It was dark and it was still. After the ritual there had been a celebration. As the Drowned feasted, so did their worshippers, though the meat in this case had been turkey, dog, and lizard. Baskets of food, firewood, mats had been brought to the bank of the river, and there, in sight and sound and song of the Drowned, the people of the Singing City had celebrated.

Now, hours later, the house was quiet with the aftermath of death and feast and Tayan and Betsu crouched in each other’s shadow and whispered.

‘What do you mean you’re not coming? Are you moon-mad? Didn’t you see what they did?’

Tayan allowed that it was quite possible he was moon-mad. But as the feast had progressed and they had been completely ignored by their host and everyone else – as they had, in fact, been left more in the company of slaves than free – he hadn’t been able to tear his mind away from what he’d seen.

Tayan had only seen a Drowned up close once before, one of the lesser, smaller variety. Child-sized. As a walker upon the spiral path, he had thought the journey-magic might give him the same immunity as the spirit-magic and that, with its power wrapped around him and a spirit guide at his side, he could observe the Drowned up close. Try and find a weakness. He had drummed for his guide, Old Woman Frog, and then he had walked towards the Swift Water, Eja Billa reluctant at his side. She had been there to protect him, and she had. With her life.

Tayan’s fingers trailed along the claw scars that ran from thigh almost to ankle. The Drowned – the child-sized, less dangerous Drowned – had given him these in the second before they realised the journey-magic did nothing to stop his ears. He’d fallen and lain there, blood pumping from his leg and venom coursing through his body, as Billa was eviscerated in front of him. Her dog had done its duty and dragged Tayan, not her, to safety. And she was dead. Because of him.

So yes, moon-mad was probably an accurate description. And yet …

‘I will stand no more of this. We are leaving. Now. We were weeks on the road here and will be weeks back again, trekking through the Wet. It’s time to leave.’

‘And do what? Tell our councils we’ve failed?’