‘I mean it, Betsu. Yesterday was a disaster – already she has refused us the full length of the peace-weaving. We must make progress in the days we have, which means that if you cannot charm her, then you must hold your tongue.’

Betsu paced their room like a jaguar on a riverbank debating whether it was safe to drink. ‘Who do you think you speak to?’ she spat. ‘I am a Yalotl – it is my people dying, my people fleeing Pechaqueh spears. And you ask me to charm her?’ This time she did spit, accurately, out of the window.

‘And it is our warriors dying alongside yours, our cities feeding and housing those refugees who flee. We are in this war, standing shoulder to shoulder with you. We have been all season.’ Tayan fought for calm, fidgeting with the peace feathers woven into his hair. They were old now, shabby. Much like the prospects of the peace-weaving itself. ‘We’re running out of time and we’ve been stuck in this room all morning waiting for her to agree to see us.’ The shaman took a deep breath. ‘I think if we haven’t made progress in three days, we have to make the land and trade offer.’

Betsu stopped and faced him. ‘That’s the offer of last resort,’ she said, incredulity colouring her tone. ‘That’s the end of Yalotlan. We said we’d let them keep what they’ve already stolen only if there was no other choice.’

‘There already is no other choice.’ He bit off the words that wanted to tumble from his mouth, that Betsu had practically assured there would be no other choice through her behaviour. She hadn’t been like this with the Zellih, but something about Pechacan, or the song – or Enet herself, maybe – had stripped the diplomacy from her tongue.

‘If you make that offer, you condemn us to death. If they know we will give them half our land, they will know they can take it all. I cannot allow it.’ Betsu’s voice was very cold.

‘And yet your council of elders agreed it. And you would be welcome in our lands,’ Tayan tried, sick at heart, for he was not at all sure that they would be. ‘You would have farms, homes, as you do now. You—’

‘We would live on your charity because you gave away our homes? Gave up on us, on the fight? No.’

Tayan whirled from the window, acid burning in his throat. ‘Let us at least begin the weaving,’ he said. ‘I am merely suggesting that we agree in advance which concessions we are happy to make and when.’

‘You talk of selling us, as if you are Pechaqueh yourself.’ There was violence in the air, but it was Betsu’s words that made Tayan take a step away from her. The breath caught in his throat. How could she say that?