"Poisoning? Workmen?" The high priest looked perfectly surprised. "Why, what's this? I've had no word on it."
"I see." Wotheng leaned back in his chair. "Then you wouldn't know that the poisoner has been seized, and has confessed?"
"You are the first to bring me this news, Lord Wotheng." Folweel bowed slightly. "I congratulate you on the speed of your justice."
"Then let me also be first to tell you that the man claimed he was paid to poison the workmen's bread—paid by one of your priests, sir." Wotheng pulled a small scroll from his belt pouch and tossed it on the table. "This is the man's confession, as I heard from his own lips."
Folweel coolly took up the scroll, opened and read it. No more than a righteous frown showed on his composed face. "Indeed a serious matter," he murmured. "This fellow—Bassip? A baker's wagoner?—claims much. Can you be certain he speaks the truth in any of this?"
"I saw with my own eyes the proof that he did the poisoning." Wotheng tapped his fingers quietly on his belt. "I heard with my own ears his confession that Twoz, under-priest of Yotha, paid him to do it and gave him the poison. I wrote with my own hands what he said, as you may read."
The high priest smiled, most gently. "Surely you know, Lord Wotheng, that a man found guilty of a serious crime will often try to shift or divide blame by accusing another. Likewise, one put to . . . serious question . . . in such a case will say whatever he thinks his questioners want to hear."
Wotheng flushed a dull red. He didn't care to have his own reasoning thrown back at him. "There is still the little question of the poison and the money. Bassip told me where in his house he'd hidden the money he got for this task; we searched and found it there. How came he by the money, pray?"
"Who can say? It might have been a long-saved treasure, or the result of robbery, or some windfall prize he did not care to report at tax time." Folweel raised a knowing eyebrow. "He could well have mentioned his secret hoard purely to convince you of the truth of his story."
"And the poison, Sir Priest? There was over a pint of it to poison that barrel of flour. Where came he by that?"
"He could have had that from any patch of mould-tainted rye, field grown or wild seeded. A wagoner who deals with bakers, millers, and farmers would have much opportunity to recognize such." Folweel flicked a long nail at the relevant line of Bassip's confession. "Who can guess his true reasoning for this? Perhaps the man has some grudge against the baker, or this under-priest, or someone who works on the new walls at Deese House. Perhaps, knowing that the houses of Deese and Yotha are, hmm, not speaking to each other, he hoped to raise ill will between us. Who can say?"
For a moment none of the others spoke. Eloti only shook her head in admiration for the well-woven words.
"We didn't start any such dissension between our houses," Sulun put in, a bit warmly. "By all the gods, we didn't even know you existed until one of your people tried to put a curse on our new walls. The first blow, sir, was yours."
"I, sir?" The high priest looked genuinely grieved. "All I know of that affair is that the crushed corpse of a man, whom one of the under-priests identified as one of our worshippers, was brought to Yotha House one night. The workmen who brought him said he'd been the victim of some magic gone awry. We buried him with proper rites, and that was an end to it. If indeed there was some ill magic done, then who suffered from it if not our poor worshipper—and, by his loss, us?"
"The man was your chief stonemason!" Sulun snapped. "He put the focus of a curse onto our walls while he worked there!"
"My dear sir!" Folweel raised his hands beseechingly. "We have not had much stoneworking done about the temple estate for many moons; if any of our masons wished to take some temporary work elsewhere, we certainly would not prevent them. As to his ill-wishing your uncompleted walls, who can say why he did so? Perhaps he hoped to gain himself more work thereby. Not all of our herd are free from the sin of greed, despite our best efforts."
"Amazing," Zeren murmured again.
Wotheng ignored him, keeping his steady stare on the priest. "And yet, sir, you loosed Yotha's fire against Deese House on the very evening of that . . . accident. The fire very nearly consumed the workmen's scaffolding. Why, Sir Priest, did you that?"
"Ah, the fire again." Folweel smiled and shook his head. "As I have already said, the god speaks of divine displeasure at the dangerous carelessness of the Sukkti wizardry, of which our stonemason died. As for the scaffolding, well, the under-priests who sent the fire may be forgiven if they were upset by their servant's death and, in their distraction, perhaps let the fire run too close to the scaffolding where the man died." He shrugged eloquently. "In any case, as I've heard, the scaffolding was not burned and no harm was done."
"Except to a bit of grass." Wotheng tapped his fingers on his belt, over and over. "Would one of those under-priests who loosed the fire that night have been this fellow Twoz, perhaps?"
The high priest frowned long in thought. "That may well have been, lord Wotheng. I shall investigate this matter."
"I should like to investigate it myself, also. Pray bring this Twoz fellow to me; I wish to question him."
"That I shall gladly do, m'lord, as soon as he returns from the north." Folweel smiled benignly. "Twoz is one of the under-priests who went north with our last trade caravan, nearly a fortnight ago. Thus he could hardly have hired Bassip to poison your miller's flour two days ago, which is why I suspect Bassip's confession on this point."
"He might, of course, have begun the plot before he left."
"Quite possibly. We shall certainly question Twoz most carefully upon his return—and, of course, send him to you as well."
"Of course." Wotheng tapped and tapped his fingers. "And do you swear, Sir Priest, on your own altar to Yotha, that you have no malice, and have done no ill-wishing, to Deese House or any thereof?"
"Certainly I will swear so." The high priest looked utterly sincere. "Our sole complaint against Deese's priesthood is, as I've said, their dangerous carelessness with magical knowledge and application."
"If that's so," Wotheng smiled tightly, "then this Bassip fellow has done your house as much harm as Deese House, what with making either the false accusations against your under-priest or else entering in a private conspiracy with him. True?"
"Quite true, m'lord."
"Why, then, I shall hand him over to your examination and judgment." Wotheng pulled himself up from the chair. "You have his confession there, and my guards have him in your courtyard. I'll also send you written account of my investigation of the poisoning, and how his guilt was discovered, if you wish."
"I shall be happy to receive them, Lord Wotheng," said Folweel, quite calmly.
"Until this Twoz returns then, I'll leave the matter in your hands. Good day, Sir Priest. Come along, good folk."
Sulun and the others had no choice but to rise, bow minimally in politeness, and follow Wotheng to the door.
At the threshold Wotheng turned. "Only one more thing, Sir Priest."
"Yes, Lord Wotheng?"
"Don't burn so much as another handspan of my land. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Lord Wotheng."
The Lord of Ashkell tramped out, letting the door swing shut behind him.
They were well past the temple's lands before anyone spoke. Zeren leaned over the edge of the wagon to catch Wotheng's attention, and asked in as quiet a voice as he could, "Lord Wotheng, why don't you just take your men-at-arms and clean that snake's nest out? I'll be happy to help."
Wotheng laughed sourly. "There speaks a soldier, right enough. Lad, I'd have done so long before this if I could—and if I hadn't thought ahead a bit. Think you: enough folk would be glad to see the last of Yotha, perhaps happy enough to join a campaign to drive them out like wolves, aye, and even accept the combat losses.