“No,” Ngaio said, sadly, “it began out on the west edge, in Canaat territory. The locust farmers had it first. Everyone knows the Canaat are backed by the Mbo, and why would the Mbo poison their own allies? So I think the Oriati didn’t bring it.”

“But Kettling comes from the Mbo,” Shao insisted, “it’s in the legends, everyone knows the Summer of Black Emmenia—”

“Five hundred years ago.”

“Nonetheless, in the Mbo!” Shao was breathing hard now, which Baru could hardly believe—what had softened her frost? She couldn’t care about the welfare of Kyprananoke, so what had pricked her conscience?

Ngaio Ngaonic knew.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, pausing for a delicate sip of champagne, “I just assumed Falcrest had released the plague to control the Canaat. Perfectly deniable. Perfectly natural. Your navy must have a few carriers, stashed away somewhere…?”

“We would not,” Shao Lune hissed. “On Kyprananoke? Are you mad? It would get everywhere. Everywhere.”

Ngaio took another sip and smiled at her. “So it’s not a way to slaughter all the Canaat, and leave no bases for ‘pirates’ on Kyprananoke before the war? I quite expect those warships that arrived recently to join in the bloodletting. And to read a mournful editorial in Advance afterward: ‘Can’t those savage islanders ever stop murdering each other? If only they’d had proper hygiene.’”

“But we don’t have the Kettling,” Shao said, with matronizing patience. “It’s an Oriati disease, do you understand? It is not endemic to Falcrest. Now I ought to go check on the quality of the plumbing, before I drink any of your water.”

“You ought to unbutton, too,” Ngaio said, critically, “or your breasts are going to shrivel up in sweat like little baby faces.”

“That does not happen,” Shao snapped, and stalked off.

Baru took the opportunity to unfold her little portrait and ask: “Do you know anyone who might be this boy’s mother? He recites this scrap of poetry, ayamma, ayamma, a ut li-en…”

Ngaio had no idea what she meant. A passing Oriati woman, fully pregnant, handsome in a black eyepatch, stopped to look. “Who’s that?”

“A boy,” Baru said, for the first of many times, “whose parents I’m trying to locate. Do you know this scrap of poetry? Ayamma, ayamma, a ut li-en—”

*   *   *

BY the time Governor Love and the Kyprist party arrived for dinner, Baru had flashed the picture of Iraji at every Oriati person she could find, Tau-indi excepted. She would have kept on looking, too. But the Kyprists brought Ormsment as their guest.