Pilos drained half his cup of beer as another form appeared at his door. Citla. He beckoned her in, noting her pallor and the tremble in her hands. ‘From Councillor Yana,’ she said as she held out the bark-paper. ‘Confidential.’

He eyed her and then took it. ‘Are you all right?’ She nodded, swaying a little, and then padded away. Confidential information could be sent through the song, but it was difficult, involving the Listener receiving the communication while chanting a particular melody as the information was dictated to them. It ensured that once the message was written and handed over, they remembered nothing of what they had heard.

Pilos untied the message hurriedly.

Honoured High Feather, Spear of the Singer and servant of our holy lord, greetings.

In light of the information provided by your spies, the Singer has viewed the skies and read the histories and the prophecies. He has communed with the holy Setatmeh here in the heart of Empire and cast the bones and dice. He orders that the Yaloh are to be brought under the song immediately, as are the Tokob, whose deicide can no longer be ignored. He charged me with the honour of informing you, for which I am obliged.

Upon conquest of the Tokob Sky City, he commands you to bring him examples of these so-called ejab, as many as you can find. If you must kill every Toko and Yalotl to get to them, then that is your order. The god-killers must be stopped.

You are to march on the 210th day of the Great Star’s appearance at dawn.

Pilos stared at the letter and the deadline for moving an entire army – through the Wet – to the border and war. It was even shorter than he’d expected. Twenty-five days. A laugh bubbled up in his chest and overspilt in a very undignified, slightly hysterical snort. He slapped his hand over his mouth and took a deep breath.

Calm, Pilos. We knew this was coming and we’ve already begun preparing. All will be as the holy Setatmeh decree. There’s a war to win. Against two tribes. In the Wet.

Another laugh threatened and he suppressed it; then he checked the timeline again. The two hundred and tenth day. Right.

‘Atu!’ he bellowed, and then scanned the rest of the letter.

You will know better than I that the fever in Quitoban remains out of control. Despite my repeated requests, the order remains for quarantine and to let the illness burn itself out. Those Pechaqueh who have been able to flee to estates outside the major cities and towns have done so, and trade between Quitoban and Pechacan has ceased for now. Whichever Talon you have there will not be permitted to withdraw to aid you in the war.