Darman and the two other Blades had been traveling for the whole of a day, and half of the next, before they saw the turrets of Quitonne cutting the sky over the southwestern coastline. Even though the sun shown brightly above them, the air itself was still bitterly cold.

They'd lost a horse along the way and so Darman walked while Strandholt and Arjas rode on the two remaining mounts. Neither of the wounded Blades was able control his steed, so wracked with pain as both men were; and so Darman held the reins of each, guiding them stolidly on.

Darman turned to look at the injured Blades. Aiya's meager aid had been enough to spare them certain infection, but the wounds still required more profound healing.

Strandholt still rode upright, the burns upon his face and neck glistening in the light of the cold late afternoon sun. His eyes were squeezed shut against the pain of the blisters stretching the skin of his face, neck and right arm. Occasionally he loosed a soft, abashed moan, his eyes opening briefly to gaze embarrassingly at Darman. Arjas rode his horse with arms clasped loosely round the beast's muscular neck, his leg with its smashed and bloodied right knee dangling and bobbing out of the stirrup. Lucky he's unconscious again, Darman thought as he turned his gaze back toward their destination. But he'll have a hell of an ache when he wakes up.

Darman thought of the last time Arjas had awakened, mere hours before. The young Blade's face had been twisted in tortured agony, his lips tucked and squeezed within his trembling mouth, eyes watering with the torment he now bore. Trying hard to bite back the pain, Darman had thought as he'd halted the horses for a moment.

When it seemed he could no longer fold the suffering into himself, Arjas had let a low moan escape his slackened lips. "Don't...stop the...march on my account," Arjas had protested through tightly clenched teeth. "I've been...cut...with daggers...and run through...with swords...but n--never...smashed my knee." The last word had spun into a high pitched groan as he eased a flushed cheek against his mount's shivering neck. "I'll just...ride...like this...the rest of the way." His voice was muffled against the horse's hide.

"Suit yourself," Darman had said in his usual harshly indifferent tone. "Couldn't have stopped for long anyway--storms could be coming up fast behind us." But Arjas hadn't heard him, for the Blade's consciousness had been swallowed once again by his pain.

Darman now moved to Arjas's side to inspect the crude dressings he'd wrapped around the Blade's torn and crushed kneecap. Already fresh gouts of blood were weeping from the bandages in thick, slow runnels. The only thing this cloth can do now is hold the meat in, Darman thought ruefully as he tore another strip of muslin from the hem of his undershirt.

As Darman bound Arjas's knee with the ragged swath, the young Blade turned his head to the older man. A corner of Arjas's mouth jerked upward in a trembling smirk, his black mustache damp with the perspiration of his suffering. "Don--n't be...so...gentle now," the young Blade scolded mockingly before his eyes pinched shut again from a quick wave of pain.

The corners of Darman's own mouth slanted slightly upward at Arjas's attempt at humor in the face of agony. "Well, you can't be too far gone I reckon if you can spare a jibe at my nursing skills." Eyes still closed, Arjas stretched a trembling grin as his only reply. Darman glanced up at Strandholt. "Are you enduring your wounds any better?"

Strandholt's square jaw widened as he tried to grin in spite of the stiff and blistered part of his face. The beast had managed to singe away a length of the Blade's dark blond hair near the nape. A ribbon of red and swollen welts now rose from his neck, oozing clear droplets like dew on a turned leaf. "I'm better off than Arjas," Strandholt said tightly, clearly trying to rein in his own discomfort. "It feels like someone is stropping a dull knife against the back of my neck. And I can't move the fingers of my right arm--they're too stiff with the burns. Other than that...I'll manage."

"Well...we're almost to Quitonne." Darman squinted up into the hazy sunshine. What more could he say?

###

"Oh hell's chariots," Darman cursed as they approached the gates of Quitonne. "It's that pony-prancing, snootybilled Berran Tworn coming to 'greet' us again like last time. You'd think he'd have else to do than play gate warden."

Berran Tworn walked toward them almost haltingly, his guardsmen flanking him tightly. He wore an expression of extreme pique--as if he had been suddenly spirited away from some important task in order to perform this mundane one. He has twice the men with him than before, Darman thought as he continued to approach Tworn on foot. Must have made a good impression last visit.

"I am with men who have need of a healer," Darman said shortly, gruffly determined to deny Tworn any sullen protest. "Out of our way." Darman splayed his long fingers upon Tworn's brocade tunic, the Blade's calluses pulling at the delicate embroidery, and shoved the slender young man out of his path.

Berran Tworn looked down at shining threads of brocade sticking up like fine thistles from his tunic. Then he looked up at Darman, his eyes dark with resentment, as the Blade swept past him, the horses following as Darman yanked sharply at the reins. Berran Tworn motioned to his guards to close ranks and block Darman's passage.

"Not before I have a chance to question why you've arrived without Terjal Rakmir and Aiya Lindsmund." Berran Tworn punctuated this with a poke to Darman's mail-clad chest with a smooth and slender finger, as if to avenge the injustice of having his fine tunic despoiled. Berran Tworn's narrow, pinched face blanched white when Darman swatted his hand away.

"I don't have to explain anything to you save that my men need treatment. Now let us pass!" Then in one swift movement Darman drew his crossbow, arrow nocked and ready, and aimed the weapon directly at Berran Tworn's gaping mouth. "I'm no diplomat and neither is my crossbow. I'm tired--and when I get tired my trigger finger begins to twitch. When I'm tired I get surly--and when I'm surly I have little control over my trigger finger." Then a pause. "You are making me surly."

The guardsmen immediately touched their own weapons, ready to spring at the First Blade should he loose an arrow. "If any of them comes at me," Darman hissed, "I'll surely run you through before they have a chance to cut me."

Berran Tworn began to tremble as his eyes focused on the point of the arrow aimed at him; his elaborately coifed hair began to droop with his shaking. "Let them enter," Tworn said nervously, his voice reduced to a squeak.

Grudgingly, the guards parted their ranks to allow Darman and his Blades to pass. Darman lowered his crossbow, but did not immediately unload it. As he brushed past the slender young man and his guardsmen, Darman stopped to look Tworn in the eye. "I want no one to know we're here. For should I discover that you have loosed your tongue despite my cautions, I will send this arrow straight through your skull when I see you next. Is this understood?"

Berran Tworn's pointed jaw began to work nervously. "May I ask why you wish not to have your whereabouts know? Many besides myself will doubtless note your arrival and so I must tell Mayor Turste something."

Darman grinned sardonically at Tworn. "Oh he's Mayor Turste now, is he? Well, there's nothing he needs to know--especially since he was of no help on our last visit."

"This has something to do with the beast you asked about before, isn't it?" Berran Tworn's nipped face was smug.

Darman didn't answer, only jerked the horses' reins once more and whisked past Berran Tworn. "I suppose you'll be needing accommodations then," Tworn called out after him, the voice acidly scornful.

"We have a place to go." Darman didn't bother to turn around.

###

It hadn't taken long for Darman to find the mercenaries' hold he'd often stayed at during his days as a hired Blade. The hold, grey and plain, was located in the farthest corner of the city--almost as if Quitonne were embarrassed to contain such a structure. As Darman drew nearer it, he studied its dark and grimy mortar cracked and veined with time and the aftermath of many victory revels.

Outside, in the alley encircling the hold, he caught the faint whiff of vomit and urine that had permanently steeped the surrounding earth--souvenirs of triumphant campaigns long past. He'd never participated in the parties--nor was raping and pillaging to his liking either. I'm an orphan all the way around, he had always explained to those who posed the question, raising his only steiner of ale for the evening. The other mercenaries only shook their heads in bemusement, turning away. It's Darman, after all, they always remarked.

It had been ten years since he'd last entered this hold--ten years of service to Terjal Rakmir and Cloudreach. Even so, he was still one of them; they couldn't deny him board.

Darman turned to Strandholt and patted the younger Blade's un-singed left arm. Strandholt raised his blond head and blinked at Darman, pain still clouding his blue eyes. "You and Arjas will have to stay outside while I make...arrangements," Darman said. "Hopefully it won't be long."

"What about a healer?" Strandholt said, his voice breaking from the exhaustion. "You said you knew someone."

"Yes--he should still be living in Quitonne. As soon as I get us settled here, I'll search him out." Then Darman tethered the horses and opened the splintering wooden door of the hold.

###

The air was thick and musty with the smell of unwashed clothes and bodies. The rank onion odor of damp armpits seared into Darman's nostrils as he closed the heavy door behind him. The spartan parlor was empty--deserted. Darman called out into the empty room as he watched a large black cockroach skitter across the toes his boots.

"Now that's a familiar voice I hear." A grey-haired man Darman's age came down the wooden stairway. Darman recognized the man as Budge from his old band. "Darman--you old daggerhand! Working for a conjurer now, I hear." The voice as cheery as if the time passed had been days instead of years. "News gets around--especially when it reaches Quitonne."

Budge had been the only member of the old band that had never given up on trying to be Darman's friend. Everyone else merely tolerated Darman's taciturn manner--accepting that Darman was an exceptional warrior, but not a talker. Budge had felt otherwise. Darman could have put the man to rights in a terse and harsh way, but something in the man's dogged pursuit to find friendship with him made Darman relent.

"I am in service to Terjal Rakmir of Cloudreach," Darman said distractedly, looking around. "Where is everyone?"

"Haven't you heard?" Budge said, waving his hand at a window, the wrinkles set in the corners of his eyes becoming deeper as he squinted at Darman. "There's a beast roaming around roasting farmland hither and thither. Every baron and baronet with a bag of sovereigns to spare has hired Blades out to guard their holds. Thirty-five Blades left just this week." Then pausing, looking Darman up and down. "Come to think of it, you look as if you've tussled with something full nasty yourself."

Darman resisted the urge to touch the claw marks and bruises on his face and neck. "Such is true that I've of done battle recently," Darman said quickly, "and that I have two badly injured Blades outside who are in need of a healer. We--"

"You have met up with this beast," Budge interrupted, his small eyes narrowing. "Haven't you? What did it look like? I hear tell it has purple eyes the size of plates and claws that can strip the entrails from twenty men, and their beasts too, in one sweep."

"See here, I must find--"

"Oh, that's it--I'm not worth telling anything to, am I?" Budge spat, his small eyes grown even smaller with the anger in them. "Just like when we was fightin' together. You never had a jolly, friendly word for anybody, did you Darman? Just do the job and go drink your ale by yourself in a dark corner, brooding into your cups like you always done. You know, there was plenty who wanted to put a dagger in your back--but I stopped 'em. Now I wonder why I even had bothered. Should've let them do their business upon you, and looked askance the while."

Darman studied the man standing before him. Budge was only a year or two older than he, yet he seemed now like a wizened old man. Then he remembered Budge's careful, unsteady gait as he'd walked down the stairs. Darman's gaze shifted to Budge's legs--a sharp needle of surprise penetrated his heart when he saw what had caused the limp.

The man's right leg was narrowed into a wooden peg.

Budge's own gaze followed Darman's and he nodded at the First Blade. "Lost the leg seven and half years ago--that's why I'm here instead of out waving a sword around. I run this place now--don't need two whole legs to do it, y'see." He chuckled bitterly. "I could've gone on a few more campaigns until my last one took the leg. I was hopin' I could end my career with all my parts--maybe I shoulda done what you did and find me a soft job guarding a conjurer. Instead, I go and get my damn leg chopped off. Well," Budge sighed deeply, "at least it happened during battle and not on a table with some fumble-fingered medic sawing away at it. I'd seen some gone at in such a manner--'tis not a proper way for a warrior to lose an arm or leg, I swear."

The man's sorrow at clubbed Darman. "After what I've just been through," he replied quietly, "I too could lose a limb, yet." Budge's watery, bloodshot eyes studied Darman intently as he spoke. Then Darman added quickly, "You must not tell anyone that you've seen me or what I've seen. Yes, my men and I are on a quest with Terjal Rakmir and an Adjutant of Lord Vaukmond with orders to seek and destroy this beast of which you mention. I can't tell you any more than this; I probably shouldn't have told you anything at all."

Budge nodded his grizzled head, the smile on his face grateful. "Well, this much coming from you, Darman, I can't complain. Now, what is it you're seeking in Quitonne?"

"A healer. You should remember him; last I heard he's still living in Quitonne. Shankal--of Shammerkath."

Budge loosed a dry cackle of a laugh, then shook his head. "Oh, you don't want to engage Shankal as your healer. As far as the aquamancers of Shammerkath are concerned, he's an outlaw healer now. Committed the worst crime an aquamancer could perpetrate: he knowingly let a patient die. Worst of all, 'twas his wife."

Darman kept his expression impassive. "I still wish his services."

Budge's hands flew up in frustration. "Don't you understand, Darman? He won't help you--even if he still has his talents about him. He won't even treat a scratch let alone your mens' injuries."

"Just tell me where he is."

Budge stared at Darman as if trying to peer through the layers of resolve his former comrade had placed between them. Finally, sighing deeply, Budge offered: "Well, I reckon I'll tell since you're bound to find him--hellbent as you are. Shankal spends most of his time gambling and drinking his sorrows away in every tavern in Quitonne. The tavern he favors most is the Split Helm at the end of the main marketplace. I expect you'll find him there tonight. Meantime, I'll set your men up for you."

Darman reached out a hand to clasp the man's sloped shoulder, squeezing it in an awkward, uncharacteristic show of fellowship. He was suddenly sorry for all the years he'd spurned friendship from this man--and others he'd known. "I'll compensate you for our stay."

The old Blade waved his hand dismissively. "On the house--meals too. Go on and bring your men in."

###

Strandholt and Arjas were placed upon adjoining cots in a small room beneath the common room's staircase--Darman had eschewed a larger room, deciding the smaller room offered better concealment. Once satisfied that his men were well-settled, Darman set out for the Split Helm. It was dark now, twilight having disappeared while he'd been talking with Budge. Darman drew a heavy cloak about him to stave off the biting cold--and prying eyes--and he launched full into the night.

It didn't take long for him to spot the tavern, for the sounds of laughter and stringed instruments tumbled through the wide marketplace, filling every empty stall with echoes of revelrie. Soon Darman smelled the char of roasted meats and the sharp, sour scent of liquor on the breeze as he drew closer its source.

Once the Split Helm loomed into view with its bright, gaudy façade splashed across the face of an otherwise unremarkable building, Darman tried to remember the last time he'd been in a tavern. A man and woman in lavish, heavy clothing strode from the entrance--way and pushed past him, laughing wildly into the cold night air. Darman felt the flare of heat from the torches set in the walls beside the entrance as he flowed with the crowd of revelers trying to get inside.

Once he'd entered the tavern Darman noted the rows of golden tables like giant coins balanced upon narrow stands. Half the tables were taken up with card games. Shouts alternating between joy and dismay rose from each table as customers tossed dice or dealt cards.

Darman began to circle each gaming table but did not find Shankal enjoying the sport at any. He'd nearly decided to leave the Split Helm for another tavern when in the corner of his eye Darman spotted the sheen of white-gold hair caught in torchlight. Shankal sat alone at a small corner table, a tall mug of ale sitting between his curved forearms. The middle-aged aquamancer seemed to stare into space as if watching a tableau known only to himself.

Darman stood before the table, but Shankal did not look up at him. "Darman. So how long has it been?" Then the eyes shifted upward to gaze at the Blade. The eyes of aquamancers were unnerving: always palest blue like quartz stones filled with water from the sea. It was often said that if you looked too deeply into the eyes of an aquamancer, you might see your destiny, and eventually, your very death. Darman had never tried.

Shankal motioned for Darman to sit.

Darman folded his hands upon the table and looked squarely at Shankal. "I've been told that you no longer practice the healing art."

Shankal's mouth stretched into a crooked, sardonic smile as he took a quick swig of ale. Then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he replied, "You heard correctly. As far as the aquamancers are concerned, I'm not even one of them. Good thing I'm lucky with the cards or I'd never have a roof over my head, nor a plate of food on my table." Finger tapping the rim of his mug, "And plenty of ale and mead to ebb away my despair. Did your...source...tell you how I earned this distinction?"

"Yes, but with spare details--if you would wish to complete the story, do so."

"I will then." Shankal's gaze seemed to be tunneling through the mist of his own thoughts as he stared past Darman's shoulder. "It's a sad, oft-told tale full of the irony that life always hands one when one starts to think things are well with one's life. You see, five years ago I found the most beautiful woman in all of Quitonne and persuaded her to be my wife. Two years later she began to grow a tumor in her belly that would consume both her body and lifeforce, thus taking her away from me forever.

"I was told by every physician in Quitonne that even I, a healer, could not banish the disease from her body--that I should accept and prepare for her eventual death. But I was certain I could cure her and I told everyone that I would try. Well, of course word of my errant deed had gotten to Shammerkath." Shankal paused, sighing, before continuing. "You see, aquamancers are not allowed to fail in what we know best: that of healing the sick and injured. We must first determine whether or not someone brought to us is curable--aquamancers believe our 'gift' is at the largesse of the High Lords; only they can dictate whether a person should live or die. Attempting to restore one who cannot be healed, and if that one dies during a healer's ministrations, is tantamount to murder--and might deny the departed any final rest or peace in the afterlife. When I ignored orders that I stop this 'foolishness'--their word--the Cabal of Shammerkath told me that if my wife died, I would never be allowed to practice the healing art again.

"I took the chance, nevertheless--I couldn't bear to let the High Lords and the Cabal tie my hands." Shankal paused once more, his breath wearier than the last. "My wife died in my arms, the thing knawing at her from inside triumphant." Now Shankal looked directly at Darman, his eyes clear and focused. "If I am guilty of anything, it is that I was too selfish to give something up that I loved very much. I couldn't let her waste away without trying to help. So you see, I must at least honor the Cabal's ruling this time. There are other healers in Quitonne, you know."

"You still possess the ability?"

Shankal leaned back and blew a huff of breath through his narrowed lips, eyes glancing sideways in mock exasperation. "Of course." Then he slanted forward again, the side of his face thrust near Darman's as he scanned the room for possible eavesdroppers. "But I'm not allowed to practice the art--and I can never return to Shammerkath. I'm an exile."

Darman looked from side to side, tracking Shankal's scrutiny of the room. "But you could perform the art clandestinely. I have two men with severe injuries received in battle with," whispering, "a direspawn." Darman hoped his own conspiratorial tone would persuade the aquamancer to forgo his censure.

Shankal's pale eyebrows slid upward in surprise. "Ah, the marauding beast I've been hearing about--you have some involvement?"

Darman nodded.

"Well, have a traditional physician treat them, then."

"We've no time. It must be done by a healer--an aquamancer. My men and I must be ready for the road by the next morning's light."

Shankal sat back in his chair again, considering. Darman saw the light of excitement entering the aquamancer's eyes at the prospect of practicing the healing art once again. "So you've been battling the rampaging creature no one seems able to kill. I take it the beast got the better of you and your Blades this time."

Darman smiled wanly. "Not really. I'm here to tell you of it."

Skankal grinned over the rim of his mug as he took a sip. "Fair enough. So you would wish me to heal the wounds of your men quickly so that you and your fellows can jump back into the fray?"

Darman lifted the mug of mead a barmaid had set before him and grinned a rictus of satisfaction, for he sensed Shankal's resolve was turning in his favor. "Nothing more and nothing less--that is all I ask." He tipped his head back and swallowed half the mug's contents, feeling the warmth of the liquid blaze a path to his stomach.

Shankal bent forward and whispered cautiously, "Did anyone take notice of your arrival--and more importantly, the wounds of your comrades?"

"Save for entering through the main gate, any giving glance at our arrival would not have kept such in memory. Thereafter we took to the back streets and alleyways--we avoided even the main marketplace. As we now speak, my Blades are billeted at the mercenaries' hold." Then, remembering, Darman added, "We were greeted by Berran Tworn and his guardsmen, though. But I think I frightened him proper into keeping his prissy mouth shut."

Shankal blew air through his teeth. "Berran Tworn, eh? Don't be so certain that it was you who frightened him into silence. Besides, he may look like a feckless fop, but he's a nasty little gossip-monger who likes to slip bits of information into the right ears--as it suits him. Acting as gate warden allows him to be privy to any gossip firsthand." Then Shankal paused, his quartz--colored eyes narrowing slightly. "I hear that you now work for a conjurer--Terjal Rakmir--yes?"

Darman nodded. It amazed him how quickly news traveled to, and spread around, Quitonne. Who knew how long such information had been floating about the city? Years, or since their last arrival, Darman was unable to guess.

Shankal sat back, twisted in his chair and casually draped his arm across its curved back. "Then I wouldn't worry much about Berran Tworn--he's scared witless of any who wield magic, even a benevolent spellcaster like Rakmir."

"On our last visit, Aiya Lindsmund, Adjutant of Lord Vaukmond of Windemere, put Tworn's pride in a vise by telling him that should Tworn displease her, it would be as if such was done to the Duke himself."

Shankal's gaze settled silently upon a point beyond Darman's shoulder. Slowly, the aquamancer brought his steepled fingers to rest beneath his pointed chin as he blew out a quick sigh. "I have a proposition for you, a condition if you will, to insure my cooperation. I have nothing here in Quitonne. Wherever I go I am scorned as the healer who failed to save a dying patient--and disobeyed his High Lords and Cabal in so doing. I ignored the code of aquamancers and so am exiled from my homeland forever." He swallowed the last of his ale. "I shall practice the healing art upon your Blades as you wish--so long as you allow me among your fellows on this quest of yours. If we find ourselves still alive when the quest is finished, I'll head to Titan's Teeth and see if the Gaderiad have need of healers: they care nothing for the traditions of other peoples."

"I can't promise that Terjal Rakmir will agree to your accompanying us," Darman answered. "But neither can I promise that he won't accept your proposal."

Shankal paused for a moment, then grinned. "That is still the best offer I've had yet."

###

It had been a long time since Shankal had last entered the mercenaries' hold. He had left that life behind years ago: traveling with various bands of warriors and healing their cuts and broken bones along each campaign trail. Even after he'd decided to marry and settle down to a life in Quitonne, soldiers still sought his services. Often they entered his abode exhibiting their stark, gory injuries and requesting his ministrations. Syla, his wife, always hid from them whenever they chanced to visit. She could not bear to gaze upon their brutal wounds, nor endure their looks of open lust when she dared meet their eyes with her own.

Syla. His beloved wife. Doomed even as he loved her. Shankal sighed deeply.

Darman brought him to the room where the other two Blades lay upon cots. Shankal didn't recognize either man--but they were young, probably hadn't spent more than five or six years in the field before their tenure with Rakmir. Both men bore deeply crimped burns upon face, neck and arms--the blond one having the more severe burns. The stocky black-haired Blade's right leg was propped up, a dirty pillow lying beneath the crook of a bloody, shattered knee.

"That knee," Shankal said, pointing at Arjas's leg, "will take several days to completely heal. He will be in pain, but should be able to bear some weight upon the leg." Then turning to Budge, who stood in the doorway, the old man's eyes darting between the healer and the two wounded Blades, Shankal said, "You--ready a tub of water big enough for a grown man to sit in."

Budge looked at Darman, resentment quickly rising in the innkeeper's eyes. He doesn't like taking orders I reckon, Shankal thought wryly to himself. Then added with some exageration, "Please." Shankal was adept at feigned sincerity.

Budge, gaze still fastened upon Darman, spoke in a brusque voice, "I'll need help, you know. Can't get good traction with this wood peg o' mine." Darman nodded, following Budge silently to the kitchen.

Shankal knelt upon the floor and began to pull various pouches from a leather satchel he had carried slung across his back. With great care, and some reverance, he laid the long-unused pouches upon the tiled floor.

The night had grown very dark outside the hold--too cold and too late at night for revelers to be milling around, noticing an outlaw healer scurrying about with his bag of healing potions. Thank the gods for ale and midnight, Shankal thought, his mouth curving upward in a smirk. It would have been difficult to be discreet in the light of day, or the grey of dusk.

As they had made their way to the mercenaries' hold, Darman had elaborated upon his confession of meeting Berran Tworn at the main gate. Shankal sensed the thread of worry in the Blade's words. "Well," Shankal had scratched absently under his clean-shaven chin, "having mentioned need of a healer shouldn't be a problem since there are many healers in Quitonne--I doubt that my name would fall to the front of Tworn's thoughts. Now, if Tworn has the presence of mind to ask around to see if you've visited any of them, then you do have a problem, my friend."

Darman had scowled. "If he does, he's not likely to talk to anyone about it--yet. Probably store the information for later use if he's into blackmail as you've mentioned."

But Skankal felt almost reckless now. Who cares if they find out? What can they do--exile me from Quitonne? I'll be leaving anyway.

Soon he had his healing components arranged neatly upon the floor, the delicate potions still sheltered safely within their pouches. Shankal heard the hissing scuff of a wooden tub being pushed along the floor behind him. When the tub was centered between the two cots, Darman and Budge began to fill it with water from buckets.

Soon each man in his turn was lowered into the tub--stripped of mail and leathers--as Shankal poured potion mixtures into the shimmering water. Shankal's hands fluttered in a languid ballet of elaborate fingerplay as curving arms of water reached to touch each Blade's seared face, neck and arms, smoothing the crinkled skin into flesh soft and new. For Arjas's leg, Shankal poured his potions directly onto the knee, then urged--with more fingerplay--the water to clasp the joint like a glistening bandage.

Once the task was finished, Shankal sat back on his heels before the nearly empty tub, hands splayed upon the floor. "Let the tub sit untouched so that when the remaining water evaporates, I might collect the crystals at its bottom." At Darman's quizzical expression, Shankal added, "The crystals will eventually separate into their own components--I can use them several more times before they lose their power." Gesturing at the Blades asleep upon their cots, "Let them rest awhile; they can't properly heal without rest."

Then Shankal stood up and faced Darman squarely. "I've fulfilled my part of our bargain. How soon shall we leave Quitonne?"

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