Storm Season tw-4 Read online

  Saliman snorted. "That way they'll take our money and still sell their services to the first hunter that asks. How trustworthy do you really think your colleagues are, healer?"

  "No more or less trustworthy than a sell-sword," the Lizerene countered. "Every person has weaknesses, though some are weaker than others. While a few might be unscrupulous enough to accept double-service at least you can eliminate the danger from the honest practitioners."

  "See that it's done," Jubal instructed Saliman. "There're two other things I'll want when you return. Find Hakiem and let him accompany you to witness my recovery-"

  "The storyteller? Why?"

  "He has amused us with his tales in the past," Jubal smiled, "as well as providing occasional bits of timely information. Sharing this story with him will guarantee that all will hear of my return to power."

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

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

  * * *

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

  Like a drowning man encountering a log, the healer grabbed the goat tethered nearby 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 into his memory. Though he had always loathed magic and its practitioners he now admitted a grudging admiration of the little wizard who labored over him. He would rather face a hundred swords than subject himself to what the Lizerene endured voluntarily.

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

  Something moved under the skin of the slaver's right knee, sending a quick stab of agony along his leg. Another piece moved, grating against the first. Then the movement began in his left knee. Despite his resolve an animal howl of pain escaped Jubal's lips, a wordless note that rose and sank as the pieces of his shattered kneecaps shifted and realigned themselves. The world had faded from knowledge 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 dirt floor. The pain was beyond sound now, though his mouth strained with silent screams.

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

  Jubal hesitated, a piece of roast goat-meat halfway to his lips. As promised he was 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.. Your muscles, "especially -yow-leg muscles, must be worked if you are to keep any strength in them. Waving your feet in the air isn't enough for your legs; they must bear weight again-and the sooner the better."

  "Very well," the slaver agreed, finishing the last of the meat and wiping his hands 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 with his 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 now agony was as familiar as the Lizerene's face. Slowly, his hands scrabbling against the walls, he rose until his weight was on his feet.

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

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

  "Walking?" Jubal clutched at the wall, a wave of dizziness washed over him. "You said 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 alone without Ver-tan's supervision. This was not unusual now that his mobility was returning. He slept and woke according to the demands of his healing body and was often left to exercise by himself.

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

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

  Turn, cut. Move. Block, turn, block, cut! Finally he stopped, the raindrops collecting 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 he had a mere fraction of his old speed. He made to test his suspicions; he stoope
d and 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 limb connected with it but the other splashed into the mud with a sound Jubal heard as a death knell.

  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.

  DOWNWIND by C. J. Cherryh

  i

  There was enterprise among the sprawl of huts and shanties that was the Downwind of Sanctuary. Occasionally someone even found the means of exacting a livelihood out of the place. The aim of most such was to get out of Downwind as quickly as possible, on the first small hoard of coin, which usually saw the entrepreneurs back again in a fortnight, broke and slinking about the backways, sleeping as the destitute immemorially slept, under rags and scraps and up against the garbage they used for forage (thin pickings in the Downwind) for the warmth of the decaying stuff. So they began again or sank in the lack of further ideas and died that way, stark and stiff in the mud of the alleys of Downwind.

&
nbsp; Mama Becho was one who prospered. There was an air to Mama Becho, but so there was to everyone in Downwind. The stink clung to skin and hair and walls and mud and the inside of the nostrils, and wafted on the winds, from the offal of Sanctuary's slaughterhouses and tanneries and fullers and (on days of more favorable wind) from the swamp to the south; but on the rare days the wind blew out of the north and came clean, the reek of Downwind itself overcame it so that no one noticed, least of all Mama Becho, who ran the only tavern in the Downwind. What she sold was mostly her own brew, and what went into it (or fell into it) in the backside of her shanty-tavern, not even Downwinders had courage to ask, but paid for it, bartered for it and (sometimes in the dark maze of Downwind streets) knifed for it or died of it. What she sold was oblivion and that was a power in Downwind like the real sorcery that won itself a place and palaces across the river that divided Sanctuary's purgatory from this neighboring hell.

  So her shanty's front room and the alley beside was packed with bodies and areek with fumes of brew and the unwashed patrons who sprawled on the remnants of makeshift furniture, itself spread with rags that had layered deep over un laundered years, the latest thrown to cover holes in the earlier. By day the light came from the window and the door; by night a solitary lamp provided as much smoke as light over the indistinct shapes of lounging bodies and furnishings and refuse. The back room emitted smoke of a different flavor and added a nose-stinging reek to the miasma of the front room. And that space and that eventually fatal vice was another of Mama Becho's businesses.

  She moved like a broad old trader through the reefs of couches and drinkers, the flotsam of debris on the floor. She carried clusters of battered cups of her infamous brew in stout red fists, a mountainous woman in a tattered smock which had stopped having any color, with a crazy twist of grizzled hair that escaped its wooden skewers and flew in wisps and clung to her cheeks in sweaty strings. Those arms could heave a full ale keg or evict a drunk. That scowl, of deepset eyes like stones, of jaws clamped tight and mouth lost in jowls, was perpetual and legendary in the Downwind. Two boys assisted her, shadow-eyed and harried and the subject of rumors only whispered outside Mama Becho's. Mama Becho had always taken in strays, and no few of them were grown, like Tygoth, who might be her own or one of the foundlings, and lounged now with half-crazed eyes following the boys. Tygoth was Mama Becho's size, reputed half her wit, and loyal as a well-fed hound. There was besides, Haggit, who was one of Mama's eldest, a lean and twisted man with lank greasy hair, a beggar, generally: but some mornings he came home, limping not so badly as he did in Sanctuary's streets, to spend his take at Mama Becho's.