"Can you make guns or cartridges?"
"No."
"Can you fight?"
Verrill glanced uneasily about, as though Ardelan might be on the point of selecting an opponent to test the stranger's claims. And, having read Verrill's face, Ardelan snorted, and not waiting for a reply, demanded, "Then what are you good for?"
"To treat the sick," Verrill repeated, with growing sense of futility. "To bind wounds. To set broken bones."
"Look at us. We've done very well."
"I can do better."
"Can't work, can't fight! Good for nothing but doctoring. Bad as a priest! Lock him up; I want to think this over."
The guard hustled Verrill and his medical case into an empty granary. They slammed the door and rolled a boulder against it. It made no difference whether or not he could shove the door open; there was nowhere to go if he did get out. He could not find his way back to the trading-post except over the way which his escort had brought him: a guarded way.