Brian hadn't managed to escape work for long, even with a detour to the manorhouse to raid the weapons storeroom.

His encounter with Elena still thrummed through his brain and blood. What she'd thought--! He still didn't believe she had so little idea of what the serfs suffered. But perhaps, with her on their side... no... she was only a child. For all their kiss, for all that silly flirtation and odd aggression and anger--she was a child. Younger than Elsie.

He'd just raised his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead when he recalled--this wasn't a night he could fall into bed. He had to wait for that standoffish Arab woman, Maha. His bandages were dirty, his hand throbbed, and he still felt a wobbly queasiness take over his body when he looked at the spot where there had been fingers. And there--squinting, he saw, moving over the horizon, the Arab lady (unmistakable in black) and an unknown man.

lulz, I'mma tard. Ignore!

Maha had gone over her supplies several times before grudgingly leaving the inn with Thomas. She was not in a particular mood to deal with the idiot boy’s flirtatious nature, nor did she care to hear of any more mentions of rebellions. But responsibility was responsibility, and maybe with the presence of the doctor, the boy would not be quite so spirited as he was before.

After the fourth time she checked over what supplies she had, Maha finally conceded and found Thomas. It was still early in the evening when they left the inn—hopefully, the boy would have done as she instructed and kept to his home. She really didn’t want to imagine what he would have done to entertain himself while he waited. Maybe one of his little rebel friends had come to visit him, and they could have plotted whatever mischief was needed in their little rebellion.

And there he was, at his home. Good. Maha had not wanted to wait around the little shack for a miscreant boy. But he had been up to something—his bandages were filthy.

Little twat.

“I see that you have been busy. Did not I tell you not to work?” She began as she was near enough that she was sure he could hear her. “There was no point in my using the last of my poppy if you plan on infecting your hand again.”

"I have to work," Brian said, defensively clutching his hand. "We can't all be herbalists and run about choppin' fingers off to earn our coin." Never mind he hadn't paid her much. "I'll give you more--when I've got--but I don't." He squinted with some belligerence at the man beside her. "Who're you?"

Brian normally tried for more charm, but Maha's roughness toward him, his pain, and the presence of this stranger sent up a flare of frustrated rage.

"Thomas Finch. Physician."

He was stooped and sickly-looking and his eyes made him look a little insane, but something in his manner was...was kind. Brian had always had trouble with older men, ever since that awful business with Botolph.

"Please, let me see your hand--"

He talked all educated, too. Brian sprang back with a yelp, looking wide-eyed at Maha. "You brought a physician? A bloody doctor!" He clutched his hand to him, as though faced with a demon, not a doctor. "And I do mean bloody!"

Maha snorted. “Surely, they could let you off to heal. You probably are not doing much work with your hand healing, and it will take a much longer time for it to heal if you keep agitating it.” She shook her head. “And you paid enough for now. But if I must cut the rest of your hand off because you were foolish enough to get that infected as well, then I will charge you the full price, at the time of the amputation.”

Maha was about to scold him for squinting so much—he was going to ruin his eyesight if he kept on squinting so much, but she was distracted by his sudden reaction to Thomas. What on earth? She knew that Thiasan doctors weren’t worth anything, but did he really think that she’d bring him one of those morons after she had railed on previously about? She quickly stepped between the two men.

“Twit! Do not be so rude, I have not brought someone to further harm you. He was educated in Arabia—he is not one of your quacks. I have brought him to make sure that I have performed amputation correctly, he is only here to help.” Maha paused, then extended her hand. “Here, if it makes you more comfortable, then I will handle you hand myself, but ustaz must see it himself.”

Thomas hated it when he was feared. He hated it when he was viewed with suspicious, viewed as a devil--worse, in this bloody country--as a doctor. A leech. But he hadn't gotten past twoscore years to be sensitive about every pinprick... and he liked this young man. He had the fire of passion in him, and the vulnerability of something wounded more than physically. Thomas knew that look, and knew it well. When he'd been a boy he'd seen it in the mirror.

"Brian." The boy looked at him grudgingly and shot out his hand, letting the older man take it.

Was that the odd pause there? Like a kicked puppy. Slowly, Thomas unwrapped the bandages. His hands trembled a little. He thought of whoever had done this to the boy. And he thought, I'd quite like to kill the bastard. He took refuge in efficiency.

"Hold still, Brian, my boy," he murmured, as though the young man were a nervous horse. Was that a glare, shot from those startlingly dark eyes? Who knew. "Hold... ah." He examined the stumps, and glanced briefly at Maha.

"Excellent work. You closed them well. There shouldn't be too much scarring, and I have a comfrey salve you can use. Also, don't wash with anything but alcohol and water, all right?" He looked up at the boy. "If you need some strong spirits for washing in, I have a very strong gin that's just for cleaning wounds, not for drinking. If you must work, wear a thick glove over the bandages--and you'll need new ones--" He let Brian's hand drop and fumbled in his satchel. "Here, Maha--you did such a good job with the bandaging last time--do you mind?"

In truth, his hands were still shaking with anger.

Brian, for his part, looked suspiciously at the aging doctor, but said nothing. What to make of him? He had no idea, but held his hand out to Maha, supporting his elbow on his other palm.

Thomas, for a very short moment while he was unwrapping the bandage, had the queerest look on his face. It made Maha curious. Perhaps there was something wrong with her work. It wouldn’t surprise her, and she hoped that he would be able to fix it if there was something wrong.

But no, he complimented her. Maha managed not to blush, but she couldn’t help but feel pride from his praise. So if it was not her work, then what was it? Brian’s reluctance, perhaps. But that didn’t make sense; he would have reacted sooner if it was that.

Then it may have been the fingers themselves. Maha was not terribly familiar with Thiasan justice, only knowing what she had seen with her own eyes. In Arabia, Maha knew it was acceptable to remove a thief’s hand, but it was rarely done. It was much more productive to have the thief pay the fee then it was to dismember him. Besides, a cripple was more likely to have family lusting for revenge then a man who had to pay some coin. Thiasan justice tended to run from too lenient to harsher then necessary. Perhaps this ran along the lines of the latter.

Maha was a little confused when Thomas asked her to bandage the boy’s hand. She shrugged it off; he probably just wanted her to practice. She wrapped the boy’s hand up carefully, but quickly.

“I have something for the pain.” She reached into her bag, removing the bit of willow bark she had wrapped in fabric. “This will help. It must be soaked overnight, and then you must boil the liquid in the morning, but it should ease some of the pain.” Maha’s eyes narrowed for a brief second. “But do not think that because it does not hurt means that you are incapable. Do the light work, if you may.”

Brian nodded. He thought he understood what she meant, though she'd misspoken a little. "I'll do what needs to be done," was all he said, a little gruffly. He was aware that 'gruff,' on him, meant very little. He had a boy's voice sometimes. "What needs be done," he repeated, liking the sound of it. Truthfully, he'd till his own crops only a little. What really needed to be done was elsewhere, it was preparation for the revolution.

And he wanted to see Elena Lawley again.

"Thanks," he said, looking briefly at Maha, then at Thomas.

"Here are some bandages, and salve, and some of the liquor I mentioned." Thomas was tucking them into a small cloth pouch as he spoke, and handed it to Brian. His hands had ceased their shaking, but he still felt unaccountably angry. Was it the months he'd spent treating victims at the carcan, sewing up the stumps of once-healthy hands, supervising the belly-ripping and beheading that was punishment for adultery? Perhaps. He'd never expected to find that, the one part of Muslim culture that truly troubled him, here--even in Thiasa. But what had he expected? Men's cruelty was not the result of religion. Religion's cruelty was the result of men... it was no one's salvation.

He turned back to Maha, one eye on the boy as he made his way inside after a bare nod of thanks.

"Is he the one planning the... the movement?" There was too clearly a lack of trust between the physician and the boy for any discourse on the topic. But Thomas was convinced he wanted to stay and be of what help he could. "He is, isn't he--I think you've mentioned--I'm sorry. I have sons. It's hard for me to see someone who's been so badly used."

“Yes, what needs to be done.” It may have been a little harsh of her to scold him for working—everyone had to do it, and his work was much more taxing then the work of shopkeepers and others of the like. But it still seemed more then a little foolish to go about working when part of your hand was removed.

Maha watched as Thomas gave the boy instructions, taking note of his actions. He was not unkind, but something seemed short about his words. Maybe he was upset at the boy’s injury. Certainly, it was not the most pleasant thing, or possibly the most just. But Maha did not know the crime behind it, so she could not judge.

“I have a brother—he ran away to join the military when I was young. Possibly, this has happened to him. Maybe worse. It is not easy to think of such a thing when it is your own blood.” Maha shrugged. “But I do not know why his fingers are gone. He said something about a, a something. I am not sure, but it was a titled person who cut his fingers off. I do not know if he has committed a crime worthy of such a punishment, but if he has, then he fully deserves it. Even if he did not, it is not my concern. These matters belong to Thiasans, not an Arab such as myself.” Maha began to walk away from the shack, but stopped and turned to face Thomas again.

“If you want to involve yourself, that is your choice. I refuse to be involved in Thiasan struggles. If something is to arise, I will continue my isolation. But,” Maha’s eyes narrowed, “but, ustaz, if someone is in need of help, it does not matter to me whether they are lord or rebel; they are all ultimately Thiasan and therefore the same in my eyes. I will treat all those who would seek it.” Maha switched to Arabic. “It is God’s will that all sick and wounded be treated equally, is it not?”

"It is God's will that all men and women be treated equally, not only the injured ones," Thomas said, from between gritted teeth. "Imshallah," he added, a little ironically. "But is it God's will, any of it? I sometimes wonder how much of what is man's folly, we call His."

He shook his head and knelt briefly before her to repack the contents of his medicinal case. That done, he fastened it shut and stood, his back twinging. Age came early to the men in his family, but not so early as it came to unfortunately like the boy he'd just treated. Those like him were doomed to doddering senility by the time they were forty. It was animals' work, not man's. As a physician and a student of the human body, the way people lived set his teeth on edge. There seemed to be none of the moderation Aristotle so prized. None of the modesty God advocated, his God, the God of scholars and peaceable people.

"I'll heal anyone who needs it," he added stiffly. "But I don't know how to heal those who destroy their own people." The nobility lived in drafty manses and ate themselves into gout and overenflamed their lustful passions. The peasantry starved in times of famine or glutted themselves when harvests were good. He'd seen them tear down scaffolds, when times were bad enough, to eat the flesh of hanged convicts. Healthy? The world wasn't healthy. And they dared criticize him for looking too deeply into men's bowels as well as their minds.

“God is infallible. It is we humans that deny his will and warp what he has given us.” Maha turned away, not wanting Thomas to see any tremble on her face. It was Allah’s will that she be here; it had to be a trial for her. Something she could—and would—overcome. There was a reason for her being here. It did not matter if she knew now, or ever. He knew, and hopefully, she would understand someday. It gave Maha the faith to endure, but it did not make the burden any lighter.

“I do not think that treating the unjust will be much different from treating the just. It is not our job to judge whether a man can be made just; that is something the can only happen when a man has made his peace and has submitted to God. It is our duty to heal the physical so that a man can become just as he should, not to punish him with his own injuries.” Maha felt a surge of courage pour through her. She stepped toward Thomas, standing a little taller then she had before. “After all, one cannot truly convert through the sword. I do not care what the boy thinks, or will try. I will assist who I can, and hopefully, by my virtue, some eyes will be changed.

“Now, it is getting late, and our business is finished so far as I know. We should return before it is too dark.”