He stood abruptly, his resolve strong, but when he spoke his words were soft.

“Wait here and do not lose hope. I will go to Sa's temple and get help. Surely your master can be made to see reason, that you will die without care.” He offered a bitter smile. “If all else fails, perhaps we can persuade him a live slave is worth more than a dead one.”

The man who had first summoned him looked incredulous. “The temple? Small help we shall get there. A dog is a dog, and a slave is a slave. Neither is offered Sa's comfort there. The priests there sing Sa's songs, but dance to the Satrap's piping. As to the man who sells our labor, he does not even own us. All he knows is that he gets a percentage of whatever we earn each day. From that, he feeds and shelters and doses us. The rest goes to our owner. Our broker will not make his piece smaller by trying to save Gala's life. Why should he? It costs him nothing if she dies.” The man looked down at Wintrow's incomprehension and disbelief. “I was a fool to call to you.” Bitterness crept into his voice. “The youth in your eyes deceived me. I should have known by your priest's robe that I would find no willing help in you.” He gripped Wintrow suddenly by the shoulder, a savagely hard pinch. “Give her the comfort of Sa. Or I swear I will break the bones in your collar.”

The strength of his clutch left Wintrow assured he could do it. “You do not need to threaten me,” Wintrow gasped. He knew that the words sounded craven. “I am Sa's servant in this.”

The man flung him contemptuously on the ground before the woman. “Do it then. And be quick.” The man lifted a flinty gaze to stare beyond him. The broker and the customer haggled on. The customer's back was turned to the coffle, but the broker faced them. He smiled with his mouth at some jest of his patron and laughed, ha, ha, ha, a mechanical sound, but all the while his clenched fist and the hard look he shot at his coffle promised severe punishment if his bargaining were interrupted. His other hand tapped a small bat against his leg impatiently.

“I ... it cannot be rushed,” Wintrow protested, even as he knelt before the woman and tried to compose his mind.

For answer, she tottered to her feet. He saw then that her legs were streaked with blood, that the ground beneath her was sodden with it. It had clotted thick on the fetters on her ankles. “Lem?” she said piteously.

The other slave stepped to her quickly. She leaned on him heavily. Her breath came out a moan.

“It will have to be rushed,” the man pointed out brusquely.

Wintrow skipped the prayers. He skipped the preparations, he skipped the soothing words designed to ready her mind and spirit. He simply stood and put his hands on her. He positioned his fingers on the sides of her neck, spreading them until each one found its proper point. “This is not death,” he assured her. “I but free you from the distractions of this world so that your soul may prepare itself for the next. Do you assent to this?”

She nodded, a slow movement of her head.

He accepted her consent. He drew a slow, deep, breath, aligning himself with her. He reached inside himself, to the neglected budding of his priesthood. He had never done this by himself. He had never been fully initiated into the mysteries of it. But the mechanics he knew, and those at least he could give her. He noticed in passing that the man stood with his body blocking the broker's view and kept watch over his shoulder. The other slaves clustered close around them, to hide what they did from passing traffic. “Hurry,” Lem urged Wintrow again.

He pressed lightly on the points his fingers had unerringly chosen. The pressure would banish fear, would block pain while he spoke to her. As long as he pressed, she must listen and believe his words. He gave her body to her first. “To you, now, the beating of your heart, the pumping of air into your lungs. To you the seeing with your eyes, the hearing with your ears, the tasting of your mouth, the feeling of all your flesh. All these things do I trust to your own control now, that you may command them to be or not to be. All these things, I give back to you, that you may prepare yourself for death with a clear mind. The comfort of Sa I offer you, that you may offer it to others.” He saw a shade of doubt in her eyes still. He helped her realize her own power. “Say to me, 'I feel no cold.' ”

“I feel no cold,” she faintly echoed.

“Say to me, 'The pain is no more.' ”

“The pain is no more.” The words were soft as a sigh, but as she spoke them, lines eased from her face. She was younger than he had thought. She looked up at Lem and smiled at him. “The pain is gone,” she said without prompting.