‘A guest, mistress,’ her estate slave said moments later. ‘Councillor Chel seeks entry.’

Enet grimaced. ‘Show her into the garden room and provide refreshment. If she wants to see me, she’ll wait.’

When the paint was correctly applied and the headdress secure, Enet padded sedately into the outer room and found Chel reclining on the mats and examining the new mural the Great Octave had had commissioned. Enet paused to admire it herself, to admire how well the artist had captured the tilt of her head, her demure obedience to the stylised symbol of the Singer before which she knelt.

Enet’s gaze tracked from the image of herself to the curve of Chel’s neck, left exposed by the hair piled atop her head and secured with jade and bone. An undoubtedly pretty woman. With the voice and manners of a starving rat. But few people in this world were perfect, and when the two of them were among the pillows it didn’t matter, when Chel’s abrasive tones gentled into urgent whispers, begging and commanding. It was only in the pillows that Enet allowed herself to be commanded by anyone other than the Singer.

She held her feathered fan before her. ‘Councillor Chel.’

Chel twisted on the mat and craned her neck to look up. Her lips puckered in appreciation of what she saw. ‘My, my, all for my benefit?’ she teased. She waved away the need for Enet to reply. ‘I have news, Great Octave.’ Her use of the title didn’t go unnoticed and Enet stopped preening and moved to the mat opposite, dropping down to sitting heedless of the fall of her kilt. Chel wasn’t here for pleasure.

Enet gestured to the refreshments first, as propriety demanded, but the other woman shook her head. ‘Speak then,’ she said.

‘There are concerns throughout the city, among the nobles and some of the council. Concerns about the changes to the song.’

Oh, pretty little Chel. How bold of you. And unexpected. Do you come to me because I am Spear, and Great Octave, and principal courtesan? Or because you suspect my involvement? And how was it that you were the one chosen for this task, to be the sacrifice on the altar of my wrath? Pretty, yes, but not clever, I think.

They watched each other, cat studying rat, seeing who would blink first. ‘Changes? You mean the swelling of power as the Singer exerts all his will to crushing the Yaloh and Tokob resistance? How he exhorts the pyramid-builders to work faster in Yalotlan to bring the succour of the song to those of the Melody stationed there? So that they may be as close to glory as possible? How his power waxes to its fullest might so that all Ixachipan might hear it?’