Deliberately, he thought of Lilla, the tilt of his head when Tayan said something stupid, the curve of his mouth in the dark, the heat of his flesh and the strength of his body. He thought of his laugh, low and infectious and more beautiful by far than this fucking monkey-chatter. That was the real music of his life. The only song he needed was Lilla’s voice.

‘You will be escorted to Yalotlan; I trust you can make your way home from there, carrying your message of surrender as you go and warning the Yaloh who remain in their land to be ready to give it up.’

She leant over the table, so close Tayan could taste her breath. ‘Make sure you stay alive, little Tayan. You’re pretty enough to have tempted me, despite those ugly scars on your leg, and clever enough that I would relish having you in my house again.’

Tayan jerked back as if she’d spat in his face. ‘And what would be my status in this house?’ he asked, folding his arms across his chest to prevent his hand dropping to his scarred left leg.

The Great Octave’s laughter pealed, bouncing from the walls and the elaborately painted stucco, but again it was a little too false to be convincing. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, pretty Toko, eh? Everyone starts somewhere, for their own good and the stability of the Empire,’ and she made a collar of her fingers and thumbs and slotted it around her own throat. She laughed again at whatever expression was on his face. ‘But you are a special case, Tayan, because I can see that the song already breathes inside you. You would not be a long time branded, I think.’

She stood and crossed to a second low table, this one scattered with bark paper, ink, and brushes, her energy matching the urgency and brutality of the song. As did Tayan’s, for he had a sudden image of her face purpling as he put his hands around her neck and squeezed.

‘Under the song,’ she added without turning her head and snapped her fingers at her kneeling estate slave.

The man rose from the mats and handed her a report as if Tayan wasn’t still sitting there, numb. ‘The latest numbers from the songstone mines, high one.’

Enet grunted, and two of her slave guards approached Tayan and gestured him out of the room. He looked back as he went, but the Great Octave of the Empire of Songs was deep in discussion with her slave. The man was pointing to a column of figures and speaking with the confidence of a free.

And then he was in the garden, waiting in the early morning rain until four slave warriors hurried out carrying weapons and packs of supplies, including his own. The quartet surrounded him and marched down the path.