She inclined her head to the old councillor and walked away. Behind her, the source rang with sudden screams.

It was almost dusk when Enet returned. She would have gone back sooner, after seizing a couple of beggars from the street and scrubbing them down in the nearest bath house, because by then the Singer wouldn’t have known any different. But she hadn’t gone back, because the song had changed, had risen and risen in disharmonious clangour, wave upon wave of hideous dissonance until it … broke, shattered into discrete, clanging shards that grated and roared against each other in a cacophony that spurred fear and madness in those who heard it. And everyone fucking heard it.

Across the Singing City, Pechaqueh, free, and slaves had stopped, hands over their ears, and turned to face the great pyramid rising at the centre of the city. Fear had grown wings and spread street to street, suffocating. She’d seen people packing up and slaves struggling under laden baskets and chests. Many of those fleeing were Pechaqueh.

Enet retreated to her own estate as the day lengthened and the song wailed and pulsed and wept. Smoke lingered on the breeze and beneath the song’s madness rang screams and shouts and destruction. It was broken, the Singer was broken, both perhaps irreparably. And despite herself, she had to know why. She had to know if her time had come, even though it was too early. The tonic hadn’t had long enough to work its magic in her flesh and her other preparations were still not complete.

Yet she would do what she must. For the Empire and the world. As ever.

Enet picked two of her nearest pleasure slaves and set out again for the source, moving against the flow of traffic with her guards forcing a path until she came to the plazas surrounding the great pyramid and found them empty.

The pyramid itself was unnaturally silent and very still. She saw no one as she traversed the winding corridors flanked by her guards, trailed by her slaves. It seemed empty, no slaves or courtesans or administrators, not even Chorus.

They were still three corridors from the source when they found the first corpse. A slave boy, small and delicate as her Pikte had once been. A long trail of blood down the corridor. ‘Hurry,’ she snapped. ‘The Singer may be in danger.’

Enet allowed two of her guards to move ahead of her and they followed the blood trail back to the source. Two more bodies, Chorus warriors – one dying, and one very dead – and then they arrived at the vast oval chamber.

Enet halted so fast that the slaves and warriors behind bumped into her. She ignored them, ignored everything but the crimson splashes and pools, the destroyed furniture and artwork, and the bodies. All the bodies.