‘This weaving is done,’ Betsu said, interrupting his reverie. ‘We leave, and we kill this fucking Enet before we go, kill as many as we can on our way out of the city, maybe see if we can rouse the slaves in the flesh markets Beyt told us of. Spark a rebellion. Either way, we go home and we tell our people to prepare for war.’

‘The weaving is not even begun,’ Tayan said, genuinely shocked. ‘We have been here a single day.’

‘We can’t negotiate with people who sacrifice others to monsters to ensure their own safety, who are so deluded they think the Drowned are gods. And if they ever run out of inferior people to feed to them, it will be fine, upstanding Pechaqueh who get eaten instead. And that is something they will not allow. It has to be us.’

It churned Tayan’s gut to hear the words said out loud. He’d known, of course, somewhere deep inside, in a place he hadn’t wanted to examine too clearly, but Betsu had dragged it screaming into the light, monstrous and deformed and very, very real. It felt as though spiders were crawling over his skin.

She gestured at the slaves in the garden. ‘That will be us within a sun-year, toiling over crops we’ll never get to eat, this bastard music forever in our heads. Our slightest infraction putting us one step closer to being a meal for a Drowned. Unless we win. I don’t know about you, shaman, but I’d rather die fighting than die at the teeth of one of those things after years on my knees for these arrogant shits.’

The door to their room opened and Enet strode in, her kilt dyed blood-red – an omen that made Tayan’s breath stutter. How much had she heard? His hand fluttered to the peace feathers again, then further back to the frog-bone charm hanging amid the dense black mass of his hair. He bowed. ‘Under the song, Great Octave.’

Behind her, the corridor led to the main entrance. The door was open, slaves and slave warriors hurrying in and out. ‘I thought perhaps you would like to see the city today and learn more about our way of life here. Shall we?’ Her voice was bright and friendly, but there was no polite way to refuse – and the small lift at the corner of her mouth made it clear she was aware of that.

‘It would be our pleasure. We saw very little on our arrival,’ Tayan said with an effort.

She made a gesture as graceful as a dancer’s, and they followed her through the corridor and out into the gardens. A single large litter sat on the ground, six burly slaves waiting to lift it. Tayan felt sick, and Betsu looked murderous.

‘We would enjoy the walk, with your permission, Great Octave,’ Tayan said.