‘Later perhaps, then. To the first scheduled matter: there has been an outbreak of disease in Quitoban,’ the old warrior said, changing the subject smoothly. ‘Reports of at least two hundred farming Quitob dead, with double that number in the towns struck down so far. Some Pechaqueh have been caught up in it, Setatmeh protect them, and are secluding themselves on their estates. The shamans are working hard but it is spreading.’

‘There will be food shortages in the Singing City without their harvest,’ a councillor piped up, sounding panicked. ‘Prices will increase, looting and banditry—’

‘Indeed, but the sick Quitob?’ Yana asked. ‘How can we help them?’

Pilos admired the old man’s tenacity, but he was speaking to the wrong people if he wanted to help the sick. Enet and the Singer’s familiars had no interest in spending jade to save the lives of slaves, even when those slaves provided the food and goods that would see them through the year.

‘Quarantine the district and let the illness burn itself out,’ Enet said, waving a hand and almost dislodging her headdress. ‘When the sickness has passed, send some of the new Yaloh slaves there to bring in the crops. I want a list of names of Pechaqueh in Quitoban. Spear, we will require dog warriors to escort them out of danger. Next.’ And as easily as that, who knew how many slaves, who had come under the song only because of the promises of safety, security, and glory, were condemned to death.

She hadn’t even asked his permission. Pilos breathed.

‘The holy lord, great Singer Xac, 174th Singer since the founding of Pechacan, graces this council with his presence.’

Chorus Leader Nara’s voice boomed through the source and stilled the muttering of the councillors. A choir of honey-voiced children entered, singing the song of Xac’s accomplishments in the eleven years he had ruled so far. Six Chorus followed, their spears held horizontally across their bodies. Then Nara. Pilos saw the Singer’s shadow on the wall before pressing his forehead to the mat.

‘Draw the curtain,’ Nara said, his voice imperious, a tone he would never take with any of the councillors, let alone the Great Octave, under any other circumstances. But this was the Singer, and to look upon him was forbidden. Pilos knew when the Singer entered: the walls of the source almost seemed to bulge and flex to accommodate him. The song’s intensity strengthened within the blood, like taking a draught of honeypot on an empty stomach.

Pilos’s leg throbbed its complaint; he ignored it, though a glance told him the bandage was staining red. But the Singer was here. Thank you, holy Setatmeh, for speeding Elaq’s words to the Singer’s ears.