“The barons offer no ideas, just arguments,” Foxbrush said. “And since I’m not Eldest,” he continued, “they don’t include me in their various plottings. Not yet anyway. Other than bribes, of course.”
“Of course.” Lionheart nodded. “So, is this something to do with your response to their bribes, then? Inedible, semi-rotten fruit is highly effective when thrown from upper windows.”
Foxbrush opened his mouth to growl an answer but paused a moment. He hadn’t actually considered that possible use for his samples. It wasn’t all that bad an idea, if rather beneath his princely dignity.
He shook his head savagely, however, and rammed the sticky handkerchief back into his pocket. “Always the clown, Lionheart. Always the jester. Meanwhile, Southlands is on the brink of collapse, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’d picked up a hint or two,” Lionheart replied dryly, taking a seat in a well-cushioned rattan chair, far more comfortable in this room that had once been his than Foxbrush was or ever could be. Foxbrush hated him for it. He hated him for many things just then.
Growling, Foxbrush knelt, righted the spilled basket, and hastily began shoveling the scattered fruit back into it. “Our orchards are in trouble,” he said. “Reports come in every day from every barony, telling us of crops and harvests failing. The oldest, richest mango groves have all withered from poison or been pulled up by the roots! There’s scarcely a healthy plantation left in the entire kingdom. Do you understand how this affects Southlands, from the richest baron down to the poorest tenant? How can we trade with the Continent without our primary exports? There are the tea plantations still, of course, but we’ll have to up our prices if we hope to make ends meet, and how can we compete with Aja or Dong Min at increased costs? They didn’t suffer under a dragon’s thumb for five years! They can undersell us with every merchant from here to Noorhitam! We can’t depend on our teas, and we can’t hope for anything from our mangoes.”
“I know.” Lionheart’s voice was very low when he replied, though his mocking smile remained in place. He put out a foot and nudged one of the figs out of Foxbrush’s reach. “Remember, it was my problem before it was yours.”
But Foxbrush didn’t hear. This was his way when he got caught up in his theories. For the moment, even the horror of his ruined wedding day was forgotten, and his eyes shone as he eagerly clutched the basket of figs, looking down at them as though he gazed upon the jewels of Hymlumé’s garden. “There is a solution,” he said in a low, almost desperate voice. “Figs!”
He plunked the basket back down on the desk and grabbed A History of Southlander Agriculture, fumbling through the pages. “I’ve read all about it. Back hundreds of years ago, the elder fig was the primary export for Southlands. It was like gold grown on trees, so high was the demand!”
Once more Lionheart replied softly, “I know, Foxbrush.”
“Don’t you see? We have elder fig trees all over the country, growing like weeds! The tough old things survived the Dragon’s poison with scarcely a mark on them. They’re thick with fruit, and if we can simply start tending them as we used to and harvest them, we might be able to establish a new trade!” The heat of excitement carried Foxbrush on so that he almost forgot it was his cousin to whom he spoke. “I’ve written to several of the baronies, and at least eight have responded, telling me that their estates are full of old elder figs. Enough, perhaps, to get a good harvest!”
Lionheart crossed his arms, his face solemn as he regarded his cousin. When Foxbrush at last ran out of steam, he said only, “Too bad, then, that elder fig trees don’t produce edible fruit anymore.”
And there was the rub.
Foxbrush’s cheek twitched. He put the book back on the table and eyed the spoiling fruit in the basket. “They weren’t always. Inedible, that is. We used to know how to cultivate them.”
“The brown fig and long hall fig are edible,” Lionheart said, “but—”
“But not in demand,” Foxbrush finished for him. “Not so succulent or sweet.”
Their eyes met over the lamplight. A brief exchange of sympathy, of understanding, such as these two had never before known. In that moment, the weight of all Southlands rested on the shoulders of both cousins, all the impossibilities that would crush a king to death with hopelessness.
But Foxbrush could not bear sympathy from Leo, nor pity either. He turned away. “I keep thinking—”
“Lumé spare us.”
“Shut up, Leo. I keep thinking I’ll find something. If I keep reading, if I keep hunting, I’ll discover the secret to renewing the elder figs. Everything I come up with has been tried before. I’m at a loss, and I don’t mind admitting it.”
“Well, that’s the first step, isn’t it?” Lionheart said, his voice surprisingly heavy. “Admitting your shortcomings?”
Foxbrush’s eyes flashed. “I’ve not given up. I’m not going to run away. Not like—”