"Why, you told me that I must bring something of my lady's, and I could see there was no help for it, so I've done what you said. Here it is. Take a look at that, sir." From some recess beneath her cloak, Brivvia produced a pair of gloves; very elegantly fashioned of the thinnest, palest grey kid, elaborately cut and pierced to display a lining of emerald silk.

Aureste's recollections stirred at the sight, for he recognized the gloves, although he had not seen them in nearly twenty-five years. The young Sonnetia Steffa strolled across his memory. She walked beside him along a path overlooking the sea. A stiff salt breeze had pulled some of her chestnut hair free of its confining pins. Now the shining strands whipped wildly about her head, and she was laughing, her eyes very bright and her cheeks very pink, her hands lifted to capture the fugitive locks-hands clad in those distinctive gloves. He reached out and caught one of her hands, felt the pressure of his grasp returned, and for a while they stood there blind to the world around them, while her hair streamed free in the wind.

And then, a different picture, a different place-this time, the bare and wintry garden behind Steffa House. Skeletal branches, withered stalks, dry fountains. Lifeless. Sonnetia sat on a small bench of white marble, gloved hands clasped in her lap. Her face was almost as white as the bench, but still the most beautiful face in his world. There was room for two on that bench, but he was not welcome to join her there. And now her voice echoed in his mind across the years, although he did not want to hear it.

"... I did not let myself believe it, but all that they say is true. You have become the friend and the servant of the Taerleezis."

"I've protected my House," he heard his own voice answer.

"You have protected your own fortune."

"And yours as well. Do you think that your father would hold Steffa House, were it not for my influence?"

"Did my father ask any favors of you or your Taerleezi friends?"

"He didn't need to ask. I gladly do all in my power to assist your family. I had assumed-wrongly, it seems-that the preservation of your home would not displease you."

"The destruction of your honor displeases me."

Verbal attacks rarely troubled him, but Sonnetia Steffa possessed the power to penetrate his armor. Twenty-five years later, he relived the jolt of pained anger. And he recalled his own response. "Come, this is absurd. You are only a young girl, without experience or knowledge. You prate foolishly of matters beyond your understanding." In the years that followed, he had often wondered what course his life might have taken had he managed to hold his tongue.

"Certain matters are not beyond the understanding even of so foolish and ignorant a creature as myself." Her voice had been very quiet. "I understand that you have cut yourself off from your nation, from your home, from your people. I understand that you are no longer one of us. I understand that I no longer know you, if indeed I ever did. And I understand that I cannot and will not join my life with yours."

"You don't mean that; you speak in anger. You'll reconsider, when you are calm." He had taken a step toward her, and he still recalled the gesture-hand upraised in its grey kid glove-with which she had halted him.

"I am calm." Her white face and the tears in her eyes belied the claim. "And I will not reconsider."

"Sonnetia, there has always been strong feeling between us. It is there still, say what you will. You won't throw all that away on a sudden whim."

"It is neither a whim nor sudden. The division between us has been widening for months. You have not noticed."

He had not allowed himself to notice. "We've had some few differences over small matters-"

"Not small."

"But nothing to justify the ruin of our betrothal. Your father has consented, remember. Your parents and kin won't permit you to do this."

"Aureste, do you not understand? They will applaud me."

There could be no answer to that. For a while, he had stood searching her face for some sign of weakness or uncertainty, something that he could turn to his own advantage, but there was nothing there to use or control, which was one of the reasons that he so much admired her. Strength of will notwithstanding, her feelings for him ran deep; of this he had no doubt. Sooner or later her own emotions would erode her resolve, and then things would be right again. It was only a matter of time, or so he assured himself. Thus convinced, he had taken his leave, returning to Belandor House to await the retraction and contrition that never came. All that came, in fact, delivered by one of the few remaining Steffa servants, was the great sapphire ring that he had given to her upon her formal acceptance of his proposal. And from that chilly day until the present, he had never again set foot in that garden.

"Just what you asked for, Honored Magnifico." The voice of Brivvia intruded upon his recollections. "Clean and very nice, but not new. Could it be any better?"

As if from a distance Aureste heard his own voice return. "Is she not likely to miss these?"

"Not she. I found them tucked away at the very bottom of an old chest. She's never asked for them in all the time I've served her. She's forgotten they exist."

"Probably."

"You're content then, Honored Magnifico?"

"Content?" His lips turned down at the corners. "You've done well, Brivvia. Here." He flipped her a coin, which she caught neatly. "Now leave me."

"Yessir." She looked down at the coin and her jaw dropped, for it was gold. "Thank you, Honored Magnifico! Thank you, sir!"

She bowed her way out of the study, and he forgot her existence before the door closed behind her. For a long time he sat motionless, transfixed by the gloves and the memories they awoke. At last he roused himself from his trance, retrieved the casket from the bottom drawer of the desk, and added the newest keepsake to his collection. He locked the casket away again, and his mind was once more free to roam the Alzira Hills in search of his daughter. Sometimes he thought to glimpse her figure at a distance; she wandered among trees whose leaves were elegantly fashioned of grey kid lined with emerald silk. To the packet of incriminating documents hidden in Vinz Corvestri's desk, he gave no thought at all.

TEN.

The maggots were exceptionally large, probably the largest she had ever seen; not that she had made a comparative study. They were mauve in color and startlingly visible within the dark cavity of the wound.

"Is it my imagination, or are those things glowing?" inquired Jianna.

"It isn't your imagination. They do possess a measure of luminosity. I bred them for that, among other things. It makes them much easier to see," Dr. Rione explained.

"You bred them? Yourself? Those slimy, repulsive little horrors?"

"Come, maidenlady. That's rather harsh. Perhaps they aren't the loveliest of creatures, but they are highly useful, and utility possesses its own beauty."

"None that I can appreciate. To me they're horrid, disgusting worms that eat corpses."

"You do them an injustice. True, they are the gluttons of the graveyard, but they're also the devoted drudges of the sickroom. You already know that a wound of the most trivial nature becomes deadly when a portion of the injured tissue dies, for the dead matter swiftly poisons the living, and the infection spreads throughout the body."

Jianna nodded sagely. In fact, she had known none of this, but did not wish to appear ignorant before the doctor.

"The only remedy lies in the removal of the necrotic flesh," Rione continued. "To this end the surgeon labors with his scalpel. But he is only human. His instrument is clumsy, his vision dull. He misses small quantities of dead matter, leaving them in place to renew the infection; else he excises too aggressively, needlessly deepening the wound. But these small creatures commit no such errors. They devour dead tissue down to the last particle but never touch living matter. Thus they cleanse the wound with a precision and thoroughness beyond the ability of any human physician. Now will you regard them with a kindlier eye?"

"Perhaps. From a safe distance."

"Oh, you'll be safe enough so long as the little fellows don't mistake you for a corpse, which they're unlikely to do-you are almost conspicuously vital. Now I want you to stand at my right with that bowl of maggots. The workers on site are sated; I'm sending in reinforcements."

"How can you tell that they're sated?"

"Their movements alter. And they exude a certain pensive melancholy."

"I'll wager that's not all they exude. Here." Jianna extended a moist earthenware bowl. A quick glance down at the squirming contents roused some distaste, but no terror or nausea. Her tolerance for such tasks was proving unexpectedly high. "Can you reach them?"

"He can't do anything if he doesn't stop chattering." The wounded Ghost on the cot spoke up in a slow voice slurred with kalkriole. He was extremely young, probably no more than fifteen or sixteen, small and thin, very pale beneath a multitude of freckles. The maggot-crawling hole in his lower leg promised inevitable amputation; but Dr. Rione continued to battle infection long beyond the point at which most physicians would have called for the bone saw.

"Awake are you, young Broso?" Rione observed with a smile.

"Wide awake," muttered Broso with patent untruth. His eyelids drooped. "Wide ... wide ... wide."

"Any pain?"

"Feeling fine. Bring on the worms."

"They're already at work. You go to sleep."

"Wide awake." Broso's eyes shut. He slept.

Using blunt-nosed tweezers, Rione transferred a number of maggots from bowl to wound. Jianna watched, admiring the deft economy of his movements. He was right about the change in the aspect of the sated worms. They were slow and placid, while the reinforcements were vigorously wriggly. It was easy to spot the difference.

"You needn't watch this," Rione told her. "I know it's hard for you."

"No, it isn't," she assured him.

"It isn't?"

"Well, of course it's revolting, but at the same time it's rather interesting."

"You surprise me." For a moment, his attention shifted from his patient to her face.

"I surprise myself." This was true. "I thought all this would be far worse."

"For most young women of your upbringing, it would be difficult to endure."

"What do you know of my upbringing?"

"Nothing definite, but I surmise that your life has been easy, pleasant, and all but devoid of ugliness."

"Until I came here. But that doesn't make me squeamish or spineless."

"Indeed. They keep reminding me that you are your father's daughter."

"I consider that a compliment."

"You might also consider setting that bowl aside and fetching me a fresh roll of bandages. Step lively."

The dressing that he had removed from Broso's wound was almost fresh, marked only with a few wet splotches. Most physicians would not have hesitated to reuse it, but Rione was unlike most physicians. She had already discovered that his habits and theories were distinctly unconventional. For one thing, he did not believe in bleeding his patients. His respect for maggots did not extend to leeches, and he simply dismissed the entire theory of sanguinary superfluities. This attitude in itself would have sufficed to establish his eccentricity, but there was more. He had no use for Troxius medals or protective appurtenances of any description. He did not believe in the application of friction or pressure to break a fever. He rarely if ever made use of emetics. He openly scoffed at the theory of malignant sendings. And strangest of all was his passion for cleanliness. She had never in her life encountered a doctor-or a sane man of any profession-so enamored of washing.

Rione demanded a mad perfection of purity. Everything in the infirmary had to be spotless, and a hard wipe with an ordinary cleaning rag wasn't good enough. All surfaces, even the floor, had to be scrubbed down with a harsh lye soap. The cleaning rags themselves had to be laundered, and that was nothing compared with the care expended upon bandages, towels, surgical instruments, anything that might actually come into contact with a patient's open wound. These items were boiled at length, then cooled and soaked in alcoholic solutions. Even the hands that touched the wounds, the instruments, or the bandages had to be doused in acidic solutions of stinging potency. The first time Jianna had been directed to plunge her hands into the faintly blue chemical bath, she had ventured to ask the reason, and he had replied very simply: "Because it works."

"Works?"

"Helps to keep people alive. When bandages, instruments, and hands are kept clean, patient mortality declines."

"You really believe that?"

"I've observed the effect at first hand for years."

"The soap, the cleaning solutions-they're of arcane origin, then?"

He had smiled at that. "No, it's all ordinary. Even the soap."

"Then I don't understand. Why does it work? What's washing and scrubbing got to do with keeping people alive?"

"That is the question. I don't know the true answer-nobody does. There are various theories, but nothing has been proved. The one thing I can state with assurance is that it does help. So give your hands a good soak, maidenlady. It's well worthwhile."

Yes, a curious character, Dr. Falaste Rione. His frank admission that he could not answer her question had won her instant approval, for it reminded her of Uncle Innesq, who-unlike his masterful older brother, Aureste, or his prissy younger brother, Nalio-was capable of confessing ignorance, upon occasion. Since then, the initial approval had only deepened. Nature had blessed Rione with exceptional talent. In Vitrisi and Orezzia, physicians possessing no more than a fraction of his skill tended appreciative Taerleezi patients and amassed considerable wealth. But Rione, evidently disdaining affluence, devoted his talents to the welfare of the Ghosts-a choice difficult to comprehend.

The Magnifico Aureste had always taught his daughter that Faerlonnish resistance was the hopeless cause of crazed fanatics unable or unwilling to accept reality. But Rione was neither unbalanced nor unintelligent; quite the contrary. He possessed one of the most lucid minds she had ever encountered, and his convictions were not to be lightly dismissed. Not that she understood how he had reached them, for the passing days had done little to erode his reserve. He was friendly enough, but hardly confiding. It was understandable under the circumstances, but the reticence had roused her curiosity, and of late she had developed a certain perverse ambition to win past his guard.

"Maidenlady, the bandages." His voice broke her reverie.

"One moment." She hopped into action.

"Mind the ankle," Rione advised.

"Oh-you know, I'd forgotten about that. I think it's all better now." The moment the words popped out of her mouth, Jianna regretted them. Better, far better to persuade her captors that she remained incapacitated and half crippled. If they believed that, then perhaps their vigilance would slacken, and perhaps her chance would come. But now a single unthinking response had alerted Rione to her full recovery. She slanted a quick glance at him. He was smiling, obviously pleased, and his expression was so reassuring and so engaging that her chagrin dissipated and she found herself smiling back at him.

"I'm glad to hear that, but comfort can be misleading. Recovery is probably not quite complete. I advise you to take care."

Should that be taken at face value, or was more intended? She was uncertain. Could he read her thoughts? Probably no better than she could read his, but then again he was uncommonly perceptive; he revealed that quality in every exchange with every patient. No telling what those penetrating grey-blue eyes of his took in.

Jianna turned away abruptly. Her own eyes, unsure where to turn, ranged the infirmary, moving from cot to cot. Ten patients present today, five of them in serious danger. Three infected wounds, one case of brain fever, and one shockingly mutilated survivor of Taerleezi interrogation. This last she could hardly bear to look at, despite her newly discovered fortitude. Her weakness would scarcely offend the patient, who-having lost both eyes, among other bodily parts-was unlikely to observe it. In any case, he was usually unconscious, so far as she could tell. From time to time, however, an issuance of moaning babble suggested wakefulness. He was moaning now, limbless form jerking, and she wavered, half inclined to run to his side, half inclined to run away. But no decision was required of her; the doctor was waiting for his bandages.

Jianna hurried to the cabinet beside the door, withdrew a fresh white roll, presented it to Rione, and watched as he wrapped Broso's wound. This done, he moved to the bedside of the moaning wreck and motioned her to join him. She obeyed with reluctance.

"Grezziu," Rione addressed the ruin firmly. "Can you understand me?"

No response, no evidence of comprehension.

"I am going to change your dressings," Rione announced, and his patient whimpered. "No, I won't hurt you. Calm yourself."

The whimpering intensified. The wreck writhed.

"Grezziu, you are among friends. You'll swallow a draught," Rione promised.

The noise subsided. The wreck lay still.

Rione poured a small quantity of a dark syrup into an earthenware cup. "Lift him up," he commanded.

Jianna stiffened. She did not want to touch the wreck-did not want to see him, hear him, or exist in the same universe with him-but there was no escape. Mastering vast repugnance, she bent, slipped an arm under the bandaged shoulders, and raised him. He was limp, deadweight, but surprisingly easy to move; perhaps his lack of arms accounted for it. His odor was both rank and wrong, suggestive of decay, despite all his physician's efforts. Jianna's gorge rose, and she turned a retch into a cough.

Grezziu began to scream, his cries deafening within the confines of the infirmary. Jianna started and almost dropped him. Her alarmed eyes sought the doctor's.

"Try to hold him still," Rione directed.

She did try, but the task was nearly impossible. What was left of Grezziu's body pitched and bucked wildly. His head thrashed from side to side.