‘Great Singer,’ Enet said and pulled off the kneeling figure’s hood. ‘This is Betsu, a Yaloh spy and a warrior who insulted your name and our Empire. She came here under guise of being a peace-weaver, and then she fled my house in the night and was spotted trying to rouse slaves in the flesh markets to rebellion. I have kept her secure – and she has been brought here in secret.’

Enet watched for the Singer’s reaction as she unwrapped the cloth from the bundle. ‘Great Singer, divine god, I offer you the stone knife.’

The Singer stared at the weapon lying between them, the ritual blade of rare pale quartz knapped to a wicked sharpness, the handle carved from the leg bone of a jaguar. Unique and beautiful and full of magic. Forbidden, ancient magic not used in centuries. The gold in his skin pulsed and flowed as if reaching towards it, urging him to take it up, to wield it on flesh and bone.

Enet’s mouth was dry as the Singer didn’t move. ‘Prisoner, lower your eyes. You have no permission to look upon the holy lord, our living god, our great Singer,’ she snapped. Her voice bounced from the plastered walls to mingle with the choir of children singing somewhere out of sight, the trickle of water, and the chirr of cicadas from the gardens. Beneath them all clanged the song and Betsu’s ragged breathing. The Singer’s own breathing wasn’t much better; his nostrils flared like an exhausted deer’s as he dragged in air, not quite believing what was happening.

‘You shouldn’t have fucking brought me here then, should you, if you didn’t want me to look? Get your stinking hands off me!’ the Yalotl shouted as the Chorus shoved her head down onto the mat and held it there. ‘Not that he’s anything to look at. Hands are soft – has he ever tilled a field or held a weapon?’ The words were muffled but loud enough to reach Enet’s ears. And the Singer’s.

‘What is this?’ Xac whispered, his eyes as round as those of a holy Setat. ‘Is this a joke – or am I the joke here?’ The danger in his voice made Enet’s bladder tighten.

She ran her palm up his arm, across the thick shoulder and down his back. ‘No, holy lord. You want sensation. You want experience. You want to kill, and more than just monkeys.’ He twitched at that and Betsu began to struggle.

‘It is forbidden,’ the Singer said, his words slow and unsure.