“An accident,” Wintrow told him distractedly, then bade him, “Hush.”

Kennit scowled, but did as he was bid. He became aware of the boy's cupped hands moving above his flesh. Their ghostly pressure reawakened him to the pounding rhythm of the pain. Kennit clenched his teeth, swallowed against it and managed to push it from his mind once more.

Midway up Kennit's thigh, Wintrow's hands halted and hovered. The lines in his brow grew deeper. The boy's breathing deepened, steadied and his eyes closed completely. He appeared to sleep standing. Kennit studied his face. Long dark lashes curled against his cheeks. His cheeks and jaw had lost most of a child's roundness, but showed not even the downy beginning of a beard. Beside his nose was the small green sigil that denoted he had once belonged to the Satrap. Next to that was a larger tattoo, a crude rendering that Kennit recognized as the Vivacia's figurehead. Kennit's first reaction was annoyance that someone had so compromised the boy's beauty. Then he perceived that the very harshness of the tattoo contrasted with his innocence. Etta had been like that when he first discovered her, a coltish girl in a whorehouse parlor. . . .

“Captain Kennit? Sir?”

He opened his eyes. When had he closed them?

Wintrow was nodding gently to himself. “Here,” he said as soon as the pirate looked at him. “If we cut here, I think we'll be in sound flesh.”

The boy's hands indicated a spot frighteningly high on his thigh. Kennit took a breath. “In sound flesh, you say? Should not you cut below what is sound?”

“No. We must cut a bit into what is still healthy, for healthy flesh heals faster than poisoned.” Wintrow paused and used both hands to push his straying hair back from his face. “I cannot say that any part of the leg is completely without poison. But I think if we cut there, we would have our best chance.” The boy's face grew thoughtful. “First, I shall want to leech the lower leg, to draw off some of the swelling and foulness. Some of the monastery healers held with bleeding, and some with leeches. There is, of course, a place and a time for each of those things, but I believe that the thickened blood of infection is best drawn off by leeches.”

Kennit fought to keep his composed expression. The boy's face was intense. He reminded Kennit of Sorcor attempting to plot strategy.

“Then we shall place a ligature here, a wide one that will slow the flow of blood. It must bind the flesh tightly without crushing it. Below it, I shall cut. I shall try to preserve a flap of skin to close over the wound. The tools I shall need are a sharp knife and a fine-toothed saw for the bone. The blade of the knife must be long enough to slice cleanly, without a sawing motion.” The boy's fingers measured out the length. “For the stitching, some would use fine fish-gut thread, but at my monastery, it was said that the best stitches are made with hair from the man's own head, for the body knows its own. You, sir, have fine hair, long. Your curls are loose enough that the hair can be pulled straight. It will serve admirably.”

Kennit wondered if the boy sought to unnerve him, or if he had completely forgotten that he was talking about Kennit's flesh and bone. “And for the pain?” he asked with false heartiness.

“Your own courage, sir, will have to serve you best.” The boy's dark eyes met his squarely. “I shall not be quick, but I shall be careful. Brandy or rum, before we begin. Were it not so rare and expensive, I would say we should obtain the essence of the rind of a kwazi fruit. It numbs a wound wonderfully. Of course, it works only on fresh blood. It would only be effective after we had done the cutting.” Wintrow shook his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps you should think well of what crewmen you shall want to hold you down. They should be large and strong men, with the judgment to ignore you if you demand to be released or threaten them.”

Unwillingness washed over Kennit like a wave. He refused to consider the humiliation and indignity he must face. He thrust away the idea that this was inevitable. There had to be some other way, some alternative to vast pain and helplessness. How could he choose them, knowing that even if he endured it all, he might still die? How foolish he would look then!

“. . . and each of those must be drawn out a little way, and closed off with a stitch or two.” Wintrow paused as if waiting for his agreement. “I've never done this by myself,” he admitted abruptly. “I want you to know that. I have seen it done twice. Once an infected leg was removed. Once it was a hopelessly smashed foot and ankle. Both times, I was there to help the healer, to pass tools and hold the bucket. . . .” His voice trailed off. He licked his lips and stared at Kennit, his eyes going wider and wider.