Blade shifted position slightly, to uncramp his legs. He felt pain stabbing him in a dozen places, and the constriction of bandages. He knew he must look as though he'd been run through a mowing machine. It was a miracle that none of those heavy, hard-swung swords had sunk through flesh into bone or vital organs. As it was, he would have a whole new crop of spectacular scars to add to the many he already bore in various places. Plastic surgery had kept his face in good repair, but the appearance of his body had caused at least one woman to ask if he made his living wrestling tigers and bears.

Someone in the room must have been watching for Blade to show signs of life. Suddenly there were two figures in white robes standing by the bed. The robes were so loose and flowing that it was impossible to tell whether the figures were men or women. One held a steaming bowl and a sponge, the other a large jar of glazed pottery and a bronze cup.

The first attendant pulled the light linen covering away from Blade and began sponging all the exposed areas of his skin. Then the second attendant poured something from the jar into the cup and held the cup to Blade's lips. That was a good sign. It suggested he had no internal injuries worth bothering about.

The cup held cool water, slightly sweetened with honey and holding a faint hint of some unknown drug. In spite of this it was the most delicious drink Blade could ever remember having. His throat seemed to be packed solid with dust and phlegm, and the sweet water washed it all away like the flood from a broken dam. Blade emptied the cup twice, and found he could move tongue and lips enough to say, «Thank you.»

He thought he saw the two attendants smile, but couldn't be sure. Sleep was taking him away again, and he didn't resist.