Peace-weavers. What a novel concept. She smiled to herself as she patted the feather again and then made her way to the small room with the view of the gardens. She paused in the doorway for just the briefest moment, seeking to gain whatever advantage she could. Her mouth thinned and then she smiled to herself. They were filthy. They were exhausted. They’d been brought straight here, judging by the packs her slaves had taken from them and the dampness of their clothes and hair. That, at least, the macaw had done well.

The man was slender and fidgety, hastily rubbing blue paint onto his brow from a small pot, while the woman stood with her arms folded across her chest and looking like she’d just bitten into rotten meat. She was older than Enet, heavyset, shoulders thick with muscle and hands and wrists hatched with scars. There were bands of grey in her hair and lines around her eyes and mouth, but violence sat lightly within her, ever ready to be tapped. The Great Octave didn’t let it bother her.

‘Welcome to the Singing City and the deep magic of the song, honoured guests. I am Spear of the City Enet. I am also Great Octave, though you need not concern yourself with that. Under the song.’

They’d whirled at her first words and Enet recognised the wide-eyed blink from the man as he got his first look at her. She took it as her due. ‘Thank you, Spear, I mean Great Octave. I am Tayan, called the stargazer, shaman of the Tokob and peace-weaver. This is my friend and colleague, the warrior Betsu of Yalotlan. We are honoured that you have agreed to speak with us. And … under the song. Or as we would say, may the ancestors guide your steps.’

He rubbed the last of the paint in a hasty, slightly crooked line from the middle of his lower lip to the point of his chin.

‘Betsu,’ the woman said, as if she needed to imprint her authority on the meeting. Or as if she didn’t like this Tayan speaking for her.

‘And do you offer me the grace of your ancestors, Betsu of Yalotlan?’ Enet asked, her head on one side and her hands clasped before her. The woman grunted. ‘Ah, well. I am sure the Tokob ancestors will watch over me, even if yours do not.’

‘Hundreds more of my people are now ancestors because of you, because of Pechacan and the Empire and your—’

‘Peace, Betsu,’ Tayan barked and then, astoundingly, blushed. ‘Forgive me, Great Octave, I should not have raised my voice in your house. It was impolite and goes against the protocol of the peace-weaving. May we begin?’