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to close her eyes and sink into the pattern, deeper, deeper, until nothing was left of song and synapse except a dross of decaying static. Instead, she was captivated by the limbs and, more importantly, the hands that sprouted from them.
    They weren’t all hands, although some were. Great gun muzzles with their barrels pointing obsessively at her heart; you’d need to replace the entire arm with a specialized rig to bear that kind of weight. The ever-popular tentacles, except Nissaea had never seen any with integrated syringes up close before; some kind of medical appendage, or perhaps intended for drug-fests? Claws in a variety of configurations and lengths, some jewel-tipped and some bladed. Of the most interest to Nissaea were the quotidian prostheses that resembled ordinary human hands if not for the exacting angles, the unsoft curves.
    “Muhad,” Nissaea said wonderingly, “you’re rich. ” Aside from the matter of finding a reliable fence, and paying protection money, and organizing shipments, and—well. She was certain Muhad didn’t have any of those things set up, or it wouldn’t have been lying in the mazeways having given up all will to fight.
    “It has nothing to do with wealth,” Muhad said absently. “Nissaea-of-the-Slant, which one do you want?”
    Tempting though it was to linger over the choices, Nissaea had already picked one out. She pointed to a slender hand of dull blue-silver, not a bad match for her born-hand, and—she hoped—not too greedy. It was, however, beautifully articulated and its knuckles were ringed by shimmering bands. “What do you think of that one?” she asked.
    Muhad, apparently, had no problems walking right up to the wall of limbs. They stirred and several of them beeped disharmoniously, but nothing disastrous happened. Muhad tapped the hand’s joints, squeezed it, ran its fingers over the sleek surfaces, frowned thoughtfully. “It will serve you well,” it said. “Most of them would.”
    They set up the harvesting equipment. Simple enough: the small reinforced tank and its clear pink fluid, the selection of screwdrivers, the saws, the neural stimulators to ensure that the hand’s internals didn’t sputter dead during the transfer. Oddly, for all Muhad’s deftness, it didn’t seem to have any experience with the knifework of harvesting. Nissaea ended up doing most of it, although it was more soothing than she would have expected to have a companion while listening for the Watch, or carrion maws, or other mazeway hazards.
    This will be my hand, she thought. A freshly harvested hand from the richest imaginable lode, a hand she had picked out herself. The luxury was inconceivable.
    One by one they freed the connectors and the sensory hookups, and the fingers clenched slightly as Nissaea eased the hand from its former home. She weighed it in her born-hand for a second, marveling that its weight was so perfect: not too heavy, not too light.
    “I don’t know of a safe place for the operation,” Nissaea said at last, her voice hushed.
    “This is safe enough,” Muhad said. “I hear no footsteps.”
    Nissaea listened again, just in case, but all she heard was the low thrum of the confounders and the occasional slithering friction of tubes crossing tubes. “We didn’t purchase anesthetic,” she said after a juddery pause. While she could survive a little pain, the moment of hookup could be agonizing.
    “We won’t need it,” Muhad said. “We can use needles.”
    Acupuncture? Well, she knew it worked, and it wasn’t improbable that a surgeon would know the techniques. Nissaea inhaled, then said, “What should I do?”
    Muhad took her shoulder and steered her, not ungently, toward the center of the chamber. “Sit,” it said. Nissaea sat. After a moment, she heard Muhad humming to itself, a sequence of notes at the threshold of melody. It picked up the snippers and moved among the hands, harvesting over a dozen fine wires. Each was cut to precisely the same