‘And yet that is our destination,’ Betsu said, her tone even and far calmer than Tayan had expected after her last comment. Her mood had been increasingly unpredictable in the two days they’d been under the song, not that he could blame her. The song didn’t stop, not ever. Worse, they couldn’t even drown it out through music or song of their own, or through plugging their ears or shouting at the tops of their lungs. It was there, a constant, nagging presence, a slow insidious poison. And it was beautiful. Oh, ancestors, it was beautiful. It was what frightened Tayan most about it. The disdain in the Coyote’s voice, and that of the woman, resonated within him. Who was he, after all, to think to negotiate with so mighty an Empire?

Betsu, it seemed, had no such insecurities. ‘Stand aside. You are not even Pechaqueh. Our business is with your owners.’

As one, the group of warriors, at least fifty in number from what Tayan could see under the low branches and heavy rain, brandished weapons. The woman with the scarlet feather lunged forward; Betsu’s spear came up in defence and Tayan bellowed and knocked it down. The Empire warrior’s spear raked across his ribs, and unlike the rest, he wore no salt-cotton. He was a shaman. Fire erupted in his chest and he gasped, his knees suddenly weak, but he planted himself between Betsu and the enemy.

‘Peace,’ he screeched, ‘fucking peace!’ Hot blood ran freely down his side. Tayan tried to ignore it and the churning nausea and the sickening pain. He was fairly sure the woman had sliced off his nipple.

Either his words or the blood had had an effect, for the warriors drew back, their weapons pointing at the ground. Tayan shoved one hand behind him blindly, hoping Betsu wouldn’t be so fucking stupid as to do, well, anything.

‘We wear the peace feathers, and you have broken that sanctity.’ The woman paled a little at his words. ‘You may not believe in our peace-weaving, but you understand peace feathers, I see that in your faces.’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘Yet there was … hastiness on both sides. Please, we must continue our journey to the Singing City. If you will not aid us, then at least do not hinder us.’

‘Already our journey will be slower while the shaman heals,’ Betsu added, and this time the woman with the scarlet feather blushed.

‘I will escort you,’ she said, ‘with seven of my warriors. As for the rest, continue as ordered. Report my whereabouts when you reach your destination.’

Deliberately vague, Tayan thought, but he didn’t question her. Tokob and Yaloh warriors would do the same.

‘I am Beyt of the macaws, of the Fourth Talon of the Melody. I – your wound, it—’