The Numrek, the league, and the Lothan Aklun: how had be become so miserably indebted to all of them? In frozen Cathgergen, so far from power and privilege, each partnership had made complete sense. Why not buy an army and pay them with treasure from lands they themselves conquered? Why not promise great sums to merchants who would help to enrich him? What better partner in business than the suppliers to a ravenous market never looked upon or dealt with directly? No sum had seemed too great if paying them helped him achieve his goals. He felt different now, on every count.
Not least of his worries was that he had managed to catch only one of the four Akaran children. Corinn went unharmed and lived comfortably in Acacia. She knew nothing of the fate that still awaited her. Her presence should have been a comfort, one less thing to worry about. Instead, she shot him through with a sort of torment. What would he do with her? What did he want to do with her?
Sire Dagon pressed his teeth against a plum. He broke the skin of it, paused, and relished the moisture. He did not swallow the fruit. Apparently, the juice on his lips was all he wanted. “Anyway, these brigands, all their raiding up and down the coast-you need not trouble yourself with them. Even we have had some difficulty with them, but we have yet to crack down. We will do so now, and they will fall to us by next summer. The Ishtat will prevail where you struggled; we’re confident of this. When we are done, we will quietly take possession of the islands; you will bask in pride at having secured the coastline from brigands.”
“Why do you want those islands so?” Hanish asked.
Sire Dagon contemplated him for a moment. He touched the corner of his lips to wipe the fruit juice away. “Before I tell you, remember that the doubled quota will make you richer than Acacia ever was-”
“How can they want more?” Hanish interrupted, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “What do they do with all these slaves? They could scarcely ask for more if they ate them for meat.”
Sire Dagon frowned and twisted his head to the side, indicating that both the question and the inference were in terribly bad taste. “One need not ask such things. They do whatever it is they do; let us both be glad for it. Remember that one of the original tenets of the Quota contract was that the league would serve as the only intermediary between Acacia and Lothan Aklun. As part of this, we have never betrayed the secrets of one side to the other. Nor will I do so now. As I was saying, the Lothan Aklun swear never to amend this agreement, not now, not ever. Nor will we overreach the quota in the provinces. This is something that sometimes happened during the last reign, but it will not happen again. Once we have normalized the increased quota, we will pacify the Outer Isles. We will clear them, make them arable, and we will begin production.”
“Production of what?”
“Of the only thing the Lothan Aklun want from us.”
The answer came to Hanish like an amorphous shape rising from the depths of his imagination. “You will breed slaves there.”
Sire Dagon showed no surprise, no satisfaction at Hanish’s pronouncement. He just plucked up a grape and spoke casually. “I do not recognize that word slaves. But if you mean that we will breed our product there, you are correct. It will be a most efficient means of production. We’ve made plans already. The island of Gillet Major, in particular, will make for a lovely plantation.”
After the leagueman left, Hanish leaned against his desk and gazed through the thin curtains, rippling as they did with the afternoon’s breeze. The world could be so calm at moments, he thought, so oblivious. His brother and his uncle entered, and he had to summon his energy just to erase the disquiet from his demeanor.
“I passed that weird one in the courtyard,” Haleeven said. “I have no love for those creatures, Hanish. No love at all.” His face testified to the turbulence of the passing years. Peacetime, it seemed, had been particularly hard on the older man. The climate-though he never complained-did not suit him. He seemed ever ill at ease within his skin, flushed as if coming in from exercise, confused by something in the air that he could not quite put his finger on.
Maeander had no such problems. He was as cocky as ever, confident in his body. He had gained muscle bulk in the arms and chest, and he had taken a tan better than most men of the Mein. The peeling skin on his nose testified to his continued passion for outdoor pursuits.
“What?” Maeander asked, gazing at his brother. “You don’t look well, Hanish. Queasy, that’s the word. Do you feel as queasy as you look?”
“We need more power,” Hanish said.
“I’ve said that all along,” answered Maeander.
“I am pulled and pushed by a thousand hands, each with a finger in my pocket and the threat of a knife in the other hand.”
“I hear you, brother. Haven’t I always said, ‘We need more power.’ I have that thought every morning on waking. I heft myself up out of the tangle of nubile bodies and the first thing I think is, Power! I need more…”
“Be serious,” Haleeven snapped. “Hanish isn’t clowning.”
Maeander rolled his eyes. He sat down in the chair the leagueman had used and plucked up an orange. He inhaled, his nose touching the skin of the fruit. “We need to move the Tunishnevre and complete the ceremony.”
“You know we cannot do that yet,” Haleeven said.
“They are impatient. We have no choice in this matter, Hanish. They speak to me also, and they’ve made it very clear. They want to be moved. They want to journey here. They want to rest their bodies on the scene of the crime done to them, and then they want a few drops of living Akaran blood. They want to be free, brother, and you can offer them that. The chamber here is nearly ready for them. There is no reason not to begin.”
“What of the other three?” Haleeven asked.
“Exactly,” Hanish said. “Without them the Tunishnevre cannot rise. At least they are safe now, their condition constant. This climate could destroy them, put them beyond our power to release.”
Unmoved, Maeander said, “That is not necessarily true. One may be enough. Especially if the others are dead. If Corinn is the last of the royal line, then her blood is all they need. She can free them. Imagine, Hanish, how powerful we will be! All these petty problems that trouble you so: they’ll be gone like that.” He raised a hand, fingertips touching until the moment he snapped his hand open, releasing whatever was held there into the air, invisible, inconsequential. “This is what the ancestors placed in me. They put this truth in me.”
“They said nothing to me about needing only Corinn.”
“They fear you may be compromised somehow, led astray by this place. I swore to them that they were wrong. They accepted my word. You are their beloved, but they can only wait so long. They taste release, Hanish. They have scant patience when they feel they are being denied.” Speaking through a mouthful of orange pulp, he added, “By the gods, the fruit down here is wonderful!”
Hanish ignored the last comment, but he thought for a long moment about Maeander communing with the Tunishnevre. He had known his brother was doing this for some time. It was unprecedented for anyone but the chieftain and a few of the higher priests to interact with them. Hanish had allowed it because he owed Maeander so much. He had always been a perfect weapon, a hound ready to bite whomever he was directed toward. Hanish knew the ancestors adored him for the strength he walked so casually with. But for them to speak to Maeander about him, about Hanish himself…For them to express doubts about their living chieftain was a grave thing. There was message after message to read here, threat inside threat. And he could not acknowledge any of it until he understood it better.
“We are ahead of ourselves,” Haleeven said. “You have not told us what news the weird one brought you.”