"Hmm . . . And Brother Duppa?"
"He reports regularly, that lessons proceed apace in mathematics, geography, history, and literature." Patrobe snorted, dismissing such prosaic subjects. "He says the lessons on mechanics, chemistry, and medicine are so simple and basic in nature that no one could mistake them for any arcane lore. At this rate, says he, they might consider him for acceptance in their order within a year, if at all. I doubt we can wait that long."
"We cannot." Folweel smacked the table in frustration. "Tell me the moment Duppa reports teachings of magic, or any art which the simple might construe as magic or impiety. . . . Hmm, bid him suborn one of the other students into asking questions on such subjects. Any answer the sorceress gives might be useful. Particularly, ask about Sukkti beliefs—but be sure to use the local word for them, to avoid suspicion. We may get something there."
"How great an excuse do we need?" Patrobe asked, pondering degrees of offense that common folk might accept.
"Enough to merit a small plague," said the high priest, glancing to the space on his table where the list of supplies had lately rested.
Patrobe raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous, Brother, to so risk our only well-placed agent."
"Place another," Folweel snapped. "Put him in the beginners' class—and make certain he be subtle, quick fingered, and deft. Also send for Bassip."
Patrobe raised his other eyebrow, but said nothing.
CHAPTER FIVE
The trouble began near the close of day, when the work gang were weary and hungry enough to think longingly of home and supper. The oldest of the lot, who'd been complaining of bellyache since lunchtime, succumbed first. He clutched his stomach, gasped, then howled. The workmen at the mortar trough ran to him just as he fell over. The gang on the crane and block had the training, or presence of mind, to finish lowering and setting the block before coming to see what the trouble was.
By then, some few of them had belly pains also.
When the uproar reached Sulun's ears, the problem had spread to more than half of the work gang. Arizun rushed into the laboratorium to report widespread sickness, pains, chills, numbness of extremities, delirium, and terrifying visions striking down the work gang.
Sulun slapped off the drive gear engagement of the lathe and jumped up from his bench. "Yotha!" he spat. "It has to be. Find Eloti and Vari, quick."
"They're already out in the courtyard, unless Vari's back in the storeroom hunting remedies."
"Thank the gods for that, at least," Sulun muttered, running for the courtyard.
The sight that met him was ugly: dozens of men rolling and shivering on the ground, others huddled against the wall, groaning through chattering teeth. Doshi and Yanados were just lighting a scrap-wood fire in the center of the courtyard as Ziya came running with a sloshing kettle of water and a packet of willow bark tea. Omis and Zeren followed, bearing as many blankets, rugs, and wraps as they could find. Vari and Eloti stood near the center of the crowd, peering frantically through a basketful of medical texts.
"Gods," Sulun groaned, seeing the sheer number of the afflicted. "Chills and fever—and the sun is going down." No one needed to tell him that the evenings could be chilly now that First Harvest was past. He snagged Omis on the way to hand out blankets. "Is the forge still lighted?"
"The forge? Yes, I was working on some tool-heads. But why—"
"The heat, man! That open fire won't be enough, nor those blankets for so many. Get the worst afflicted inside, close the shutters and curtains, and pump up the fire in the forge."
"Gods, of course!" Omis dropped the blankets and ran to Zeren to explain.
Sulun descended on Eloti and Vari, yanked out one of their scrolls, and hunted through it, dismayed to learn that he didn't recognize half the terms therein. "Is it a curse or not?" he asked, thumbing through the scroll for some hint of an answer.
"No ill-wish: it's too specific," Eloti snapped back. "Its either plague or poisoning, and we've found no mention of any plague that attacks like this."
"Besides," Vari added, "we've taken good care to keep the work camp clean. Those belly cramps speak strongly of bad food or bad water."
"But we drink of that stream ourselves," Sulun protested, "and none of us fell sick for it."
"Besides," Vari barely smiled, "this lot don't drink water when they've a regular ration of beer."
"Could it be their beer, then? How would Yotha's priests get at it?"
Eloti glanced up, face unreadable. "You think it's those priests' doing, then?"
"Of course it is! Zeren warned me . . ." Sulun ground a fist into his forehead. "Ah, gods, he warned they would strike, and I took no care to think how they might do it. I'm ten times a fool!"
"No, no," Vari soothed, patting his arm. "You're just too honest to think like such rogues. Now, how shall we examine their beer, if indeed they've left any?"
"The barrels." Eloti snapped her fingers and turned to look out the gate. "They keep their rations all in one shed out there, one of the ruins they haven't yet pulled down for building stone. Even the leavings at the barrel bottoms would contain any poison from the beer. Ask one of the less afflicted where they keep their rations."
"What if it wasn't the beer? The bread, perhaps, or the cheese, or—"
"Bring a dozen goats," said Eloti, already striding toward the work gang chief, who was still in the cramps and shivering stage.
Yes, the gang chief remembered where the stores were kept—in the basement of what must once have been a wine shop, which still possessed a stout door. Yes, all food and drink for the workmen was kept there, and no one was allowed—or able, given how easily he'd be seen—to go plunder the same until proper lunchtime.
Sulun ran for the stables, shouting at Yanados to fetch out half a dozen goats from their shed. A few minutes later the big wagon came rumbling out of the stables, Sulun driving the mules in a manner that discouraged argument; Doshi, Vari, and Arizun riding in the wagon bed behind him.
"Be they abandoning us, think ye?" Gort asked, between rattling teeth.
"And leaving their friends, too?" Hobb shook his head, which made it hurt worse. "No, off upon vengeance or healing, say I."
"We'll see soon enough. Ah, gods, is that fire well lighted? Me for sitting thereabouts, do I have to crawl."
Half an hour later the mule wagon came thundering back, echoing the impact of every paving stone through the near-empty barrels in its bed. There, too, thumped sacks of bread, cheese, sausage, and apples: all the stores of the looted basement.
Sulun reined the mules to a hoof-skidding stop, jumped off the wagon, and ran to the nearest workman, which happened to be Gort. "Man," he asked, looking straight and guiltlessly into the bloodshot eyes, "tell me: what did you eat and drink this noon?"
"B-beer," Gort chattered, "and bread. Sausage. An apple . . ."
"Good, good," Sulun patted his shoulder and went to the next man. "And you?"
"Same," Hobb shivered, "except I had ch-cheese instead of the apples."
"Not cheese, not apples," Sulun muttered, hurrying to the next coherent man he could find. "How shall we make goats eat sausage?"
Hobb turned to his partner and grinned as best he could. "Y-you thought they'd be l-leaving us," he jeered.
"W-was only askin'," Gort muttered, holding shaking hands to the fire.
"Pardon me, pardon me," Omis muttered as he shouldered past them, carrying a struggling, howling derrick hauler in his arms as surely and gently as if it had been one of his own children.