizerene's face. Slowly, his hands scrabblingagainst the walls, he rose until his weight was on his feet.

"There," he stated through clenched teeth, wishing he could stop the wavingmotion of the floor and walls around him. "As you said, nothing is impossible ifthe will is strong enough."

"Good," Vertan said with a malicious laugh, "then you won't mind walking backand forth a bit."

"Walking?" Jubal clutched at the wall, a wave of dizziness washed over him. "Yousaid nothing about walking!"

"Of course," the wizard shrugged. "If I had, would you have attempted to stand?Now, walk-or don't you remember how?"

The thunderstorm raged, giving added texture to the night. Jubal practiced alonewithout Ver-tan's supervision. This was not unusual now that his mobility wasreturning. He slept and woke according to the demands of his healing body andwas often left to exercise by himself.

The rain had driven the goats away from the hut; they sought and usually foundbetter shelter, so even his normal audience was absent. Still, the slaverpracticed, heedless of the sucking mud at his feet. He held a stout branch inone hand-a branch the length of a sword.

Block, cut, block behind. Turn and duck. Cut at the legs. Move. Move. Move! Overand over he practiced a death-dance he had learned as a gladiator. The pain wasa distant ache now, an ache he could ignore. He had something else on his mindnow.

Turn, cut. Move. Block, turn, block, cut! Finally he stopped, the raindropscollecting in the wrinkles of his forehead.

Slow-all of it. Slow.

To the untrained eye his swordwork might seem smooth and expert, but he knew hehad a mere fraction of his old speed. He made to test his suspicions; he stoopedand picked up two clods of dirt with his left hand and tossed them into the air.He swung at them with his improvised weapon. One clod splattered as the limbconnected with it but the other splashed into the mud with a sound Jubal heardas a death knell.