As he’d half feared and half expected – and so planned for – the war had degenerated into the same bitter, hard-fought mess that he’d faced in Quitoban so long before, but instead of river deltas and tidal marshes, they faced increasingly hilly territory, concealed ravines, and night attacks. Yaloh and Tokob fought not just for every stick, but for every tree and vine and flower. They spilt blood as liberally as any holy Setat, their own and that of the Melody, and in the last two weeks they had made it clear that mercy was a concept unknown to them.

They set ambushes in areas prone to mudslides; they laid snares and pit-traps on the trails, they coated the leaves that hung across their path with blinding tree sap so that any who brushed against them were tormented by burning welts. Everything they did was designed to slow them. And slow them it did.

‘How far to this hill of theirs, Flight?’ Pilos asked as they stood in the shade of an immense fig, conscious of the fact this whole land was a series of hills of varying sizes. For all he knew, they might be halfway up this sacred mountain already.

Ilandeh clicked her tongue as she thought. ‘On a clear run from here, seven days. Facing what we’ve been facing and with towns ahead of us? Two weeks. Could be more.’

‘Well, it can’t be more,’ Pilos said. ‘I’d prefer if it wasn’t two weeks, either.’ Every day he sent word back through the jungle to a pyramid where Citla, his Listener, waited to send updates to the Singer. The responses that came back were … confused. Many were clearly from the holy lord himself, demanding greater speed and reiterating, over and over, his desire that they send him the frog-lickers, but others required him to find shamans and keepers of lore and old tales, those who knew the history of their peoples and the creation myths.

Pilos had no idea whether these had come from the Singer or Enet. Neither filled him with much confidence as to the state of the Singing City and the wider Empire. His desire to return to his Singer’s side and lance the infection rushing through the song increased with every passing day. His frustration – at the terrain, at the still-falling rain, at the Yaloh and Tokob shadows among the trees – grew with it.

‘We need to conclude this campaign and get back to the Singing City,’ Pilos said with quiet vehemence. ‘Ten days. I need us at the Sky City within ten days. And I need a way in.’ He pointed at Ilandeh. ‘Flight, you’re the only one here who knows the ground.’