Enet raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? But you have walked such a very long way to be here. No, no, sit with me so that we may talk without being overheard.’

Betsu balked at the edge of the litter and Tayan poked her in the back. A burst of air blew from her flared nostrils, but then she bent and clambered in, sitting as far from Enet as it was possible to get. Tayan had no choice but to take the centre of the litter, huddled cross-legged and mortified as Enet lounged beside him. They were lifted smoothly and the gates swung open. The morning was bright and the road they had come in on led deeper through the estates, more and more buildings crowding its edges the further they travelled.

Slaves in plain maguey hurried out of the way; even Pechaqueh moved to the sides of the street, many touching their bellies and then their throats as they spotted Enet in the litter. She left the peace-weavers in silence awhile, perhaps hoping to awe them with grandeur. All Tayan saw were slaves, his eyes dragged again and again through the press to their plain clothes and blank faces. They were everywhere. Some clean and well cared for, their clothes neat and well made. Others ragged and filthy, barefoot but not through choice, unlike Xessa. All bore brands on both upper arms – a triangle marked into their flesh. Those free they passed had their scars amended, another line cut through to show their status.

‘Why don’t slaves just run away and then cut through their brands?’ Betsu asked, her tone anything but courteous.

Enet sighed. ‘Do you know why when we bring a tribe under the song we remove them from their ancestral lands for a time and have them work for us?’

Betsu snorted at her choice of language.

‘I do not. It is something we have wondered about,’ Tayan said hurriedly. He didn’t dare look at Betsu in case the fragile dam holding back her anger should burst under the weight of his gaze.

‘Because severing the links to ancestors and the magic of your soil is the surest way for the song to find its way into your hearts, for a people to fully understand its power and majesty. How could we ever trust you so close to the source of your magic until you had proven yourselves to be Pechaqueh in your hearts?’

Pechaqueh in our hearts? ‘Great Octave, forgive me, but we—’