He wondered if he'd ever see either of them again.
Somewhere outside, a vague new stir of movement broke the stillness.
Jarl stiffened. For a moment he grasped the knife. Then, relaxing, after a moment's hesitation, he slid the sleek blade out of sight beneath his leg.
The sounds drew nearer; finally paused outside his cell. A blur of muffled, grumbling words seeped through the door. The bolt clicked back.
It was the ktar, a dead-white, four-armed kroy of Ganymede. Flicking on the light, adjusting the vocodor translator, the creature brushed smoothly into the room. Behind him, the fala guard lounged idly back against the jamb, thumbs hooked in belt.
Jarl shifted, then lay still again, not speaking. He was thankful to Atak—thankful the Malya had sent a Ganymedan ktar. Few were more talented or highly skilled or kind.
The ktar crossed to him and set down the globe that held the impedimenta of the healing craft. "How is it, raider?"
Jarl grunted and lifted his shoulders a fraction in a shrug.
The ktar probed the cuts that gashed Jarl's back with deft, sure, pseudopodal fingers. "Nasty. That thrice-cursed stanal buckle bit deep." Swiftly, he cleaned the wounds and applied the healing gel.