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 sorcer-ous 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 Balus-trus 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."