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“There's a time and a place for this conversation,” you reply, “and this isn't it.”
“When's the right time then, chief? Where's the right place?” Shuhrak doesn't take your response very well. If anything, your reluctance seems to embolden him. “We ain't askin' anythin' tricky. What's stoppin' you from givin' us a straight answer?”
“When we are back home and not in the middle of an unfamiliar settlement, you will hear the truth from me. Right now, I'm more worried about the health of your tribesmen than whether or not I practise slavery. All I ask is that you put your faith in me and follow my lead for as long as we're here. Once we've cured the Voss of the Sepsis, you'll be free to question me as much as you want. Until then, all of you should remember that we're here for a reason – to cleanse your tribe of this disease. That comes before everything else.”
“Chief's right,” Jurvaz pipes up, looking a little sheepish. “Much as I want answers, this ain't a good time for it. I shouldn't of brought it up at all an' I'm sorry that I did. Lead an' I'll follow.”
Some of the tribesmen look less convinced. Some of them might even want this power struggle – after all, you're an outsider who came out of nowhere and dominated their chieftain with a magical voice. Now that you don't have any thralls to back you up or the thunder-stick that they fear so much, some of them feel brave enough to challenge you.
Yet in the end, all of them relent, including Shuhrak. None of them can challenge your words without making it look like they're more interested in seizing power than helping their tribe. One by one, they all mumble their acquiescence and follow your lead. You resume your journey through Mulhouse.
You see the Sanatorium long before you arrive at it – Karlee told you what to look for. Colossal shards of reinforced concrete jut out of the earth at awkward angles, several stories in height. Perhaps once upon a time, they were parts of a greater structure. Now, they serve as the border that separates Spitalian territory from the rest of Mulhouse. Every entrance along the perimeter is guarded by spear-wielding soldiers clad in gas masks and monochrome uniforms. As soon as you approach one of these access points, one of these guards raises a hand.
“Halt,” she barks. Though the thick plastic membrane that she wears makes her femininity apparent, her voice is so muffled that it sounds no different from a man's. Her head is just as bald as those of her male comrades as well. You obey and stagger to a standstill. Two of the other guards step forward and lift the butts of their spears towards you, which are decorated with glass canisters. The chunks of meat that float inside of these cylinders just bob around aimlessly.
“Clean,” one of the Spitalians grunts. “Clean,” the other repeats a few moments later. They step away and fall back in line, while the woman who stopped you lowers her hand and speaks once more.
