Why had he been staying late? How had he been making a profit? How much money could he have given? Money. Late. Money. Late.
That’s it. Terrel had been working to make more money. No. Some- thing else. If it was to increase profits, why had he let the workers leave? Why not have them work with him? What had he been doing that he didn’t want the others to know about?
Cade rifled through the receipts again, singling out the purchases.
“You fool,” he said aloud, but whether he meant himself by it, or Terrel, even he didn’t know. It was all right there. TerreFs orders for clay had increased, but some of the clay was cheaper, much cheaper than that he usually used. And Cade was sure that when he checked on it, he would find the new clay totally inappropriate for making good pottery. Something not made to last, something made to break easily, something made for one purpose only: to conceal . . .
What was it, Terrel? he thought. What was it you were hiding for your zealots? Weapons? Money? Drugs? All three? What went through your head, brother, staying in that little shop, everyone gone/the light fading, the wheel spinning, your deformed hands forming the cheap clay, changing it. What was it you made-false bottoms, sides? Probably bottoms.
You little fool, did you think you were going to change things? Bring about a new Sanctuary, a new world? Make things better? Depose the Rankans you always despised so much? Ah, Terrel, don’t you know, revo- lutions always fail in hell.
Cade stood up, sheathing his sword. He had the scent now. All he and Targ had to do was ask a few discreet questions, drop a few coins into sweaty palms. This trail would lead them to the truth, to the reason behind Terrel’s horrid end. This would lead them to his brother’s mur- derer.