There were murmurs from the council now, a few scoffing but many, those he had spoken with over the previous weeks, hushed and approving. Yana dipped his head in a tiny nod, satisfied. Enet remained motionless, offering no opinion either way. She would do as the Singer wished – and right now she had no idea what the Singer’s thoughts were. She couldn’t afford to jump the wrong way and incur his ire.

Jump, you bitch, Pilos willed her. Jump and condemn yourself.

He pressed a finger to the bandaging hidden by his kilt and let the flare of pain clear his thoughts. ‘As they are, the disgraced do nothing but stink up our cities and die in its corners. They have no purpose and they have no honour.’ He took a deep breath. ‘They shame us.’

Enet’s face hardened. ‘You speak of shaming Pechaqueh?’ she screeched, one painted fingernail aiming between his eyes. She gripped the hanging as she rose. ‘You who cannot even subdue—’

But the rest of the council had fallen on their faces as the material tore and exposed the Singer to public view. Pilos, too, dropped forward in obeisance as Enet flushed, realising the enormity of her error. He glanced up for a brief instant – like a lightning strike in the dark. Her headdress had slid over one eye and she shoved at it, mouth open. She was standing while the Singer sat, she had exposed him to the council, she had raised her voice in his presence, threatening the very song. Any one meant death, should he wish it.

The Chorus rushed from their stations about the walls, casting aside their spears and fumbling with the cotton, tying it ragged and crooked to the hooks above and once more screening the holy lord from unworthy eyes.

‘Leave,’ the Singer rumbled and the council began to rise in shocked silence. ‘Enet. Leave.’

Pilos felt an uncharacteristic surge of triumph and pushed it away, concentrated on keeping his face averted until the hanging was secure and the council had settled once more. He’d seen enough, anyway. Enet stood in sodden silence, the jade and onyx and feathers of her headdress – feathers like Pilos’s own and denoting high military position – a deliberate fucking insult – nodding and bobbing as she resettled it on her head with awkward, wooden fingers before stumbling out into the gardens, her back rigid with fury and shame.

‘Your proposal is accepted.’ The Singer’s voice sparked with magic and the song flowed into something dark and majestic that reminded Pilos – reminded the whole Empire of Songs – just who and what their holy lord was. He swallowed and concentrated on the Singer’s words.