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strolled along the river, letting the sound of the rushing water clear his head. But it was late afternoon, and he was loath to leave his patient alone again. Besides, Igor the shoemaker would be coming by soon, and Mirsada would be sending the clothing.
    A bath, Faris decided. His skin felt crawly and too tight, and his muscles were tense. Cleaning up would help.
    He heated a big pot of water over the fire and found a clean, soft rag. He had some nice soap too, made from olive oil and lavender. Another gift from a grateful patient.
    He began by wetting his hair and scrubbing it with a bit of soaproot before rinsing and combing. He needed a haircut before his curls became completely unmanageable. And he hadn’t had a shave in days—not since he’d brought Boro home. He didn’t like the scratchy feel of the whiskers.
    Perhaps the next day he would visit Safet, the barber. Faris and Safet had an uneasy truce. The barber believed most ills were best cured through bleeding, whereas Faris was convinced the practice sped more deaths than it prevented. They’d argued over it. But Faris still needed haircuts and shaves, and the barber needed Faris’s special treatments for aching hands, so now they generally maintained a firm but cordial silence.
    It was stupid, Faris thought as he untied his belt and then slipped off his tunic. Yes, sometimes medicines were not enough and surgery was required. And for that task, the barber was well suited, with racks full of sharp blades. But most illnesses did better without cutting. Faris unfastened his breeches and stepped out of them, then bent to peel off his hose. Why didn’t the barber listen to reason, to the pages and pages of careful observations recorded by Faris and Enis before him? If only he would—
    “Ah.” It wasn’t exactly a word—more a soft gasp.
    Faris spun around to find Boro propped up slightly on one arm, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.
    He would have rushed to cover himself but was caught between hiding his nakedness in front or the scars on his back, and in the end he simply stood there, enduring the other man’s stare, rag clutched in one hand.
    “Were you a slave too?” Boro asked at last. His voice was low and rough.
    “No. I was a thief.”
    “How long—”
    “A long time ago. I was a boy.”
    He would pretend it didn’t matter. He dipped the rag into the warm water and scrubbed his face. He took longer at it than he had to, as if hiding his face kept Boro from seeing him. But eventually he had to tend to his arms and chest instead.
    “What happened?” Boro asked softly.
    The answer to that was written on Faris’s skin. “I was lashed.”
    “And left tied to the pillar?”
    “Yes.”
    Usually he enjoyed the creamy feel of the soapsuds on his skin, but today he rinsed them quickly away. He propped one foot on a stool so he could wash his leg. He concentrated on that task but could still feel Boro looking at him.
    “Who took you from the pillar?” Boro asked. “Your family?”
    “I have no family.”
    “What happened to them?”
    Was the man made of nothing but questions? No wonder his owner had punished him! Faris scrubbed so furiously at his shin that the skin turned red. “They died.” He glanced up and saw Boro’s mouth open for another question. Before the words could come out, Faris sighed. “Nobody approved of my parents’ marriage. He was Muslim and she was Catholic. Her family had some money and his did not. He went off to war when she was pregnant with me and never came back. She died of a fever when I was still a baby. I ended up with some distant relative who was too old to complain about it, and then she died when I was small.” If he rubbed any harder, he might start bleeding. So he glared at Boro instead, then switched to his other leg.
    “That’s why you were a thief—because you were on your own.”
    “I was a thief because I was a fool!” Faris snapped. “I knew the consequences. I could have begged or