"The palace surgery isn’t far," said one of the voices. "Surely Sal-Afsan would be a patient of the imperial healer, what’s his name…"

"Mondark," said another voice. "Dar-Mondark."

"Take him in your chariot," shouted a voice.

"Someone will have to help me," said the charioteer. "He’s too heavy for me to lift on my own."

Silence, except for Afsan’s labored breathing and, nearby, Cork’s confused hissing.

"For God’s sake, people, someone help me! I can’t do this alone."

An incredulous voice. "To touch another…"

"He’ll die if he doesn’t get medical help. Come on."

A new voice, from farther away. "Make room for me to pass. I’m just back from a hunt. I suspect I can touch him without difficulty."

Shuffling feet. Afsan moaned again.

The charioteer’s voice now, close to his earhole: "We’re going to touch you, Sal-Afsan. Try not to react."

Even in agony, even with a broken skull and dislocated shoulder, instinct still reigned. Afsan flinched as hands touched him. Fingerclaws popped from their sheaths.

"Careful of his shoulder…"

Afsan howled in pain.

"Sorry. He’s pretty heavy."

Afsan felt his head being pulled out of the thickening puddle of blood. He was lifted up and placed facedown in the back of the chariot.

"What about his lizard?" said the charioteer.

"I’ll take him," said the youngster who had first identified Afsan. "I know where the palace surgery is."

The charioteer shouted, "Latark!" His hornface began to gallop along the road, Afsan’s head bouncing up and down, the sound of metal wheels over the stones drowning out his moans.

After an eternity, the chariot arrived outside Dar-Mondark’s surgery, a typical adobe building just south of the palace. Afsan could hear the charioteer disembark and the sound of his fingerclaws clicking against the signaling plate set into the doorjamb. The door swung open on squeaky hinges, and Afsan heard Mondark’s voice. "Yes?"