He took a particular pleasure in the recovery of the young fellow from the kitchen. There had been early and grave signs of infection there, and Rustem had spent one full night awake and very busy by the young man's bedside when the wound changed colour and fever rose. The chef, Strumosus, had come in and out several times, watching in silence, and the other kitchen worker, Rasic, had actually made himself a bed on the floor of the hallway outside. And then, in the midst of the crisis night for the wounded man, Shaski had also appeared. He had gotten out of his bed without either of his mothers knowing and had come, barefoot, to bring his father a drink in the middle of the night knowing, somehow, exactly where Rustem was. Somehow. Rustem had-unspeaking, at first-accepted the drink and brushed the child's head with a gentle hand and told him to go back to his room, that everything was all right.

Shaski had gone sleepily to bed without saying or doing anything more, as those nearby observed the boy's arrival and departure with expressions that Rustem suspected he and his family would have to grow accustomed to. It was one of the reasons he was taking them all away.

The young man, Kyros, had his fever break towards morning and the wound progressed normally after that. The greatest risk he endured was that the idiot doctor, Ampliarus, might slip into the room unnoticed and pursue his mad fixation with bleeding those already wounded.

Rustem had been present, and undeniably amused (though he'd tried to conceal it, of course), when Kyros regained consciousness just before dawn. Rasic, the friend, had been sitting by the bed then, and when the sick man opened his eyes, the other one let out a cry that brought others hurrying into the room, forcing Rustem to order all of them out in his sternest manner.

Rasic, evidently seeing this order as applying to those other than himself, remained, and went on to tell the patient what Strumosus had said about him outside the gates while Kyros was unconscious, and thought to be dead. Strumosus entered in the midst of this recitation. Paused, briefly, in the doorway.

"He's lying, as usual," the little chef said peremptorily, coming into the room as Rasic stopped, briefly fearful, then grinning. "The way he lies about girls. I wish you would all keep a firmer grip on the world as Jad made it, not the one in your dreams. Kyros might have some excuse, with whatever potions our Bassanid has been pushing down his throat, but Rasic has no justification whatever. A genius? This lad? My own legacy? I am insulted by the thought! Does any of that make the least sense to you, Kyros?"

The crippled boy, pale, but clearly lucid, shook his head slightly on the pillow, but he was smiling, and then Strumosus was, as well.

"Really!" the little chef said. "The idea's absurd. If I have a legacy it is almost certainly going to be my fish sauce."

"Of course it is," Kyros whispered. He was still smiling. So was Rasic, flashing crooked teeth. So was Strumosus.

"Get some rest, lad," the chef said. "We'll all be here when you awake. Come Rasic, you too. Go to bed. You'll work a triple shift tomorrow, or something."

There were times, Rustem thought, when his profession offered great rewards.

Then there were moments when it felt as if it would be less of a struggle to walk straight into the teeth of a sandstorm.

Scortius could make him feel like that. As now, for example. Rustem walked into the man's sick-room to change his dressing (every third day now) and found four chariot-racers sitting and standing about, and not one, not two, but three dancers in further attendance, with one of them- clad in an entirely inadequate fashion-offering a performance not at all calculated to assist a recovering patient in keeping a calm, unexcited demeanour.

And there was wine. And, Rustem noticed, belatedly, in the crowded room, his son Shaski was there, sitting on the lap of a fourth dancer in the corner, watching it all and laughing.

"Hello, Papa!" his son said, not in the least disconcerted, as Rustem stood in the doorway and glared in an all-inclusive fashion around the room.

"Oh, dear. He's upset. Everyone, out!" Scortius said from the bed. He handed his wine cup to one of the women. "Take this. Someone take the boy to his mother. Don't forget your clothes, Taleira. The doctor's working very hard for all of us and we don't want him taxed unduly. We want him to stay well, don't we?"

There was laughter and a flurry of movement. The man in the bed grinned. A wretched patient, in every possible way. But Rustem had seen what he'd done on the Hippodrome sands at the beginning of the week before, and had known better than anyone else the will that had been required, and it was impossible to deny the admiration he felt. He didn't want to deny it, actually.

Besides which, the people were going out.

"Shirin, stay, if you will. I have a question or two. Doctor, is it all right if one friend remains? This is a visit that honours me, and I haven't had a chance to speak to her privately yet. I believe you've met her. This is Shirin of the Greens. Didn't the mosaicists bring you to a wedding feast in her home?"

"My first day, yes," Rustem said. He bowed to the dark-haired woman, who was remarkably attractive in a small-boned fashion. Her scent was quite distracting. The room emptied, with one of the men carrying Shaski on his back. The dancer rose from her seat to greet him.

She smiled. "I remember you very well, doctor. You had a servant killed by some of our younger Greens."

Rustem nodded. "It is true. With so many deaths since, I'm surprised you remember it."

She shrugged. "Bonosus's son was involved. Not a trivial thing."

Rustem nodded a second time and crossed to his patient. The woman sat down quietly. Scortius had already drawn the bedsheet back, exposing his muscular, bandaged torso. Shirin of the Greens smiled.

"How exciting," she said, eyes wide.

Rustem snorted, amused in spite of himself. Then he paid attention to what he was doing, unwrapping the layers of dressing to expose the wound beneath. Scortius lay on his right side, facing the woman. She'd have to stand to see the black and purple skin around the twice-over fracture and the deep knife wound.

Rustem set about cleansing the wound again and then applying his salves. No need for any further drainage. The challenge was what it had always been, but more so: to treat broken bones and a stab wound in the same location. He was quietly pleased with what he saw, though he wouldn't have dreamed of letting Scortius see that. A hint that the doctor was content and the man would undoubtedly be out the door and on the race-track, or prowling the night streets to one bedroom or another.

They had told him about this one's nocturnal pursuits.

"You said you had questions," Shirin murmured. "Or is the doctor…?"

"My doctor is private as a hermit on a crag. I have no secrets from him."

"Except when you have plans to depart from your sick-room without leave," Rustem murmured, bathing the man's skin.

"Well, yes, there was that. But otherwise, you know all. You were… even under the stands, I recall, just before the race."

His tone had changed. Rustem caught it. He remembered that sequence of moments. Thenai's with her blade, the Green driver coming just in time.

"Oh? What happened under the stands?" Shirin was asking, fluttering her eyelashes at the two of them. "You must tell!"

"Crescens declared his undying love for me and then hammered me half to my grave when I told him I preferred you. Hadn't you heard?"

She laughed. "No. Come, what happened?"

"Various things." The chariot-driver hesitated. Rustem could feel the man's heartbeat. He said nothing. "Tell me," Scortius murmured, "Cleander Bonosus, is he still in trouble with his father? Do you know?" Shirin blinked. Clearly not the question she'd expected. "He did me a great service when I was hurt," Scortius added. "Brought me to the doctor."