‘I am Tayan, shaman and peace-weaver of the Tokob. This is Betsu, warrior and peace-weaver of the Yaloh. The wound is, I hope, no more than a scratch.’

‘Then tend to it.’ She went into a huddle with a couple of other warriors and Tayan finally allowed himself to sag against a tree. He winced and pulled his shirt away from the wound, and then Betsu was there, yanking up the material. He hissed a curse.

‘You’re right. Little more than a scratch. Won’t need stitching. Straighten up and I’ll bandage it.’ The shaman complied, gritting his teeth at her less-than-gentle touch. ‘Well done on getting them to split up; it’ll be much easier to get rid of this lot now, then we can circle back and pick up the trail of that coyote-fucker with the yapping mouth.’

Tayan gripped Betsu’s wrists, stilling her. ‘We are peace-weavers,’ he hissed. ‘And we now have an escort to guarantee us safe passage to the Singing City. That means they – and we – get to stay alive and that is my only concern at this time. No, listen,’ he continued when she tried to pull away. ‘You are a peace-weaver. Whatever else you are, while we are in the Empire, you are a peace-weaver. And I could do without any more scars when I get home to my husband. When I get home. Understand?’

Betsu’s expression was mutinous and hard as flint, but then she nodded once, a single reluctant jerk of the head. ‘You are right,’ she said at last, and finished bandaging his chest in silence.

‘Are you ready, peace-weavers?’ Beyt called and the pair exchanged a last look before nodding. ‘Then stay close. We’ll reach a proper road in a couple of days and our progress will be swift then. I hope you can keep up.’

That last seemed like a challenge, warrior to warrior, and Betsu took it as such. Tayan sighed and then winced. The bandaging had done absolutely nothing to stem the burning agony in his chest, even if it did stop the bleeding. Beyt and three of her warriors took the lead, and the other four followed the peace-weavers. He had been two days under the song, and had had his flesh torn and was in the hands of enemies. He prayed neither were an omen.

The Neck was so named because it was the narrowest part of Xentiban, a thin corridor of jungle and farmland separating Yalotlan from Pechacan. All too soon they were across it; all too soon they were into Pechacan itself, the song’s heartland.