The Pechaqueh can talk to them? Is this a skill to be learnt? Is this … Enet’s ultimatum included the prohibition on killing Drowned. That was the condition that no Toko would agree to. But what if I could speak to them? If I could learn their language …

The Drowned trilled again and beckoned, blinking heavy, clear lids over liquid-black eyes. It cocked its head.

Tayan had never seen such behaviour. No eja had ever reported such things. In Tokoban they were monsters who killed without thought or mercy. Predators, pure and simple. But so are dogs if left to roam wild.

His breath stuttered.

They can be tamed.

‘Holy Setatmeh, you wise gods of rivers and lakes, you who command the rain to fall and the crops to grow, we honour you.’ Enet’s voice was loud and carrying and all around her Pechaqueh were advancing, their arms raised in supplication. It dragged Tayan’s mind back to the ritual, breaking his feverish, fascinated reverie. All along the banks of the river, elite members of the city repeated her words.

‘Sacred spirits who guard the world spirit, who have been blessed with the long life of your kind, who have known this world and now the world of song, who hold the world spirit in your hearts and who trace back in unbroken lineage to the first Singer, Tenaca herself, we worship you. We honour you. If you call, we will come. If you yearn, we will respond. If you ask, we will answer.’

Enet paused and a thrum of ecstatic fear lanced through the crowd and drove the air from Tayan’s lungs. She was asking them to sing! She wanted them to. Curiosity was replaced by primal fear once again, the switch in emotions so rapid Tayan nearly staggered. Betsu appeared at his side and gripped his hand in hers, her warrior’s callouses so like Lilla’s that it stole him from the horror of the moment and into a memory – the first time Lilla had taken his hand, gentle and nervous, and the kiss he’d pressed to Tayan’s knuckles. The shaman drew in a shuddering breath, so deep his lungs ached. In, out. Just his breath and the picture of Lilla in his mind. Carved upon his heart.

Get a fucking grip, Tayan. Watch and learn. Think.

Three slaves brushed past him, dragging a fourth who walked with vacant eyes and mind, stumbling as if drunk.

‘You gods of waters and of fields, you children of the world spirit and ancestors of our great Singer, our holy lord, we do you honour and reverence. Accept this offering, and go in peace.’ Enet took the slave by the arm – the clean, unblemished, exquisitely dressed slave who cried silently but made no move to free herself – and walked forward into the river.