"Difficult to say." Lousewort shrugged.

"Think she might be something of a-well, a liability, then?"

"You'd be the best judge of that, or you should be."

Yes, he should be. And he was, Vinz encouraged himself. He was a magnifico of Vitrisi, as well as an arcanist of the first rank, and he was certainly capable of governing his own wife.

"I'll confine her to her own chambers for the next few days," Vinz decreed. Lousewort's face told him nothing, so he added, "She'll receive no visitors. She'll neither send nor accept messages. And I'll lock that maid of hers up as well. That should keep them both out of mischief." There, spoken like the magnifico that he was. He should have adopted an authoritative stance long ago.

"Quite likely." Lousewort appeared less than satisfied.

Vinz knew what was required. "The assault upon Belandor House," he proclaimed with stunning assurance, "will take place in three days' time. And there at last is an end to the Kneeser King."

"Is the sficchi ready yet?"

"How do I tell when the sficchi's ready?" Jianna inquired.

"Tell me how it looks," Rione instructed.

Jianna surveyed the contents of the beaker. "It resembles pond scum that's been carefully aged for a couple of decades, then reduced to a rotten jellied essence."

"Perfect. It's ready." He smiled.

Finally. Following her attempted cozenage, he had treated her with an impassive courtesy that she found surprisingly difficult to bear. It had only been a matter of some twenty-four hours, but the time had stretched into eons. Now at last he was starting to thaw. Her spirits lifted and her face brightened. Returning his smile, she handed him the beaker and watched as he applied the contents to the blistered flesh of a potboy recently splashed with boiling oil. After that came a session with the maggots, to which she had grown comfortably accustomed, even going so far as to assign some of the creatures pet names. Then there was the cleansing of assorted wounds, the changing of various bandages; dispensing of medication; the odorous draining and chemical cauterization of an abscess, accomplished all but painlessly, thanks to Rione's skill. Then the inevitable bathing of fevered limbs and bodies, and the emptying of bedpans-to which she would never accustom herself, no matter how often she was obliged to do it.

The busy hours hurried by. There was little to distinguish this day from its recent predecessors, save for her newly sharpened sense of time's gallop. Then came a change that drove all thought of time from her head, for a while.

It was late afternoon and the daylight was already starting to wane. The infirmary lamps had been lit, and Dr. Rione was toiling away in the yellow glow. But not for much longer, surely. His patients had all been tended; each lay as comfortably as circumstance and medical expertise allowed. A variety of lesser tasks had been performed. All was properly ordered and he might allow himself a rest, in Jianna's opinion.

"You might allow yourself a rest, in my opinion," she suggested.

"I might at that," he agreed and smiled at her expression. "What's the matter? You look as if I'd sprouted antennae."

"That would be interesting. But no, I'm only a little surprised. Usually you can't be pried from your labors."

"Ah, I know you must think me a dull, dour character."

"Not dull at all," she assured him. "Nor even dour, exactly. But serious, always serious. You think of nothing in the world but your work."

"Untrue, maidenlady. I am capable of levity, upon occasion. When I strain to the uttermost, I have been known to achieve frivolity."

"Never."

"Once or twice."

"Humor, perhaps. Frivolity, no."

"Get your cloak."

"Why?"

"We're going to step outside for a breath of fresh air, and while we walk about the courtyard, I'll prove my point. I will relate an amusing anecdote, certain to inspire mirth."

"Do you know any?"

"One or two."

"Oh, this should be splendid. Or at least instructive." Jianna found herself suddenly and unaccountably light-hearted. There was no sound reason, for the doctor's good humor signified little. Or perhaps it did, perhaps he would relent and help her after all. At the moment she hardly cared. He was still smiling, the expression wiping years from his face, and her sense of inappropriate happiness intensified. He was by no means the handsomest man she had ever encountered, with his middling slim stature and his pale scholarly face. Nonetheless, the intelligent grey-blue eyes, firm jaw, and mobile lips pleased her greatly. She never seemed to tire of looking. "I'll just go get-"

The infirmary door banged open with a vehemence that startled her into silence. Those patients retaining consciousness turned to gape, and Jianna did likewise. One of the household guards stood on the threshold.

"You're wanted," he informed Rione. "Kitchen. Make it quick."

Jianna scowled, affronted by the fellow's manner, but Rione appeared impervious, merely inquiring, "Why?"

"Trecchio. Stung by a siccatrice."

"Where?"

"Hand."

"When?"

"Dunno."

"Right." The doctor's eyes shifted to Jianna's face, and he commanded briefly, "You come with me." Pausing only long enough to scoop up his leather bag, he was through the infirmary door and on his way down the stairs, the guard at his side.

Astonished, Jianna scurried in their wake, down the stairs and through the second-story warren. Down more stairs, and on the ground level she caught up with Rione, managing to claim his attention long enough to ask, "What's a ziktris?"

"Siccatrice."

"Some kind of a snake?"

"An arachnid. A kind of woodland scorpion."

"And he's been stung. That must smart. Pity." Her lip curled. "Maybe this will teach him a good lesson. Maybe he'll learn that the worm or the scorpion can turn."

"Maybe he will, if he survives."

"What, you don't mean that one sting from something that isn't a snake could actually kill him?"

"It might, if he doesn't receive prompt treatment. And even then, the outcome isn't certain."

Taken aback, Jianna said nothing. Throughout the term of her imprisonment, she had had few dealings with Trecchio. He had not participated in the murderous attack upon the Belandor carriage. He had manhandled her upon the evening of her arrival, earning her permanent enmity, but thereafter he had never again touched her; had never, in fact, taken much notice of her. Presumably regarding her as the rightful property of his older brother, he had kept his hands to himself and-saving the occasional unimaginative incivility at table-had troubled her not at all. Thus he had retreated to the periphery of her awareness, and she had all but dismissed him from her thoughts.

She thought about him now, however; concluding that she didn't actively wish him dead, but would hardly mourn his loss.

Moments later they reached the kitchen, with its warm atmosphere and its perennial population of household menials. Trecchio was not in evidence, but the arched door to the stillroom stood ajar and the guard's gesture ushered them through.

Jianna blinked and her nose wrinkled. The stillroom was dimly firelit, its air weighted with an indefinably alarming odor. Trecchio lay stretched out on the table. His eyes were open but unfocused. His doublet was off, one of his linen shirtsleeves rolled up, baring his right arm. Beside him stood his mother, plying a poultice.

Yvenza's eyes lifted to Rione's face. "My youngest has played the fool again," she observed. "Now he's paying the price."

An inarticulate mumble of protest escaped Trecchio.

"Shut up, boy," his mother admonished. "You're getting nothing more than your stupidity deserves."

"And what is he getting?" Rione inquired easily.

"See for yourself."

"Siccatrice, I'm told," Rione prompted.

"Stuck his idiot hand into the wrong bush. Now he loses it."

Trecchio's mumbling rose in pitch.

"Oh yes, sonny. Make up your mind to it." Turning back to Rione, she inquired, "Bone saw sharp, lad?"

"Perhaps unnecessary," he replied.

"Careful. I don't tolerate falsehood."

"I know. What point in misleading you, Magnifica? I believe that your son's hand may be saved, provided he's treated promptly."

"A fairy tale, I suspect, and he's like to lose more than his hand if you're wrong."

"I am not wrong, but he must choose for himself." Rione bent to address the sufferer directly and very distinctly. "Trecchio, I've a treatment that should spare you amputation, but it is my own invention and not generally known. Do you want it?"

"He's unfit to decide," Yvenza observed. "I give you permission, lad. Do what you like, without fear. If you fail, I'll not hold it against you."

Rione seemed not to hear her. "Trecchio, what's your answer?" he persisted.

Yvenza's brows rose. Jianna's did the same.

Trecchio's response was garbled but recognizably affirmative.

"There's the sweet salve for your conscience, ready and waiting should the need arise." Yvenza forged an iron smile. "What do you need?"

"Bathtub if possible, otherwise washtub, large quantities of hot water, clean towels," Rione requested. "Basin, dipper, rezhia moss packing if you have any. That should suffice."

"You'll have it. In the meantime, I suppose you'll want the place cleared out."

"But for the maidenlady."

"Ah?" Yvenza's gaze briefly skewered Jianna. "She's so useful to you, then?"

"She is a willing and able assistant."

"Willing. That is interesting. You will tell me more, but now is not the time. To work, then. When there's news, send word, even if I am sleeping."

Sleeping? Jianna wondered. Her son may lose a hand or more, and she can sleep?

Yvenza withdrew without visible reluctance. Rione seemed scarcely to note her departure. Already he was at Trecchio's side, stripping the poultice from the damaged hand. Jianna glimpsed a sunken crater of scaled grey flesh surrounding a dry white ulcer, a sight outside her experience. Her gaze sought Trecchio's face, which was grey and curiously ... shrunken was the term that sprang to mind. He appeared marginally conscious.

Rione ran one fingertip lightly around the circumference of the crater, and a long shred of dry skin flaked off. Trecchio noticed nothing, but Jianna drew in her breath sharply. Repelled and fascinated, she stepped nearer for a closer look. The flesh surrounding the wound was shriveled and apparently dead. The ulcer marking the entry point of the siccatrice's sting was ruffled with translucent white scales. A brush of the doctor's finger dislodged a powdery shower of them.

"Help me get his clothes off," Rione commanded.

"Everything?"

"Everything."

Jianna was undismayed, for her work in the infirmary had inured her to the sight of naked bodies, but she could hardly fathom his purpose. Why strip a patient bare in order to treat a wounded hand? It was not the time to ask. She shrugged and set to work. Trecchio soon lay fully exposed to view, and the object of the doctor's scrutiny revealed itself at once. A scaly grey patch marked the patient's upper arm. Another-small enough to pass for a mole-blemished his right shoulder. Her eyes caught Rione's.

"Dried tissue," he answered the unspoken question. "Drained of nearly all its moisture."

He did not need to say more. He did not need to inform her that it was already too late to halt the malady's advance by means of amputation; that was self-evident. Trecchio was clearly doomed. It remained only to keep him as comfortable as possible throughout the final hours of a life unlikely to outlast the night. She wondered whether Yvenza's apparent indifference would sustain the news of her younger offspring's early demise.

At least the poor wretch didn't appear to suffer. It would not be necessary to pump him full of kalkriole. Probably it would be best to keep him warm, though.

"Can't we cover him up?" she asked. "I'll find a blanket or two, and-"

"Step out into the kitchen and see if they've assembled the items I requested," he ordered.

She looked at him, surprised no less by his curtness than by his expression, which was particularly intent. His face reflected none of the reluctant resignation reserved for those such as Grezziu, whose cases he deemed hopeless. It was clear at a glance that Rione still expected and intended to preserve his patient. She nodded and did as she was bid. Moments later she was able to report, "The things you asked for have been laid out on the kitchen table, except for the moss. Most of the servants are out of there, but there's still one of the boys pumping and heating water. The bathtub-I suppose it's a bathtub, it's shaped like a shoe and riddled with rust-is more than half full."

"Good." He did not glance in her direction. He was engrossed in some task that involved measuring, weighing, and mixing of powders, liquids, and unguents. A few minutes later, an airborne pungency tickled her nostrils, and she hacked a muffled cough. Rione settled back in his chair with an air of accomplishment. "There," he said.

"A draught?" she asked.

"A wash."

"You'll want some clean cloth."

"No need."

"Oh, it's going straight into the bathwater, then?" she guessed.

"Good girl. Here-" He handed her a calibrated glass beaker containing a quantity of viscous dark fluid. "Pour that into the tub. And tell whichever of the lads is out there to get himself in here."

Once again she obeyed, watching as the dark liquid from the beaker infused itself through the bathwater in slow serpentine streaks. Moist warmth from the tub kissed her face, and her mind flashed on the bath at Belandor House, with its spectacular mosaics, its intricate bronze chandeliers, its perfumed atmosphere, its beauty and safety ...

Tears intensified the wet heat on her face. She brushed them away and took a deep breath, drawing medicinal vapors deep into her lungs. A moment later Rione and the kitchen boy emerged from the stillroom bearing Trecchio, whom they dumped without ceremony into the tub. He sank without a murmur. Almost casually Rione pushed back his sleeve, plunged a bare arm into the aromatic water, grasped his patient's hair, and hauled the submerged head to the surface. Trecchio choked and gurgled.

"That's all for tonight. Off with you," Rione advised, and his nameless assistant exited smartly.