‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ the robed man said. ‘I do not understand the terms you use. Gregor, your fever is so high it cannot be measured. You are hallucinating, I think. Hallucinating and confused. You have contracted a pestilence. It is called Uhlren’s Pox. It is severe, I’m sorry to say. Your confusion is part of the illness. I should return you to your bed.’

Eisenhorn looked at him.

‘Are you one of Gobleka’s people?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know the name, Gregor.’

‘Are you a doctor? A medicae?’

‘I care for those who come here,’ the robed man said. ‘I am Baptrice.’

Eisenhorn looked around the garden. His raised voice had attracted attention. Three sisters in stark-white robes and starched bicorn wimples observed him with concern. A grizzled old man sat on a garden seat beside the wall. He was naked except for an old ammunition belt, and his left arm was nothing but a mass of old scar tissue. He was putting brass shell-cases into the loops of the bandolier and then taking them out again, counting each time. ‘…six, seven, eight… six, seven, eight.’

‘What is this place?’ Eisenhorn asked.

‘The Hospice of Saint Bastian,’ the robed man said.

‘On… Symbal Iota?’ Eisenhorn asked.

‘Yes,’ said Baptrice. ‘You know where you are, then?’

‘What… year? What year is it, sir?’

‘Gregor, it is the third year of the Genovingian Campaign and–’

Eisenhorn broke free of his hands and walked out onto the lawn. The insects were so loud.

‘Gregor?’ called Baptrice. ‘You are lucid. I have never seen such lucidity in a patient so tight in the grip of the Torment. I would like you to speak with someone, if you are able. He might learn a great deal from you.’

‘Who?’ asked Eisenhorn.

‘His name is Sark,’ said Baptrice.

‘Draven Sark?’

‘No, sir,’ said Baptrice, frowning. ‘Lemual Sark. Higher Administrator Medica Lemual Sark. He is visiting us. His speciality is Materia Medica, and–’

‘I want to leave now,’ said Eisenhorn.

‘That cannot be permitted,’ said Baptrice sadly.

‘Why are you showing me this?’ Eisenhorn asked.

‘Showing you… what?’ asked Baptrice.

Eisenhorn wasn’t talking to him. He was staring down at his own hands. Old hands marked with old scars, hands that were dirty with soot and machine oil. Hands that were covered in yellow blisters from the fire that was eating him away.

‘Why are you showing me this?’ he asked the fire in his blood. ‘This is… this is your place of birth. Where you… where the truth of you crossed Sark’s path and the connection was made. Where the infection began. Carried not as a disease but as an idea, from father to son to grandson…’

‘Sisters!’ Baptrice called. There was worry in his voice. ‘Help me conduct this poor soul back to his confinement. He is delusional and very sick. I fear for his safety out here.’