‘Speak, High Feather,’ the Singer said without preamble and his voice was musical, throbbing with power and magic. The council sat up, nervous, uncomfortable. Several exchanged anxious looks and Pilos wasted a second savouring the furious worry that must be eating at Enet’s perfect features and blackened heart. She’d come to sit on their side of the hanging now, while the Singer’s favourites retreated to the far wall.

‘Thank you, holy lord, for the honour,’ Pilos said and bowed his head briefly. ‘The Melody is in need of new warriors. While we have many new slaves, it will take time for them to be trusted to fight in lands they once counted theirs. Not even the Xentib, four sun-years under the song, are reliable enough to send to Yalotlan once the rains stop. To be so close to their tribal lands could prove too much. In addition, since returning to the Singing City I have seen the aftermath of the most recent purge. I have seen hundreds more people begging. As the wisdom of our forebears forbids slavery of full-blood Pechaqueh, these unfortunates clutter our plazas and bring disease and ugliness to our streets. They breed faster than the Choosers can offer them to the holy Setatmeh. And so my proposal, great Singer, which I submit to your wisdom, is that the disinherited are drafted into the Melody as indentured warriors and engineers, pyramid-builders, weapons-makers, cooks. They have had everything taken from them and now they turn our beautiful city into an eyesore. I propose that they redeem themselves and earn their freedom and their wealth back through war and expansion of the Empire in your name.’

‘You would name them eagles?’ Yana asked with a tinge of distaste.

‘Absolutely not. They have lost their honour; I will not see them tarnish the honour of eagles. I propose a new caste of hawks. With a similar system to that which we operate for the slave and dog warriors, we could ensure a steady flow of new blood into the Melody, a reduction in the number of beggars and instances of disease in the Singing City and our other cities – the Great Octave has told us of the outbreak in Quitoban, for instance – and a way for the disgraced to continue to serve the Empire and glory. When each had paid off their debt and shame in years of service, they could farm the new stretches of Empire they themselves helped to conquer, with half of their crops tithed to Pechacan, as is usual. Their honour will be won by their own hands, some wealth and status within society regained. All at no cost to the Empire other than that expended in housing, feeding, and training them. Still a small sum for guaranteed flesh to hurl at our enemies.’