Melanie said, “First the old men take it every twenty years. Then, when they are about one hundred, they need it every ten years, or five, and when they get to be a hundred fifty, they need it every year, every season, just to go on living. And for every dose, more or less, a woman dies.”
Genevieve stared, her eyes glazed, lost in contemplation of the caverns beneath Havenor, piled high with useless treasures, paid for in blood. “How old can they get?” she cried. “Can they live forever?
Joncaster shook his head. “When it gets to the point they need it every day or so, usually something happens to them. They are said to die in hunting accidents, or they drown, or they fall down the stairs.”
Melanie looked closely at Genevieve, noting her pallor, her trembling hands. “Come. Let’s get out of this charnel house. Over the edge of the dune, at least.”
“Go up to the flag,” directed Joncaster. “No sense all of us climbing back to the sled in this heat. I’ll get it.”
Just over the edge of the dune, the two women sat on the sloping surface, Genevieve wiping her face with the hem of her robe while Melanie made a shade with her outer robe and laid the baby within it, still holding the bottle to his mouth. The baby sucked, then sighed, then sucked again.
“When Willum married Barbara,” murmured Genevieve, forcing herself to consider what she had seen, “he knew she would end here, with his child?”
“As a candidate for his father, yes. Sons of the nobility know what is expected of them. No doubt Willum’s father asked him to marry and provide a candidate. Under both Haven and Mahahmbi custom, a son owes filial respect to his father.”
“And the Prince needed a candidate, so he would have married me, but I’m not his wife . . .” Genevieve murmured.
“There’s a mystique about women of noble blood making the best candidates, but married to him or not, he’d have had to have someone else get you pregnant, Genevieve. This stuff makes men sterile and impotent. That’s one reason they don’t take it until they’re older.”
Thinking of the days and nights spent traveling back from Merdune, Genevieve shook her head sadly. “So the Prince really didn’t care if I married Aufors. . . . And Father . . . well, Father couldn’t have known.”
Melanie moistened a cloth and wiped the baby’s face. “If your father didn’t know prior to this trip, be sure he knew during, for he was brought along to serve as ritual master for the Prince.”
“He was to have cut my throat?” murmured Genevieve, fighting the sickness she felt. “He did behave very strangely toward me. He must have known.” She swallowed deeply and put her head on her knees. “What did Joncaster mean when he said a totally fictional fever?”
Melanie lifted the baby to her shoulder, sheltering it within her hood. “The commons are occasionally exposed to a carefully engineered off-world fever that wipes out a few of them, actually very few, for the nobles don’t want a drop in population. The reports, however, always mention a fictional, large number of fatalities. Then some bitter-tasting but harmless stuff they call P’naki is dispensed, with maximum fanfare, and that reinforces the importance of P’naki in people’s minds. That in turn explains both Haven’s trade with Mahahm and why so many young women are said to have died.”
“And when the Prince said he wanted the production of P’naki increased . . . ?”
“Well, of course he wants it increased. Our spies say the Lord Paramount promised him he might keep one-third of any increase in P’naki for himself. The Prince wants to hire mercenaries and buy war machines of his own. Most important, he wants to take over the throne of the Lord Paramount.”
“And the Shah plays the same game?” murmured Genevieve.
“The Shah uses different words, but the game is the same, yes. At this stage of his life, the Shah no doubt needs a woman’s life every few days to stay alive.” She laid the baby down in the shadow of her body, offering the water bottle once more.