Pilos pushed away the thought and watched the eja. Her hands were tied before her and she sat on the stone with her head bowed. Her dog was trussed by her side and he wriggled occasionally, straining against his ropes, and then the woman put her bound hands on him and he was still. She made no other move, gave no indication she was aware of anyone around her. She was staring at the spot where the old man had died. Pilos had ordered the corpse to be dragged away. Warriors staring at their dead were angry warriors. Better to have them on their knees with nothing to look at but others like them – and the Melody standing tall on guard.

‘Feather Calan.’

The woman was hoarse from shouting orders and rusty with dried blood, her salt-cotton stained. ‘High Feather?’

‘Get the prisoners moving. I want them into the jungle before dark. Send them along the most secure trails through Yalotlan – where our pyramid-builders are numerous and well guarded – and get them into Xentiban. They’re to hold at the border with the heartland and wait for us; we should be no more than a few days behind. We’ll enter Pechacan and the Singing City together.’

Calan swelled with pride at being in charge of such an operation. ‘As the High Feather commands.’

Pilos found a smile for her and punched her shoulder. ‘You fought well and commanded well, Feather. I am pleased.’

Some of Calan’s fatigue vanished in the heat of her delight. ‘You honour me,’ she croaked.

‘You honour yourself, Feather. Be about your business now. Under the song.’

Pilos squatted opposite the still, coiled presence of the eja. She didn’t move, didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t so much as twitch. He was impressed.

‘Can you hear me?’ he asked. Nothing. He tapped the top of her head. More nothing. Was she the one Ilandeh had told him of? Pilos had never met a deaf person – the inability to hear was not tolerated in the Empire, where the song was everything. Such children were offered to the holy Setatmeh with respect. It was a kindness; no one should be without the glory of the song.

Pilos forced her face up to his; she looked down. If she didn’t look at him, she wouldn’t know he was speaking. He let go, frustrated, and then reached out and poked the dog’s flank. The woman’s bound hands came up and clubbed him in the chest. She threw herself off her knees and at him, so that he fell back onto his arse. The dog was snarling through its muzzle and the eja was growling and grunting. Pilos winded her with a punch to take her strength and then kicked at her wounded leg so she shrieked and fell away.

The dog was frantic and Pilos leant over her. ‘Calm the dog or we kill it.’