‘Yes, indeed you can end the war here and now,’ Enet said and she let irritation trickle into her voice. ‘Join the Empire and not one more of your people will be lost to our weapons. Look around you, look at our wealth, feel the song’s might in your hearts. You walked through hundreds of sticks of farmland: imagine the amount of crops they grow. Your warriors can join our Melody and serve with honour. Your artists will find new subjects and new markets. Your shamans can learn about the song and our magic, our ways. The whole world will open up to you.’

‘We do not wish to join your Empire,’ Tayan said when she paused for breath, and his voice was as smooth as polished jade. ‘But let us not try to solve everything in one day. A peace-weaving traditionally lasts for thirty days, so we have plenty of time to—’

Enet threw back her head and laughed, genuinely amused. ‘Thirty days?’ she gasped, one hand pressed to her chest. ‘You expect me to sit here and listen to such nonsense for thirty days? Only because you arrived unexpected and unasked-for at my home have I done you the courtesy of listening so far. But do not forget: you are in my home, and you are here unannounced. You come in spouting traditions and waving around herbs and you demand my attention and time – and then you demand thirty days of it? No, honoured guests, no. I am curious, and so I will grant you seven days of my valuable time. You will stay in my home and I will show you the city and Pechaqueh ways and all that might be yours upon joining the Empire of Songs.’

She stood and they stared up at her, dumbstruck. Enet snapped her fingers and the slave kneeling behind the peace-weavers rose, collecting their bags.

‘I’m sure that by the end of our time together you will be eager to return home to tell your people of the virtues of laying down their weapons and surrendering. We will speak again tomorrow. You, show them to a room and feed them.’

‘You subjugate your neighbours and keep them as property,’ Betsu said, her voice heavy with scorn as she rose. ‘You worship the Drowned. You steal from the balance and the Ixachipan you profess to love suffers as a result. Ancestors’ bones are disturbed, spirits forced from their resting places in tree and rock. That is not balance; it is sacrilege against Malel – against the world. And you say we will beg to join you in this wholesale slaughter?’

‘Betsu, peace,’ the shaman snapped, his eyes flashing with an uneasy mix of anger and pleading. ‘This is not how to begin a peace-weaving.’

‘How much land is enough land?’ Betsu demanded, strident.