‘Holy Setat,’ he whispered and the Drowned’s head came up. It stared at him with unblinking intensity. ‘God of rivers and lakes, of rain and crops, you who give and take to maintain harmony.’ Its throat sac bulged and he braced himself. It chirruped, tentative, as afraid as he was: he was sure of that now. ‘Yes,’ he said past the constriction in his throat, ‘I’m a friend.’

Release me.

Tayan rocked under the command, issued in a low, birdlike warble. ‘I can’t do that,’ he said. ‘At least not yet. Soon perhaps. But we need to understand each other first. Do you understand? Understand my words?’

Release me. Hurt.

‘I can’t,’ he repeated, filled with sorrow, and the holy Setat looked away from him and lowered its head back into the water. There was an ugly slash in one leg, and the other was dislocated or broken. ‘Can I ease your hurt? Is there anything, any medicine you need?’

It looked up again and this time it sang. It was a song of yearning and loss and pain, a song of fear that broke Tayan’s spine and heart and begged for aid, begged to be saved. And yet there was no imperative in it, no command to come to it that drew its victims and its offerings. It was alone and hurt and there was not enough water and so it must struggle, a constant pain throughout all its body as it slowly suffocated. Over hours. Over days.

And then Xessa was there, alerted by Ossa’s response to the song, and she dragged Tayan backwards by his harness and stepped past him, spear up by her jaw. The shaman scrambled to his feet. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, you don’t understand. It’s not a threat.’

Xessa didn’t look at his mouth or his hands and when he grabbed her arm she shook him off violently and pointed at the exit.

‘No,’ he tried again, desperate now, but she was implacable. He backed to the cave mouth and looked at the holy Setat over her shoulder. ‘I’ll come back,’ he promised it, ‘and we will talk again.’

LILLA

Outside Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs

211th day of the Great Star at morning.

He’d expected more than this. The way the dogs and Dakto spoke of Pechacan, calling it the heart of the Empire, he’d expected every home to be a stone palace or for the song to be stronger, purer, finer than before. But nothing was different. Nothing. It was just the same expanses of fields separated by tiny strips of jungle supporting nothing more than a few monkeys and birds.