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.
“Should I go, too?” Jianna inquired.
“Certainly not.”
“What’s left to do?”
“Much. Roll up your sleeves, maidenlady. You’re going to be here for hours to come.”
“Very well, but doing what, exactly?”
“More of the same. Repeatedly.”
Despite his promise, there was nothing at all for her to do for some minutes thereafter, during which time she covertly studied the doctor. Her attention fastened easily and naturally upon Rione. Her eyes sought his face of their own accord, and his changing expressions held them. The vertical crease between his eyes, visible when he frowned, made him look older than his years but agreeably distinguished, she decided. Presently, however, a moaning outcry from Trecchio dragged her reluctant attention from doctor to patient, whose arms were flailing in the water and whose head was thrashing from side to side. His mouth was open, parched lips drawn back over dry gums, tongue slack and juiceless.
Disgus
ting, she thought.
He retched drily and her revulsion sharpened. Then a high-pitched woeful whimper broke from him and the sound of it touched something inside her. Despite her distaste and dislike, she pitied him.
“Softly, Trecchio. All’s well. Dr. Rione is looking after you. Everything will be all right.” To her own surprise she found herself trying to comfort him. Probably he could not understand her words, but the sound of her voice exerted a certain soothing effect and his feverish animation subsided. The swirling bathwater stilled itself, and she saw then that it had lightened, the bruised hue of Rione’s infusion fading to tired violet.
“That’s good,” Rione murmured.
“What is?”
“The way you spoke to him, the use of your voice. Very good.”
“Oh. Well. I just wanted to calm him,” she returned, warmed to the core by his praise.
“Exactly right. Keep doing it.”
“But what if—”
“Now hold him while I take a look at that hand.”
Jianna nodded. He often required this service of her; it was one that she usually performed well, despite her lack of weight and stature. Her success lay less in her own expertise than in the magic of the doctor’s hands, whose talent minimized the patient’s pain and consequent struggling. Still, there could be no denying that she herself had developed a certain skill. Now she judged at a glance that Trecchio’s recoil was likely to plunge his head beneath the water and accordingly positioned herself at his rear in readiness to prevent total submersion.
Rione took possession of his patient’s hand, whose appearance was startling. The white ulcer and surrounding tissue had taken on a deep purple hue verging on black. Having absorbed quantities of medicated water, the dead flesh was now tautly distended. The entire arm was swollen and faintly violet in color.
Trecchio moaned and pulled back. Taking a firm grasp, Jianna exerted force and held him in place.
Employing the thinnest of steel blades, Rione proceeded to shave fine slivers of spongy purple skin from the edges of the wound. His touch was light and the tissue he removed was dead, but Trecchio responded with screams and contortions. The submerged body flopped wildly and violet bathwater splashed Jianna’s face. Blinking, she tightened her grip, bearing down with all her weight to hold him as still as possible. Trecchio’s wordless vociferation intensified. Reaching back with his free hand to grab a handful of her hair, he yanked hard, bringing her head down sharply on the lip of the iron tub. Jianna squawked and saw flashing color. Her grip failed and Trecchio tore free. Loosing her hair, he balled his left fist and drove a blow at Rione’s face.
Jianna was not aware of the warning screech that escaped her, but Rione heard it and looked up from his work in time to dodge the flying fist. Trecchio grunted.
“Hold him down just a few seconds longer, if you can,” Rione enjoined quietly. “Try.”
She nodded and set her jaw. Locking both arms about Trecchio, she held fast, clinging grimly as he moaned and bucked. Waves of violet water overspilled the tub, drenching both Jianna and Rione. Seemingly oblivious, the doctor worked on. At length, he drew back and set his scalpel aside.
“You can let him go,” Rione told her.
She obeyed. Trecchio slumped lax and motionless.
“Finished?” Jianna ran a hand across her forehead, pushing back the strands of wet hair.
“For the moment.”
“Do we take him out and dry him off?”
“Not yet. We’ve scarcely begun.”
“What next, then?”
“Next we replenish the water. Bring it back to its former level.”
The big kettle hanging above the kitchen fire remained half full. Jianna poured the contents into the tub, halting when the bath temperature grew uncomfortably warm to the touch; added cold water from the full bucket that the kitchen boys had left by the hearth; and finished with another heated dollop that brought the bathwater to the right depth and temperature. Rione handed her another calibrated fluid measure. She dripped it in, and the water darkened.
This done, she refilled the kettle at the pump, returned it to its hook above the fire, then refilled the cold-water bucket. Thereafter she was free to resume her scrutiny of Rione, who in turn focused undivided attention on his patient. The doctor’s eyes never wandered, and Jianna’s mind began to fill with ridiculous schemes designed to draw the blue-grey gaze to herself. She might gasp, clutch her brow, and fall in a swoon. She might scream and claim that she had seen a ghost. She might walk across the few feet that separated them, take his face between her hands, and kiss him full on the lips.
This last thought held her by reason of its extreme absurdity. She was the good daughter of a great House and her kisses belonged to the future husband selected by her father, assuredly not to some glorified servant owing allegiance to her worst enemies.
A glorified indifferent servant, she reminded herself. He was civil enough and kind to her, as he might be to any stranger in need, but nothing more.
But she did not really believe that, she realized. Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps simple vanity, but something inside her insisted that he was less detached and impervious than he chose to appear. If she could bring him to acknowledge it, she might enlist his aid, or at least win a modicum of satisfaction.
But probably not this evening.
The quiet minutes marched. The bathwater lightened. Trecchio honked, flopped, and tried to drag himself from the tub. Jianna held him down while Rione shaved quantities of dead flesh from the injured hand. This time, the patient seemed a little easier to control. Perhaps Jianna was acquiring expertise, or else Trecchio’s strength was waning. Either way, the procedure was completed swiftly, but not neatly. Jianna was drenched, purple-stained from head to hem, and Rione fared no better. Water streamed from their garments to enlarge the violet puddles surrounding the bath. Some of it found its way into Jianna’s fragile shoes, which now squelched audibly with every step.
“Are we done?” she inquired optimistically.
“Not nearly,” he returned.
She nodded, not surprised. “Going well, so far?”
“I believe so. Too soon to say.”
She nodded again, then busied herself replenishing the bath and the kettles. When she was done, there was time to rest for a matter of minutes before the entire damp purple sequence recommenced.
Jianna presently lost count of repetitions and lost track of time. The strenuous activity, continual distraction, and discomfort filled her consciousness. The world reduced itself to flailing limbs, surging purple waves, moaning outcry, much pumping of water, filling of kettles, and feeding of fires; everything else faded to the edge of existence, but did not quite vanish. She was aware that late afternoon had darkened into evening and thence into deep night. She knew that the signs of household activity had ceased; presumably the servants were abed, for Ironheart was silent. She knew that her conscientious tending of the kitchen and stillroom fires throughout the hours had greatly depleted the woodpile; eventually she might be obliged to venture forth in search of fuel—an unwelcome prospect. And she knew that Trecchio’s struggles were diminishing. His strength or else his pain was weakening; or perhaps both. He was responding to his doctor’s treatment or else sinking toward death. Either way, he was unlikely to present much more of serious resistance.
But in this she soon found herself mistaken. Somewhere in the deep of the night between midnight and dawn, Trecchio rallied. A roar blasted from his lungs and he wrenched his right hand free of the doctor’s grasp.
“Easy,” Rione soothed. “We’ve nearly—”
Trecchio threw a left that connected solidly with the doctor’s cheek. Rione pitched sideways to the stone floor and Jianna gasped as if she felt the impact along her own nerves. Even as she started toward him, Trecchio grabbed the edges of the tub and hauled himself to his feet, violet water pouring down his body. Once upright he seemed somewhat at a loss, weight shifting from submerged foot to f
oot, glazed gaze wandering.
Jianna approached with caution. “Best sit back down,” she suggested gently. “That’s the way to get well. Why don’t you just—”
He swung at her and she ducked but stood her ground. “Stop that,” she directed firmly. “We’re trying to help you. Behave yourself.”
He swung again and she dodged, but this time the blow caught her shoulder. The pain jolted and Jianna staggered. A watered-down version of his brother. It would have been easy to retreat beyond his reach, but instead she stepped toward him, jaw set and fist clenched to strike back. He stared at her without recognition or comprehension, muttered incoherently, and once again pity cooled her anger. He was off his head, after all.
“Easy, now,” she essayed, as if quieting a restive horse. His face remained blank; impossible to know whether he heard her. “Easy. We’re almost done, this will soon be over.”
Something between a groan and a growl came out of him, and he hoisted one leg over the edge of the tub. His purple-dripping foot hit the floor and Jianna rushed forward without thinking to grab his arm and hold him still.
Not easily done. He tried to shake her off and she found herself caught in a hurricane, clinging stubbornly as he slung her to and fro. The bellow of a tempest filled her ears; Trecchio’s wordless vociferation. He slammed her hard against the tub and she fell to her knees, maintaining a limpet grip on his arm as she went down. For a moment or two Trecchio strove to wrench himself free, then pivoted and grabbed her throat with his free hand. Her breath stopped, her eyes popped, and she released his arm at once, but he did not let go.
Amazing how much strength remained in that one hand. Her most vigorous struggles failed to break his hold, and it flashed across her mind that he might actually strangle her on the spot. She might die a premature and ridiculously pointless death here and now. Before there was time for terror to blot out thought, the pressure on her windpipe eased as Rione, back on his feet, adroitly toppled his patient backward into the bath.
Trecchio sat down hard, and a purple tidal wave overspilled the tub. Twice he attempted to rise, but his burst of strength was exhausted and now Rione restrained him with ease. Presently all resistance ceased. His eyes closed, and he subsided with a groan.
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