Page 91 of A Weave of Lies
Seeing the inquisitor execute her orders without arguing felt particularly satisfying. He set out her tools on a wooden table, brought her the requested vial, and then stood by, waiting for more orders.
“Did he—” Semras cleared her throat of the putrid air. “Did he take any medication? Any known wound or chronic affliction? I recall you suggesting that he was taking a witch’s remedy.” Grimacing at the difficulty, she got her fingers to wrap around her magnifying lens, then looked at the fluids after spreading some on a piece of glass.
“Yes, he did. Willow bark concoctions and some ointment for his joints,” he replied. “The tribunal had suffered from stiffness in his hands for the past few years now. It had worsened so much, he could write no longer, so he consulted a witch for a cure. I searched the place and found no traces of these medicines within the house, but I know he had some with him. They may have been taken away by the culprit, or—”
Her glare silenced him. “Do not give me preconceptions,” Semras said. Dropping the magnifying glass, she worked on fitting a pen into her hand. “Do you know exactly what kind of ointment it was? And where it came from?”
The inquisitor stared at her hands. “Do you want me to write for you?”
Semras shook her head. Once her fingers managed to stay bent around the quill, she looked around the desk. “Where’s the ink?”
Estevan pushed a small inkpot toward her. Its label announced ‘Iron Gall ink’ in an elegant script.
She whistled. “Fancy. I could never afford that. I’ve always used homemade carbon black. Does it spread like …?” She tipped the pen over a blank paper and watched a tiny, purplish-black dot drop onto it. “Oh, it’s very sharp! My ink always spreads into a mess. Is that what you all use in the cities?”
The inquisitor shrugged. “I do not.” At her raised eyebrow, he added, “I have too much carbon black ink to use before buying anything new.”
Realizing he wouldn’t elaborate further, Semras took her time to write all he’d told her about Torqedan’s remedies, along with her own observations. If he didn’t want to remove the shackles, he’d suffer the delay she needed to work around them.
“So? The ointment?” she prompted him, half-distracted by the thin lines of ink on the paper. They amazed her. Her own ink never wrote so precisely, no matter how much she sharpened her quill pen.
“… I know nothing more about it,” he replied. “Maraz’Miri’s initial discovery did not link it to any of Castereina’s apothecaries. It came from outside the city.”
Semras hummed. There was something peaceful in the jotting down of notes and the quiet solving of a mystery. There was, however, none in the way the inquisitor hovered around her as she worked down her list of identification. Trying to block out his presence, she focused on her methodology.
Colour. Odour. Density.
Either her work intensely interested him, or he suspected that she might sabotage it. She knew inquisitors were deeply distrustful by nature, but she had proven her skills earlier. It just felt insulting at this point.
Or maybe it wasn’t work he had in mind?
New Maiden help her; she was acting like a youngling in love for the first time. But she wasn’t in love; she just found Estevan attractive. That was all.
Besides, a dead body lay in the room. Chastising herself, the witch shook her head.
Symptoms.
Of these, there were many. Holding her breath, Semras walked to the body and examined it. Jaundice, dropsy, hematemesis, emaciation … Estevan had spoken of some joints troubling the old man … Looking at his hands, she found no swelling and no traces of any ointment on them, but she was no gravewitch. It had been a while since the old man had died; there could be no visible signs left of either after his death.
After returning to her notes, Semras scribbled all of her reflections down, brow furrowing increasingly. His saliva had contained traces of willow bark, and of—
Oh.
Oh, no.
Her quill pen quivered over the paper. “Inquisitor,” she said, voice calmer than she felt, “were there … were there any dosage instructions among the victim’s papers? For his remedy?”
“No, he had no correspondence regarding his health. All I know is what he told me himself—which was that his medicine came from a witch of the Yore Coven. Are you done?”
“Not yet,” Semras lied. Shuffling her papers around, the witch took the time to reflect. She couldn’t jump to conclusions. She had to consider other possibilities—like a simple, tragic accident.
Scribbled words spread before her. She’d have liked to separate each of the lines on its own little piece of paper, but with shackled hands, it would take her an eternity.
And she couldn’t risk the inquisitor glancing at her analysis too closely.
‘Jaundice. Dropsy. Hematemesis. Emaciation.’
‘Willow bark. Unidentified ointment.’
