He stared at Dariel for a moment. "I see by the way your cheeks are twitching that you acknowledge what a fine idea he had. It proved difficult to orchestrate, though. We simply did not have the agents in place to spread a poison evenly among them. Never would, it seemed. So we tried to find another way. All the time, of course, we kept up the trade. Prospered from it, really. Some of the older leaguemen would have been content to continue like that, but most of us wanted more. What man doesn't really, at some fundamental level, want more? More of everything! More riches. More lovers. More power. More revenge.
"Because he remained persistent, my father-who had taken up my grandfather's mission-worked with his physicians until they found a component of the purgative they could separate out. This they made into a poison, a vastly potent one." Here Neen paused and shared a knowing glance around the room, finally returning to Dariel. "Do you see where this is heading yet? Earlier this year-at great expense and risk-we managed to contaminate the purgative. A single agent did it, with a single vial of our poison mixed in with their purgative. It was all manufactured and stored in one place, you see. Security around it was surprisingly lax. A weak spot, indeed."
Dariel had stopped struggling some time ago. His eyes, still red with emotion but calmer than before, remained fixed on Sire Neen. More bewildered now than angry.
"Somebody wipe the boy's chin," Sire Neen said. "It's disturbing to see a grown man drool so." One of the Ishtat actually tried to carry out the order, but Dariel yanked his chin away. Lovely to see the fight in him, Sire Neen thought. I wonder how long he'll manage to keep it up? Out loud he said, "Noval, tell him what you witnessed. Exactly the same as you told me before."
The younger man happily obliged. Sire Neen listened to each detail almost as if he had seen the events and not just heard them reported a short time before. Thus, he envisioned the panorama that was the main harbor of Melith An, the trading port of the Lothan Aklun. He watched as the league schooner, the Hooktooth, nosed its way into the harbor. Normally, the harbor was thriving, bustling, alive with boat traffic and commerce. This time, chaos ruled. Neen watched as white-robed Lothans ran shouting along the harbor, chased by their own servants, who were trying to hold them back. But again and again Lothans managed to break free and throw themselves in the water. Some of them even carried others down to the same fate. The waters of the harbor were blocked with corpses and with the dying and with slaves trying either to save their masters or to die beside them.
Once docked and disembarked, Sire Neen imagined himself running through the streets behind an Ishtat vanguard, trying to find any living Lothan, or capture one of the fool slaves who seemed intent on fighting to the death out of allegiance to them. It was only by piecing together information and by interrogating the few slaves they actually captured that they came to understand the rest. The fever had erupted within hours after the Lothan Aklun had imbibed their ceremonial drinks. They dove in the water because the fever inside made their bodies burn. Those who could not make it to the harbor fell into convulsions on the ground.
"Most of it was over by the time we arrived," Noval concluded, "but still, what we did witness was a sight to see. As far as I can tell, the Lothan Aklun are no more."
Sire Neen let his pleasure curve his lips. "A work of fine planning. Complexity woven in such a way that it made victory terribly simple. And just like that, the balance of the world shifts." He said that directly to Noval, but then he turned and contemplated Dariel.
"Prince, I see the many questions in your eyes. You want to know what's to become of you, don't you? And there's anger there, too. I see it. I see it in the way you tremble and blink rapidly. You want to shout at me with all your Akaran outrage, don't you? How dare we do these things without consulting you! 'Just wait until my sister hears about this!' That's what you'd say, isn't it?"
Sire Neen chuckled. He leaned forward, taking a pull from his pipe before he continued. "The thing is, Prince, more is about to change than just the extermination of the Lothan Aklun. We don't need them, nor do we need Akarans. I had to argue among my own people to make this point clear, but argue it I did. It was time, I said, that the league not simply ride upon the tides of fortune. It was time for us to shape them. The destruction of the Lothan is part of that. Your people will soon wake to the other part. You see, there are traitors at the heart of Acacia, right in the palace, Prince, right in among the royal family. They need only hear confirmation that we have succeeded, and then… your family will finally, after all these years, get the type of deaths they deserve."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was so much worse than when she had last been here. Even then, two years ago, the northern Talayans had been complaining about the lack of rainfall. Corinn had thought their fears exaggerated. To her eyes the fields looked like… well, like fields of growing plants, rows and rows of short trees, fields of golden grasses. She understood that this apparent bounty was achieved only because the staple crops that required the most water had already been replaced by sturdier varieties. Change was not to be feared. The skilled agriculturalists of Talay, she had believed, would adjust.
Not so, as the scene before her eyes now confirmed. It was a vision of devastation, as full of death as any battleground. In the nearest field, withered trees stood naked of leaves or fruit, blackly skeletal and twisted like hundreds of demons captured in gestures of agony. Farther south some grain crop glittered as if the stalks were silvered strings of glass, ready to shatter underfoot. The horizon to the west was choked with smoke. The fires were far distant, but the wind carried the scent of them and dropped flakes of ash from the heavens. The irrigation channels were completely dry, their beds cracked. In several spots across the landscape figures moved, singly or in small groups. They looked more like scavengers than workers. Perhaps they had been workers, Corinn thought, but could do nothing but scavenge now.
The queen took this all in from the earthen embankment that paralleled Bocoum's southern battlements. She was on horseback, with Aaden at her side, both of them largely silent as a contingent of Bocoum's wealthy estate owners buzzed around them. Each one of these rich men claimed to have suffered more than the others. They detailed the withering of crops, the irrigation and replanting measures they took to adapt, the worsening situation, the bleak possibilities. They even admitted to praying to the Giver and allowing their laborers to call on whatever regional deities they might win favor with. A few had taken to sacrificing pigeons, chickens, even goats. None of it had helped, and the merchants feared the laborers might take even more desperate measures soon.
"We know the Giver forgives, but so far he has ignored us," said Elder Anath. He sat on his horse with straight-backed grace, his bright red robes vibrant against his dark skin. He was the head of the main branch of the Anath clan, the second most powerful of the city's merchant families. It showed in the easy grace of his carriage. Talayans were not natural horsemen, so his ease in the saddle was a product of his class.
"Or he punishes us," Sinper Ou offered wryly. "Some have grown too rich, perhaps, for his liking."
Elder Anath turned to see who had spoken. He studied him a moment and smiled, seemingly content that the man meant to slight him but had not managed it. "One can never grow too rich. The Ous have proved this. Can a lion's mane be too full? Never. But, Queen Corinn, even my fortune-not to mention Ou's-is shriveling under these empty skies."