Page 188 of A Weave of Lies
Semras glowered at him. “It is based on the fact that I saw no sign of joint inflammation on his hands when I examined his corpse. I’m no gravewitch, so I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now it’s evident—”
“Fact, you say?” Tribunal Whitmore asked, cutting her off. “This is nofact. This is mere conjecture.”
“There is proof supporting what she says if you will not take her word for it,” Estevan replied. A vicious, triumphant smile slowly stretched across his lips. “I suppose, brother, that you have found yourself in possession of a copy of the autopsy report I requested?”
“I may have wandered into your office when I last visited your house,” Cael told him. Then, he turned to the tribunals. “You should find it among the reports I put together, Your Honours.”
“What?” Whitmore sat back and flipped through the papers spread across the table. After seizing one, he read it, muttering the lines under his breath. The paper creased under his blanching grip.
“You will find no mention of Torqedan’s alleged stiff joints in the autopsy report,” Estevan said, smirking. “Until now, I had never suspected that it had been an act he was putting on, so I did not realize it was missing.”
Garza ripped the paper from Whitmore’s trembling hands. “One autopsy report requested by the very man accused of framing—”
“There is another one.” Cael walked closer to the tribunal’s tables and directed their attention to another stack of papers.
Semras swallowed back her nerves. She had hoped too much before; she dared not do it again. Not so soon.
Not until Estevan was given back to her.
Smiling proudly, Cardinal Velten looked at his eldest son. “You have been very thorough, Cael. As always.”
“I have a surgeon in my retinue. An excellent one,” Cael said. “I asked her to review the previous physician’s findings. Let’s see what she reported in her own examination. Your Eminence, will you do us the honour of reading it for us all?”
The cardinal gave him a nod as Garza passed the report to him. His eyes skimmed over the lines until he found the right ones. “State of the articulations: age-appropriate wear,” Cardinal Velten read out loud. “No trace of affliction.”
The judges paled far beyond what was healthy for old, wizened men. Pajov was clutching his chest, while Whitmore stood so straight his chin receded into his neck. Of the three, Tribunal Garza looked the most shaken.
Mouth agape, the old judge stared at the cardinal, a deep shock painted all over his wrinkled face. His hand shook around the golden insignia pinned on his dark robes, as if seekingstrength from the thing of dead metal. “… But why? I do not … why? Did he … did Torqedan truly commit—no, no. That was not his style. He would never have killed himself, not after all the times he spoke of his fear for the Inquisition’s future. He would have fought for us until the end.”
Estevan stood straighter. The chains around his wrists rattled and echoed somberly across the chamber. “A new witch purge would have secured the Inquisition’s power for at least another generation.”
Silence welcomed his declaration.
Then Whitmore opened his mouth. “You cannot possibly be suggesting …”
“… That Torqedan poisoned himself with a witch’s ointment—all for the sake of generating hysteria around a fabricated threat?” Estevan let his words sink in. His smirk turned cruel. “Why yes, I do. But do not mind me; I am just the prime suspect in a suicide case.”
“But he …” Tribunal Pajov began, eyes lost in his own thoughts. “He publicly endorsed witch medicine. Why would he do that, then?”
Cael chuckled. His unrehearsed laugh sounded all the more chilling for it. “To cause an even greater uproar, I imagine. If he had appeared benevolent toward witches, his poisoning at the hand of one would have set the public opinion ablaze.”
“No one would bat an eyelid at a woman vengefully killing an old enemy,” Estevan added. “But killing a kind old man who had stood in defence of her people? That was bound to cause hatred and strife. So Torqedan dedicated the later years of his life to becoming a martyr—a live or a dead one, I cannot say.”
Semras winced as the answer dawned on her. “A live one. He didn’t know prickly comfrey was much more toxic than the common variety. The apothecary he consulted had no reason to think of informing him of the different types, since tradingprickly comfrey is illegal for them. That’s why he died confused, saying this wasn’t what he wanted. He took a dosage he thought would only sicken him, not kill him.”
With growing horror, the tribunals gawked at each other. Whitmore returned his attention to the report papers spread before him, scanning and pushing them aside as if looking for the one that would contradict what they were hearing.
Face pale and sweaty, he lifted one in front of him like a shield, then pushed his slipping glasses back upon his nose. “B-But Warwitch Leyevna prepared the very salve that killed him. Could she have known of his plan and … and decided to accelerate …” His words faded as he spoke; he knew he was grasping at straws. “The letter frames her, but maybe …?”
“This was Torqedan’s doing as well,” Estevan said somberly. “He simply framed the most credible suspect. I bet that if we compared the ink of his parlour to the one used to rewrite it, we would have a match.”
“I shall have it done,” Cael said. “One more piece of evidence to confirm the facts of the case would be quite welcome, considering how convoluted it is already. Any more questions or doubts, Your Honours?”
No answer came. To Semras’ greatest satisfaction, the tribunals had become speechless.
Estevan exhaled deeply. “All this just to return the Inquisition to its violent days of prestige.” A self-deprecating scoff escaped him. “To think we all nearly fell for it. Had I thought of confirming his hands’ condition from the very start …”
Semras’ heart fell. She could almost feel her Wyrdtwined’s guilt at reconnecting the two enemies together.
