Brian sat bolt-upright on his pallet, sweating heavily. His stomach felt sour, and his mouth tasted like metal and rot. When he flexed his left hand, pain shot through his arm to his wrist. Wincingly, unwound the dressings, and almost gagged at the smell. On his mother's advice he'd packed the wounds with goose shit and ash before wrapping them up, but it hadn't worked against infection. The stubs of his pinky, ring and middle fingers, cut off just below the first knuckle, were engorged with blood, the skin shiny and stretched. He could smell the sickness in it.

He groaned. Not likely the new Steward, Jack Tiernay, would waste money hiring a physician for a serf. He'd have to find someone else to handle it, maybe his father--maybe a barber-surgeon passing by would do it for some of the coin he'd scrounged.

Brian did not want to be like Tom Thurston, whose leg had been stepped on by a horse and turned black to the knee. He'd died screaming and delirious.

Brian Farraday wouldn't go like that. Brian Farraday would go down fighting.

He levered himself up and put on his one suit of clothes, a threadbare tunic and brown breeches, which he tied up with a belt. He ran his good hand through his hair and took a look in a battered bit of bronze mirror--no use looking less than his best. He slicked back his hair and rubbed the dirt off his face, then grabbed a green stick, which he stuck in his mouth before he went over to the basin in the corner. After he'd cleaned his teeth--spitting outside--he tossed the stick away, shoved his feet into his boots, and tried not to look at his left hand, or what remained of it.

He'd rewrapped the cloth around his hand after soaking it with water, and it abraded his raw flesh terribly. After he'd made his way outside--thank God, it was midsummer, with hardly any work to do in the fields--and trekked toward the fiefdom. Maybe he'd beg a favor of a physician. And then he remembered--that strange Arabian woman, who dressed all in black. She was a healer, and probably didn't get any business.

She stuck out. "Miss?" He didn't recall her name, but put on his most winsome smile. "Miss, may I beg a favor?"

Today had not turned out to be such a good day. She had not been able to sell anything today, and she had only just managed to barter her way into a room. It had taken the last of her green wheat, her most potent aphrodisiac, to be able to convince the innkeeper to let her stay. “I guarantee it’ll work, sir,” she had cajoled. “If it doesn’t, you may take whatever of my herbs you desire, and I will leave the town immediately.”

The green wheat had worked. It had worked so well in fact, that the loud noises from down the hall had kept Maha from falling asleep. After some hours of listening to wild sex, Maha was finally driven from the inn. She escaped through the kitchen unnoticed, and began to head toward the moonlit forest. She had planned to collect what she could under the moonlight. It would be much more difficult to collect anything with such poor light, but this may be one of her few chances to collect anything for a while. She would be too busy selling, or trying to sell, anything she could during the day to do much else.

However, Maha was interrupted before she was able to reach the woods.

“Miss,” She heard, “[I]Miss, may I beg a favor?[I]”

She turned slowly. A young man stood before, dressed ever so dandily, or at least and dandily as he could. Maha raised an eyebrow. It was the middle of the night, what was he doing almost out in the middle of nowhere dressed like that? He didn’t think he was calling out to a whore, did he? She had been mistaken for a whore, once before, but that man had certainly been a great deal ruder then this man, and even more drunk then rude. Maha sighed. This one probably didn’t mean any harm, even if he did look like he was trying to hard to smile pretty. Maha smiled back—she could play this game too.

“Yes, sir, what may I help you with?”

"I've heard you're an uncommon healer." Brian tried to look ingratiating, but he was afraid his smile was a little strained. At least his breath wasn't foul. He must be more disoriented than he thought, though--he hadn't even noticed the sun wasn't up yet. That was bad. Even he knew brain-sickness was no good. Well, maybe it was just some bad meat he'd eaten last night.

"I'm sorry, though, I don't recall your name." He held out his good right hand. The fingernails were grimy, but there was nothing he could do about that, not and work in the fields like he did. "I'm Brian, Brian Farraday. I have some coin, if that's what you ask, but the dam'--sorry, Mistress. The old Steward took three of me fingers for what he call thievin' and I fear it's gone bad. Don't you see."

He scuffed one foot a little apologetically. His head thrummed inside with the effort of ignoring his pain, and he kept his back hand tucked close against his chest. He didn't like to look at it. Dear God, he thought, praying he wouldn't lose the whole hand. How good was this Arab woman? Well--she was pretty enough, though he felt too bilious to really flirt.

“Uncommon healer?” What in the world did he mean be that? Did he mean her race? Well, yes, she was quite uncommon here. She was the only Arab on the silly island she knew of—all the other Arabs likely had enough sense to stay in Arabia. She would have stayed in Arabia, too, if she had known that she would be stuck on this island. Or did he mean her actual techniques? She hardly considered them unusual; not only were they very common back in Arabia, they were the standard. Maha’s thoughts raced for another moment before she was brought back by a movement—the man was extending his hand. He had probably been saying something, too. She caught his name; Brian somethingorother. He had probably asked her name, asking for a handshake. She had seen men do it frequently, but she had never been offered a hand before. Not that she would have accepted it if they had. She inclined her head to him, hoping he would put his hand down and not be too terribly offended. She still disliked touching men, even if the barrier between men and women wasn’t so physical in Thiasa.

He went on about his hand, three fingers had been cut off by a steward. Maha didn’t know what exactly a steward was, but she figured it was some person of some importance. If his fingers had been cut off and he was seeking her help, the wounds had likely become infected. He had probably used some stupid home remedy, and that would have made it worse. And he was offering to pay? It was simple enough to clean a wound, and she wasn’t in the position to be picky.

“I am Maha. I’ll take whatever coin you can offer. Now let me see your other hand.”

Brian withdrew his hand, surprised and a little bewildered. But it was probably some oddity of her culture. An uppity woman, that was what he thought. He'd hoped, when she came to the fiefdom, that she would be like one of those dancing gypsy women who wore hardly anything, but no, she was Bat Lady swooping around in big black clothing.

He smiled at her pleasantly, aware that his bad mood was only the product of his pain and irritation. She could help him, he reminded himself.

"Don't scream," he said weakly, pulling back his right hand and slowly uncurling the other. "It's a little, ah... he took three fingers, he did." Brian turned his head and spat. It was that or throw up at the memory of it, the memory of his anger, fear, horror, disbelief. "I did me best with the bandage, but it's hard to get much clean cloth, an' I don't know if it being wet is, is, is any good." He shook his head. "Sorry, Miss. Do you--should I go to your shop? Do you have a shop?" He was babbling, nervous. He did not want to hear her diagnosis.

This man, Brian, didn’t seem to be doing very well, Maha noted. She wondered if he realized that he was swaying slightly. Probably not, he seemed to be more focused on looking like a bright, chipper young boy. Or something. She could never be quite sure what was going through these people’s minds.

She took his injured hand in her own, and Maha was almost overwhelmed by the smell. The stench of blood, sick, and rot, covered by something else… manure. It had to be manure. “You weren’t foolish enough to put manure on your open wounds, were you?” She didn’t bother to wait for an answer; she didn’t need one. Putting manure and all sorts of various other objects that made absolutely no sense to an educated person was one of the number one ways of treating an injury. Manure was the strangest of all—the body had naturally excreted it, why on earth would someone put it back in?

His hand was worse then she had expected. She had been hoping for just a small little infection, even just a terrible cut that just need stitches, but no. This one had to be severe, possibly severe enough for amputation. Maha blanched. She had performed an amputation once before, and while she had been successful; it had been such a complicated procedure she had almost fainted right in the middle of it. Whether or not she would have to amputate didn’t matter right at the moment. Before she could make any decision, she would have to see his hand in a much better light.

“I don’t have anything like a shop; we’ll have to go to the inn I’m staying at. Unless you know of a better place.” Maha’s mind raced—the kitchen would probably be the easiest place to clean anything up.

"What, it's what my mam once told me to do," he said, trying not to jerk his hand way from hers. It tickled painfully all the way up to his elbow. "I dunno, but my mam midwived and she didn't kill anyone." Then he did pull away, clutching his injured hand by the wrist, clutching it to his chest.

"Listen, I'd say do it outside. We got a pump out back, if you need water, and if it's a mess it's our land anyway. More or less." It actually belonged to the Lord, and Brian didn't forget it for a moment; but that wouldn't last forever. Or very much longer at all He wouldn't have to go to the border, not with his injury, and whilst everyone else was busy fighting for their wondrous country...

Brian nodded his head in the direction of the patch of land his family worked, with their shack st up in the middle of their barley-fields. His father and mother were still sleeping, but they slept deep, after years of ground-in work. "But if you need to get bandages or tools, why don'tcha go to your room. I can come with you, to carry. Still got one good arm." He gave her his most charming half-smile. "You'll be able to save the rest of my hand--right? I mean, I've given up on the most of the fingers, but not to have a hand would be... I'm sorry."

Maha paused, then frowned. “I’ll need a good deal of light. If this is as bad as it smells, then doing it outside would make it more difficult. But I’ll need to look at it at the inn before we decide on anything.” She released his hand, nothing the slightly pained expression on his face. It wasn’t just his hand hurting, very likely. If whatever infection he had were to take her arm…

“I will do what I can to avoid any amputation, but I make no guarantees. If your fingers are gangrened, and that has spread to your hand, I will have no other choice. You would die if I did not amputate the hand. You can find other work to do with only one hand, you can even beg if it were to come down to it. If you kept the infect hand, however, you would not likely last through the next few weeks.” Maha turned toward the path that led to the inn. “Come on now, I need to see your hand in good light.”

It was a mostly silent trip back to the inn; the kitchen was still fortunately empty. The lanterns had been left out on the counter, and in a small cupboard were a few candles. After she had lit all of the lights, the room was filled with a sort of comfortable light. Or it would have been, if there wasn’t a man standing behind her with her hand rotting off.

“Give me your hand,” she ordered. This time, she removed the bandages completely, flicking off what manure she could without getting too much on her hands. Disgusting, using manure to treat wounds.

Underneath the grime, the first knuckles were completely black, and little black tendrils stretched out from the rot, contrasting against swollen red flesh. The rot ended a little above his hands. What was left of his fingers were unsalvageable, but he would at least keep his hands. Still, she would have to amputate. Blast.

“You’ll keep your hand, but I must amputate the fingers. I’m sure you have a strong sort of alcohol at your home, if you’re still so determined to have this there, but if not, then find something in here. I will return shortly with what I need.”

Brian had to keep from fainting when she told him, her voice nearly matter-of-fact--though that could be her accent. He clung to the exotic thread of her voice as he followed her. With his good hand, he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. The world was dark and fuzzy around the edges by the time he got to the warm light of the kitchen.

When he unwrapped the bandages for good, he swallowed hard to see the threads of blackness in his skin. It was as though some spider or snake had taken hold of him. Like some demon had gotten under his skin. The room felt very warm suddenly, as compared to the chill of his skin.

Brian was scared.

"Oh, thank God." He yanked his hand back, shutting his eyes and drawing in a deep, choking breath. "Alcohol, right." Brian had no qualms about stealing someone's drink. Ownership was pablum anyway. He shoved himself away from the counter and went to a cabinet, where he withdrew a half-full bottle of harsh barley alcohol. Brian was used to inferior drink and food, and he'd soon made a sizeable dent, further softening the edges of the room. His vision grew haloed, and he had to wobble over to a short stool, where he sat, his head braced on his right palm.

"Do your worst," he mumbled, unsure if she was even in the room anymore.

Maha ascended the stairs as quickly as she could. Loud noises were still coming from down the hall. Maha rarely doled out the green wheat because it was so powerful. At the very least, though, their pleasure would help cover whatever sounds the man would make. She rummaged through her bags; she knew she had poppy hidden somewhere in the bags. There, but it was only a little. It would do, she determined. Every little bit helps. Then she found her knife. It wasn’t the high quality a real doctor would use, but it was what she had, and she highly doubted that the inn had any better. Next were the bandages—she was low on these, too. She could have cried. She was almost out of her most important supplies, and she highly doubted that the money the boy was going to pay her would cover the cost of getting more.

A few more things, a leather bit for him to chew on, a piece of cloth to cover the surface. She slipped everything into a bag, and venture back downstairs to find Brian on a stool. He looked barely conscious. There was a bottle near him. Idiot. She didn’t mean for him to drink the alcohol. But his drunkenness may help—an unconscious patient rarely made noise. Besides, in his condition, she doubted he would be able to make it as far as his home.

“Will you be able to make it to your home?” It’d be a great deal of trouble if she were caught amputating his fingers in the kitchen, but being chased out of town was nothing new to her. At least this time she’d leave with money.

"Oh yeah, sure," Brian mumbled, looking up. "Listen, I'm no weakling. I'burr... I'm good. Swear." He held out his hand, flexing it, watching the little bones in the back of his hand flex. He could see the blue throb of his vein. He watched it, wondering what was happening to his blood. Was the poison in it? Would it go back to his heart?

He shoo these thoughts off.

"Here, go and take 'em. Feed 'em to the geeze. Bloody geeze... geese." He shook his head, feeling his hair shake into its usual disarray. Ah well, he didn't look his best anyway. "So whaddo I have to do?" He shook his head again. "Nev' mind." She'd lain down the cloth, and he put his hand down on it, palm-up. "Is something I oughtta take?" The drink had gone to his head more than he thought. "I heard you Arabs have some 'coctions."

Now the idiot was mumbling about geese. If she was lucky, the poppy would knock him out completely. If she wasn’t lucky, he’d probably try and take out the leather bit that was supposed to stop him from biting his tongue off. And if he bit his tongue off, well, she had no idea how to handle that.

She handed him the last of her poppy seeds. “Chew these. If you fall unconscious, please try to avoid hitting your head. I’m going to get some water from the well.” She left him there, hoping that he wouldn’t somehow injure himself further.

When Maha returned with water, the man had slumped over in his chair, blessedly unconscious. At least that was in her favor, she thought as she laid him on the floor. She slipped the leather bit into his mouth anyway—if he were to suddenly become conscious, she was certain he would bit his tongue off.

With precision, she washed his hand, first in water and then pouring the alcohol over what was left of his fingers. The manure had to go, as well as the other junk he had stuffed in there. She also had to wash her knife, she couldn’t remember the last time she used it.

Maha remembered the first amputation she had ever witnessed. A horse had stepped on her cousin’s foot, and his foot had gangrened. She watched with morbid interest as the doctors first cut the skin and muscle around the bone before cutting the bone itself. Later, she asked her anatomy teacher why the physician had not just cut off the foot, he told her that it was more dangerous to cut the bone that way. The bone was much more likely to shatter and enter the bloodstream, and if that happened, the patient would die that much faster.

Her first amputation happened in a tiny village. The same thing had happened; some man had his foot trod upon by a horse. She had never performed anything as serious as an amputation, but she was somehow successful. The man survived, but she was blamed for the loss of his foot.

This time, she had no idea what would happen to her. But it didn’t stop her steady movements. She started with his little finger.

First, cut the skin and muscle away from the bone.

There.

Now, make an incision on the bone.

There.

Now, cut the bone off.

There.
The next step was not as difficult at the other, sewing the skin together, but it would not look as clean as it would if it had been done by a trained doctor. It would pass, however.

Maha repeated the procedure on his ring finger, then on his middle finger. When the last stitches were secure, she wrapped his hand in bandages, and then began to clean her tools. Blood would make the knife rust if it was left alone, after all. The blood had thankfully soaked into the cloth she had placed under his hand, but there was still the matter of the remnants of his fingers. If she could, she would burn them. But somebody would notice that. The next option she thought of was to bury them, away from any water. Maybe behind the inn. And then her eyes fell on the unconscious body of her patient, and Maha realized that he would not wake for a long while, and she had no idea where he lived.

Well, he could go to behind the inn with his fingers. Just not underground. She was sure that he would appreciate the humor.

Brian came back to himself very slowly. What he first felt was the blessed, sweet sting of clean pain. Then he felt the strange clasp and unclasp of phantom fingers. Then he blinked, and the vague shapes above him resolved into the dark-featured face of the Arab woman who'd treated him.

His gaze drifted over her face, down to the disappointingly high neckline of her garment, and then down to his own hand. It was wrapped in a clean bandage. Not even the stubs of his fingers remained.

But the horrible pain of infection was gone.

"Hama... ha... Missus Maha," he said, hitting upon what he thought was her name. His mouth felt very dry and cottony, and his throat was dry. His voice rasped, and his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. "Thank you. Thank you... I..." He coughed, clearing his throat, and pushed himself up onto his elbows. A twinge shot down his arm from his injured hand. "Here." He groped in his pocket, and withdrew a handful of pennies. "It's all I got."

Maha did not sleep much that night, but she was able to grab a few blessed hours. Morning came much too soon for her, but she rose anyway. The noise in the inn didn’t seem too unusual, and when she passed by the innkeeper, he gave her a salicious smile and nod. Maha smiled back, a little awkwardly. It seemed he appreciated the effects of the green wheat. He really didn’t have to point that out to her. She wasn’t disturbed for too long, though. Her patient was still outside. Or at least, hopefully, he still was. It wouldn’t surprise her if he had gotten up and walked away or if he had been stolen away by brigands.

Thankfully, he was still out there, and within a few minutes of her arriving, he was waking, and quickly speaking. He was probably thirsty and had a terrible hang over. If she had not just operated on him, Maha would have laughed.

He rummaged through his pocket, and offered her a very small amount of money. This was all he had? It was even less then she had hoped. Honestly, wasn’t his lord or whatever supposed to take care of things like this? She sighed. She couldn’t take his money. It would get her nothing. He could at the very least buy some bandages with that piddling sum.

“Keep it. You’ll need to buy supplies to take care of your hand while it’s healing. It’d be good to buy another set of bandages, those must be changed and washed daily to prevent another infection. Now, unwrap the bandages while I go get something for your thirst. I want to inspect the stitches to make sure that they’re still in place, and then I want you to escort me to wherever you live. I will need to make checkups on your hand daily for a short while to make sure that everything if healing fine.”

Brian sat all the way up, blinking dazedly around. "Oh. No, no." He shook his head, and took her hand, forcing the coins into her palm. "I'm sorry. I can get more money, trust me." Stealing wasn't exactly what he would call it, but Hell... he'd heard some of the preachers' talk. Property was a ridiculous idea. The serfs ought to be able to take what they wanted from the people who saw them as nothing but slaves.

"Really. Thank you. It... if it weren't for you I'd have lost my hand, or my arm, or died." He looked into her eyes, his good hand moving up to clasp insistently just below her elbow. "Thank you. Really. It means a lot to me, and I--" He glanced away, blinking rapidly. "Missus Maha, I don't think I can stand up. Do you think..." His tongue felt thick. "I think if I had some water first I could make it, I just feel funny and weak and such. What was those seeds you gave me?"

He could get more money? If he could, then why did he not bring it? Did he only bring so little just in case she killed him? Why on earth go to a healer your couldn’t trust? That was just foolishness. But then again, this was the same person who believed in the healing properties of manure. Maybe he had a pile of coins buried beneath his bed? Or maybe he was owed money or favors, something like that. Those were much better alternatives then stealing. Maha really didn’t want to receive stolen money, but—

Now he was grasping her arm. Tightly. She wondered if he knew how tightly he had her arm and if he realized how very awkward it was for her. Not likely, he was babbling on about how grateful he was. That was all in well, he was probably the most grateful patient she had ever had, outside of a few little children, but really would he just let go of her arm?

“Oh the seeds? Those were poppy seeds. I don’t recommend chewing them unless you’re in a great deal of pain. They can have... unwanted side effects. And if you’ll release my arm, I will get you water and something to eat. You need to be at full strength for the quickest and best recovery.”

"Oh." Brian nodded, easing his grip on her arm. She was very uptight. "You know, you don't like to be touched. But don't worry, I don't bite. Unless you ask me to..."

He made a face. "Sorry, I'm not at my best." He let go of her arm and sat back, running his hand through his hair and trying to make his awkwardness charming. It usually was, but she was quite alien to him. "I could use sommut to eat and drink. I'm sorry to be asking so much of you. Can I call you Maha? I'm not--well, I am in incurable flirt, is what they say, but nothing to fear. It's only because I want you to warm up a bit. You seem--frightened."

That was it--Brian felt sure this intuition was right. "You dun need to be scared. Of the steward, mebbe, or the nobility, but we're good sorts around here, promise."

Maha’s eye twitched, just a little. “You realize, good sir, that on three separate occasions, I have been a hairsbreadth away from being,” she paused for a moment. What was the word? Roped? Hunged? Scalian was too complicated for her tastes. “Hung, as I believe you would say, for merely being better at my trade then my accusers were. I have every right to be wary of any Thiasan I meet. I suspect it will only be a matter of time before the matter of my religion will be questioned.

“I know that you are still somewhat under the spell of poppy and alcohol, and so I will excuse your impudence. Also, keep in mind that where I am from, if a man unjustly touches a woman, that woman’s father has every right to demand that the man’s hand be cut off.” Maha stood and stalked to the inn, where she hoped they had some bread left. She easily found a tankard to hold water from the well, and while she had to go to the baker to find bread, she was able to afford some bread with the money he had given her. She returned to the man as quickly as she could; the sooner she was done with him, the sooner she could wash her hands of him.

Brian leaned over, waiting for the pounding in his head to still, and remained in that limp posture until she returned. Her words were harsh, but her hasty retreat left him no time to make the smart comment he'd been planning. Which was, in this case, "How much of you do I get to touch for three fingers?"

He saw her coming back, and his hunger and good judgment warred with his native high spirits--and his desire to assert some sort of power, some sort of energy, some sort of life. If not he was just a pathetic, weak little boy once again. Pushed down by something against his control.

"How much do I get to touch for three fingers?" he said, smiling brilliantly up at her.

Maha’s first instinct was to slap him. Hard. But that would require touching him, and it’d also mean he could gloat over her loss of control. And she may hard him so hard she’d have to take care of some other injury. She took in a deep breath, the exhaled. What kind of an Arab woman let some piddling Thiasan break her control? She smiled broadly. There were other ways to teach him to keep his mouth shut.

Maha placed the bread and water by him and began to speak. “I see you are feeling quite spirited! I had been afraid that you would still be affected by the drugs for a while longer, and that I would have to help you walk back to whatever shack you live in. But if you’re feeling this spirited, then surely you must feel quite able to walk on your own!” Maha stood back up, dusting her knees off. If some dirt got on his bread and in his water, well, she didn’t mind. She moved to a tree nearby and leaned against it, fastidiously examining her nails. “Do tell me when you’re finished. I do still have other business to take care of.”

"Oh, you wouldn't leave a poor young injured boy all alone," Brian said. He shrugged and picked up the cup of water, which he drank much too quickly before starting in on the bread. "Mm," he mumbled through a mouthful of bread. "Thish is almost fresh." He swallowed. "You know, you would be quite pretty if you got that sour look off your face. I know you're learned and such. Hey. Can you read?"

He took another bite of bread. She'd stay nearby. Even he knew that. She was a healer, and he was obviously too weak to get up, his limbs shaking, his head still throbbing. And he was hungry. What he wouldn't give for some meat... but it had been weeks since he'd had even a bite of beef.

"More seriously, though. Maha, listen. I don't just want to flirt with you. It sounds like you have your own... grievances with the nobles. We could use a healer on our side of--this thing." He looked up, his face suddenly serious, the impression marred only by the convulsive movement of his Adam's Apple as he swallowed a last bit of bread.

“Boy?” She snapped. “If you were truly a boy, you would not be capable of making such lewd remarks. If you were a true man, you would not deign to make such remarks! I am not quite sure what you are, but I found you much better company when you were unconscious!” He had drunk all of the water, and if she were a much kinder person, she would have refilled it. But her grace only extended so far, and she was not getting in arms length of him.

Sour look on her face? The nerve! “How dare you say such things to me? How I wear my face is between myself and God, and only God!” Impudent, wretched boy. How dare he say such things to the only person on the island who knew how to tend to his wounds!

Then his face changed and he was asking her about her grudge against the nobles, and something else vague. Maha was somewhat startled, and wary.

“I don’t have a particular grudge against any of the nobles here, no more so then I do any of the peasants. A Thiasan is a Thiasan, no matter what he wears or calls himself.” She looked up. “I don’t think I’ve even had any interaction with any of the nobles here. I’ve only stayed in little villages here and there; this is the largest town I have seen yet on the island.”

"But we're trying to get beyond labels of 'Thiasan' or 'foreigner' or 'Arab' or what-have you." Brian's face was bright, even feverish, with intensity. His usual playful demeanor burned off like water in a skillet in the face of his sudden seriousness. "What I'm saying is we want an equal society. We want everyone to be able to do what they're best at. Like you should be able to be a physician, even though you're an Arab and a Mohammedan and a woman. We don't care about religion, or about... well, I say we but there are only a few of us."

He looked down at his hands. Brian was still cradling his bad hand with his other, absently running his thumb over the place where his fingers at been. Their phantoms cramped, and he gritted his teeth, feeling them squeak in the back of his head somewhere.

"See, Maha, the way I was raised, it was--some of the things--we hardly ever had enough to eat. One of my sisters died. The things the Stewards did--but it's not just them, it's the whole country. We're idiots to try to drive away the natives. This is their land. They just want to make more slaves, because that's what they want us all to be, all of us, slaves. But we're Thiasa, what they call Thiasa, the men--the people. Except that the nobility just rides us, you know that, it's..." He shook his head. "You have to see that, Maha. Not enough people do, but you're smart."

Maha’s eyes bulged and she flew toward Brian. “Do not,” she hissed, “Do not say such things that loud! Any suspicion of my being a heretic to the church will send me directly to the stake. I don’t care what your and your little idealistic world would think—we exist in the here and now of the real world. If these ideas were to get out, you would be killed, boy.

“What you propose is a revolution. I’m sure it sounds very quaint and dear to you in your little head, but know this: it was rebellion that stranded me here in this wasteland. Before I was set to return to Arabia four years ago, a rebellion broke out. The Emir, may he rest in peace, that had been my father’s and my family’s patron was overthrown. My mother and father were killed, and probably my brother and sister as well. It is not safe for me to return, as there is likely still strife and turmoil, and if my heritage were to become known, I would likely be killed. It is only because I am somewhat less likely to be killed here then in Damask that I have remained! Do not believe that I will ever lower myself to become a Thiasan; Ana Arabiiya, and nothing will ever change that. And stop rubbing your stitches, you’ll pull them out if your keep worrying them like that.

“My goal here is not to change the world. I am only one woman, I only have so much strength. The only thing I am here to do is survive until I am able to return to Arabia. To involve myself in petty conflicts and idle daydreams of serfs will only get me killed. Do you understand?” She stepped back, looking cautiously around her. Stupid, stupid, stupid boy. What did he think he was doing, calling her a Mohammedan? At the very least he could have called her a Muslim, which be the actual word.

"Idle daydreams." Brian's face paled, his lips tightened, and he slowly pushed himself to his feet. For a moment, his head spun dizzily. "You know, you speak awful good Scalian for not being from here. You've had more chances 'an I have. But this is my damn dream, this is all I had to dream of, and I think we bloody well have a chance while the knights are at war." He had made his way very slowly and carefully toward her, his legs buckling only slightly at the knee. He felt frustrated. He hated to feel so weak and ignored. And degraded. He felt degraded.

"Fine." He turned away from her, slouching heavily. The world seemed to be shimmering. He just wanted to go home.

"Could use a hand," he said grudgingly. "Oh, I forgot. No touching, right? Well, thank you." His tone was sincere, albeit a little slurred. "No, I mean it, you helped me. But the next Steward'll just take the rest of 'em and more for good measure."

He couldn’t stand up straight. That had been part of Maha’s original plan; he would fall down a few times, then figure out insulting your healer was a bad idea. Enough humiliation to make sure that lesson was imprinted in his head, then she would help him the rest of the way home. She could be cruel, but she was still humane. Relatively. But it was difficult to let him go off like that on his own when he looked like a kicked puppy. A rather unfortunate looking kicked puppy, more precisely. Not that Maha had ever favored dogs or puppies. Filthy things, stupid things, they were. They’d run out in the middle of the street and stay there, even when a cart was coming by, just because their master told them so. This mindless obedience was considered a valuable trait in them, which Maha thought was foolish. What was an animal worth if it could not save itself? Dogs weren’t like cattle; they were not bred to be slaughtered. This boy was very much like a dog, when Maha thought about it.

Oh, the boy was walking towards her now. Once her reached her, Maha estimated that he could make ten or so steps, his gait was so weak. She sighed. Whether or not she liked this Scalian puppy, she still had her duties.

“Stop pouting. I do not agree with your sentiments, nor do I wish to be involved with them, but I am still your healer. You will make it back to your home, and if you cannot make it alone, then I will assist you. You may lean on my shoulder, if that will help, but if your hands wander, then you will be on your own. Do you understand?”

"Aye, sure," Brian gave a tentative smile and slung an arm around her shoulders. She was shorter than he, and he, deprived of food during his childhood, was on the smaller, slighter side. Still, she had been able to drag him out here, so he put his weight freely on her as they walked.

Brian normally would have faked weakness just to get to touch the woman--more because when he wasn't allowed to do something, he tried to get around it. And because she was a woman. Brian always made a point of flirting with women. That was half the fun of them, wasn't it? Besides, what woman wasn't flattered by attention from Brian Farraday? Usually it produced blushes and smiles, not castigation.

"Thank you. Really." Brian looked away. The sun was over the horizon now, and he could feel warmth and strength coursing back into his limbs. The poisoned throb in his hand had vanished. "Our house is just over that way." He nodded over the rise, toward the ramshackle hut he had always shared with his parents in the middle of their few acres of land.

“Right, very well.” Ouuf. It had been more difficult to drag him out of the inn then let him balance his weight on her shoulder, but the distance to wherever he lived was much further then the kitchen. Maha could make it, though, even if he was a little too tall to properly lean against her.

The sun was rising, and the townsmen were rising with it. She would have to hurry; she didn’t want to be caught and have to answer questions. Questions tended to lead to bad things, she had learned. Hopefully, the boy could take a quicker pace.

It was awkward to have him leaning against her like that; she could manage the weight, it was just coming from an odd angle. To distract herself, and make sure she didn’t start dreaming off and end up walking in the opposite direction, she began to lecture the boy on how to care for his hand.

“You’ll need to keep that hand and bandage clean and dry. In fact, avoid using that hand at all. If you break the stitches, I will have to remake them, and I will not let you take the alcohol to dull the pain.” She flinched a little; she typically prided herself on having such a good grasp on the Scalian language, and there she’d go, making mistakes like that. “You must change the bandage to a clean one every day. I will change the bandages at first, but when your hand is doing better, you will do it yourself. And I do mean a clean bandage; make sure that they are washed and dried before reusing any. And don’t put any sort of concoction on your hand that I have not approved of, or else I may have to remove your entire hand after all.” She paused for a moment—they had reached the doorway of his… shack. “Do you understand what I have said? If you don’t take care of your hand, then you will be back at the beginning with an infection.”

"But where's my motivation?" Brian grinned at her, flicking his hair out of his eyes. He eased himself off her shoulder, bracing himself in the doorway with his good hand. "I mean, maybe I should go for the whole hand. Then I could touch you. Sort of a punishment-in-advance, right? right."

He was pushing it again. Whatever it took to feel normal. Luckily, his aunt and uncle were out in the fields already, taking care of weeds; he had spotted them from the distance. He didn't want them to see him in this state. They were heartbroken enough that he was the only child in the family whose whereabouts they were sure of. Their worry and fear weighed on him heavily enough even when he wasn't ill or injured.

"Anyway, you'll be coming to change the bandages for awhile, yes? So how much care do I have to take? You're so good with your hands, after all." He winked.

That was, perhaps, going a little too far.

Maha tensed. He was incorrigible! He was only getting worse as time went on! “Your spirit seems to return at the most inconvenient times,” she said, lowly, not quite growling. She turned around quickly; if her shoulder bumped his, oh well. He had been wanting to touch her, anyway. And if she had bumped him a little hard, and that cause him to loose his balance and fall, then oh well. He should have dodged if he didn’t want to fall.

“I will be back in the evening to make sure that everything is still fine. I recommend finding clean bandages before then; I seem to have run out. Do not forget anything I have told you.” She said crisply, beginning the return journey back to the inn.

Idiot boy. Hopefully she would only see him when she came to check up on him; being around him too often could be dangerous.

Admittedly, so was being an Arab in Thiasa.

ooc: I managed to post in the wrong thread? I have no idea how that happened...