They sat her at a low table opposite Pilos. A warrior stood either side of her and Lock sat next to his master. It was a lot of protection between Pilos and one little, unarmed, hopeless eja. It made Xessa feel better. Stronger. More in control. Paper and charcoal sat before her on the table, and one of the warriors twitched as she reached for it. She’d need to move slowly to avoid getting stabbed by mistake.

‘Where are my people?’ she wrote and held it up.

‘High Feather Pilos is not here to answer your questions,’ Lock began. ‘You answer his. You are his property – and you are lucky to be so. After your actions in the source—’

‘Enough, Elaq,’ Pilos said, ‘and I am just an eagle these days. High Feather no longer. And what happened in the source is of no concern to the eja.’

‘It is of great concern,’ she wrote. ‘You are my enemies and you left my kin there to die.’

‘Stop,’ Lock – Elaq – said, waving his hands. ‘Your behaviour in the source has stripped the High Fe— has stripped Eagle Pilos of his status and his roles within both the Melody and the government of the Empire. You will help him reclaim some of that lost status by being one of the attractions in his fighting pit. You will entertain the nobility of the Singing City.’

Xessa shook her head.

‘You will do this,’ Elaq said, his face twisting with anger. The change was sudden after his actions in the bathing room, as if he regretted being gentle with her. Pilos was calm, watching her.

Xessa shook her head and then wrote: ‘I am eja. I fight Drowned. I kill Drowned. Not people.’

‘You fought and killed warriors of the Melody,’ Pilos said. ‘Badly, it is true, but still. Now you will fight for my pleasure and that of the nobles and perhaps even the Singer himself in time.’

Xessa slashed her finger in front of her face in vehement refusal.

‘Kill some of her people, High Feather. Every time she refuses to fight, kill one,’ Elaq said, facing her so she was sure to understand. A wave of heat washed through Xessa and she twitched; hands clamped down on her shoulders, holding her still.

‘It is wasteful,’ Pilos said, ‘but I see no other option. Bring one in.’

Warriors wrestled a figure in through an archway. Tiamoko. Brave, beautiful Tiamoko, more boy than man despite the death he wore in his eyes, who had fought with such courage and honour. Who had helped Lutek bring Tayan back to her, however briefly. They forced him to his knees at the end of the table. He was battered and exhausted, filthy. The brightness of those eyes was gone, their calm, patient lethality dulled. The health had faded from beneath his skin, but he knew her. And he knew she held his life in her hands.