In the Melody’s midst, long lines of Yaloh and even some of their Tokob allies walked, hands bound to their waists, roped at the neck. Men and women brought under the song to learn its glory, to serve its majesty, to understand its power, all taken before the Wet forced Pilos to abandon the offensive for the season. The fighters would be inducted into the Melody as slave warriors, the rest sent to the flesh markets and from there to every corner of the Empire that needed their labours so they might learn of the song and the Singer’s mercy. Not as many as he’d have liked to have brought under the song by now, but enough to give advantage to the Melody and, with the Singer’s blessing, a swift end to the annexation after the rains. Another year and it would be done and then, perhaps, a time of peace.

The Street of Fighters was crowded with cheering Pechaqueh in their brightly coloured kilts, as well as clumps and spatters of house slaves in the dun of undyed maguey, holding palm-leaf rain shields and bowls of fruit and meat for their owners. Pilos was impressed that so many had turned out despite the weather – citizens of the Singing City weren’t known for their enthusiasm for inconveniencing themselves. He acknowledged faces in the crowd with the occasional wave, indulging Atu’s more enthusiastic responses and those of his subordinates behind them.

They reached the first loop of the Blessed River and Pilos and his Feathers came to a halt. The offering was fine – a young, healthy Yalotl with clear skin and wide, dazed eyes. Pilos had ordered her bathed and her clothes washed and now she stood dumb, not understanding why she wasn’t bound with the rest of her people. The long walk had dampened her fire to embers and the holy Setatmeh would be pleased with her quality.

Feather Atu gave her the traditional cup of liquor and she choked it down, and then they approached the edge of the river with the girl gripped between them. She began to squirm and then to yell, digging in her heels as those embers sparked into the raging fire of terror. Behind them, the Melody processed over the wide wooden bridge, the captives in their midst panicking and screeching like monkeys and even some of the slave warriors still skittish. It was the same with every new batch until they understood the way of the world and the Singer’s divine will.

‘Holy Setatmeh, gods of rivers and lakes, you who bring life and plenty to our world, accept this offering as your just due,’ Pilos said, tugging the girl forward. She struggled harder, bound hands clubbing at him. He transferred his grip to the back of her neck, his long fingers compressing the big veins on either side. He squeezed until her face filled with blood and her screams became wheezed whimpers.