Tayan’s shrug was elaborate as he chewed more tasteless cornbread. ‘Betsu is a skilled warrior; I doubt they were even aware she had left the estate. But again, I apologise on her behalf.’

Fury flashed across Enet’s face and just as swiftly vanished. And then she ran her finger down her jaw, her throat, and into the open neck of her tunic. ‘And yet you have stayed with me,’ she purred and Tayan nearly choked on the bread. Enet was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, and if she lived in the Sky City he’d have thrown himself at her feet long before and begged for her favour. But as displays of power went, it was crude and ineffective – mostly.

‘I have. We thought that the more I could learn about your society, and particularly the song and the Drown— the holy Setatmeh, the better. As I know you can appreciate, there will be much resistance to the outcome of this peace-weaving. The more I know, the better equipped I will be to answer any questions.’

They watched each other, like snake and rat. There was no mistaking which one was Tayan. ‘You wish to know even more of our society?’ she asked eventually.

‘I wish to know of the song and the holy Setatmeh, Great Octave.’ Tayan spread his hands and looked at her with complete honesty. ‘I want to know all about them.’

‘Interesting,’ Enet murmured. She gestured at the table. ‘Eat. I have business in the great pyramid today, but perhaps we shall speak more on my return.’

‘Under the song,’ Tayan said, but she had already left.

PILOS

High Feather’s estate, Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs

162nd day of the Great Star at morning

Pilos’s eyes opened and he stared into the blackness above his bed. It was hours before dawn, but the guard hadn’t passed his door. At home, at the fortress, on campaign, or while travelling, every six hundred heartbeats a guard would patrol past him, as regular as sunrise. The lack of footsteps woke him as surely as if someone had screeched an alarm.

Pilos slid out of bed and reached for his salt-cotton, slung it over his head, and then took his club from its place between the bed and the door. He slipped a knife into the waistband of his loincloth and pressed himself to the cool plaster wall. Silence. A long silence. And then the very softest scuff of sandal on stone. Pilos flexed his fingers on the handle of his club and waited.

The door opened with a slight creak and Pilos let them come in. Three? They should have brought more.