‘I did and I am, even if Tayan is dead. Why? Are you going to buy me for yourself?’ Lilla tried to sneer, but his stomach tightened. What if Dakto did exactly that?

‘For what you did, how you made me welcome in your home, I give you this and only this.’ Dakto lowered his voice and leant even closer, making a pretence of fiddling with Lilla’s collar. The Toko fought not to shy away. ‘I didn’t find his body.’

Lilla rocked and the Whisper had to grab him by one arm to prevent him from collapsing. ‘But even if he lives, you should not be married. It is how they control their slaves. If you defy them, they will kill your family one by one and send you their heads. If you want any sort of freedom despite your bonds, your brand, and the cage they’ll keep you in – do not be married. Don’t claim him. That way at least he lives, even if you do not.’

And with that he walked away.

ENET

Great Octave’s estate, Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs

213th day of the Great Star at morning

Enet sat in the hidden room in her palace, the mute old body slave weaving in a corner, her estate slave waiting outside the door. The centre of the room was dominated by the large, roughly hewn block of songstone. Her hammers and chisels were stored on a shelf nearby, but she did not work the stone now.

Instead, she sat on a cushion at a low table, and all of the books of history and song-magic and legend and prophecy that she owned were scattered around her. She had the calendars in front of her, sun-year and Star cycle both. Twice now they had blooded the song, surely more than enough, and yet it was veering out of harmony again. Again it was hungry. She had read every book, cover to cover, seeking some tiny sliver of information that she might have missed before. All of the books gave slightly differing advice, but all agreed that the blooding should happen no more than four times a year at the very most.

Enet’s heart spasmed with grief and she swallowed it down, refusing to let the edges of her mind touch that raw and gaping boy-shaped void. She could smell Pikte’s hair. Savagely, Enet pressed the stump of her finger against the table and inhaled the pain, clearing her mind.

The blooding – Pikte, my child, my heart – had re-secured her position and her influence, as she had hoped. She had retained her titles and her position as chief courtesan. Pikte’s absence from the source was noted and she had let the knowledge of his accidental death spread, along with confirmation the topic was never to be mentioned in her presence or the Singer’s.