‘The holy Setatmeh are gods to us all, Second Flight Dakto,’ she grated. ‘Would you forsake the Empire and all you have accomplished? All the glories of the song that grant you peace and wealth? Would you shame yourself and your Pechaqueh blood in front of an eagle?’ She twisted a little more and spit strung down from Dakto’s teeth as his mouth opened in pain. ‘Would you lose this arm in defiance of all you have been given?’

Dakto groaned, a long drawn-out sound. ‘No,’ he gasped. ‘No, Flight. Forgive me. Eagle Elaq, I beg you, forgive me. My words were ill conceived. Song and Empire and glory.’ She let him go and he stood, clutching his shoulder, mouth a thin line of anger.

‘You stand here in the High Feather’s own house and you utter blasphemy? You dishonour yourself, Dakto. You dishonour the Melody and you dishonour your Pechaqueh heritage.’ You dishonour me, she wanted to add, but didn’t.

The Whisper laughed, a ragged, ugly sound. ‘And what of my Xentib blood? Why am I not to honour that? Why is the father who raped my mother when she was a servant more important than she was? Why should I honour that animal or the animals who bred him? The song has lived inside them for generations, warping who they are, what they think. If they think. They’re as docile and arrogant as a glutted Setat and are good for nothing other than beating slaves and clawing for status. I spit on all of them.’

‘Including Enet? How long have your been her spy in the Melody?’

Dakto’s answer was to rip a tiny, wicked glass blade from inside his tunic and swipe for her throat. Ilandeh ducked, but not fast enough: the obsidian opened her face beneath the eye and across the bridge of her nose.

She pulled a knife of her own and Dakto leapt, empty hand chopping down onto the wrist of her knife hand, swiping again with the little weapon. Ilandeh parried it and twisted sideways, inside his guard, to elbow him in the chest. Not hard – too close for that – but enough to elicit a grunt. She drove through her legs and stabbed, a gutting strike.

Dakto’s hand slapped down on her wrist again, but not enough, too focused on his own overhead attack, which she deflected with her left forearm, pushing hand and blade up above her head and sinking down to free her knife hand. The point entered his thigh and she ripped it down towards the main artery.