The song lurched crazily and drool ran from the Singer’s mouth. He jerked, as if Tayan’s shout had awoken him – or, as with some magics, the shock had jolted his spirit’s connection to his flesh. The Singer pressed a trembling hand to his chest. ‘I need one,’ he rumbled. ‘I need one now.’

‘Not today, holy lord, Xac my love. Tomorrow is the appointed day.’ There was a sliver of desperation in Enet’s voice, a hint of pleading. She was trying to regulate the Singer’s consumption of whatever medicine he was taking, but why? It was … He looked spirit-haunted.

Blood thumping in his head, Tayan eased himself to his feet and raised his bound palms in a gesture of peace. The rope connecting him to the other slaves tightened, forcing the next in line to half-stand, almost choking. Tayan ignored her. ‘You are sick, great Singer, I can see it. I have travelled many sticks to meet you.’ A warrior grabbed him; he ignored them.

‘If you would tell me of your illness, then I can cure it. I’m sure of it. I am a shaman and a skilled healer. I will cure your body, great Singer, and then you will fix the song.’

‘How dare you,’ Enet began, scrambling to her feet. ‘Chorus, take him to the offering pool. I will not have—’

‘You can fix me?’ the Singer asked, his voice childlike. Enet spun to face him, gaping.

‘I can, holy lord,’ Tayan promised, faint with adrenaline at a ruse that couldn’t possibly work.

‘I only feel well when I have them, you see,’ the Singer continued. ‘And I need them, all the time. More and more of them.’

‘More and more of what, Singer?’ Tayan asked gently, as though he was trying to tame a wild dog.

‘People. I need people.’

‘I am sure the Empire’s people love you,’ Tayan began; then he knelt as the Singer stood and shambled towards him. He reached the eja next to Tayan and fell to the mats in front of her. Tayan put his hand on the Singer’s clammy shoulder and Enet choked on outrage. The warrior behind him grabbed a fistful of his hair and pressed something sharp to the side of his neck.