Enet beckoned to a free making balls of clay outside a shop. He rose and approached, bowing his head and touching belly and throat. ‘Under the song, high one. Are you looking for something special today?’

‘My friends here are from the north. They are curious about society within the Empire. Would you be good enough to explain the story of your life here?’

The man bowed again and then smiled, showing filed front teeth. ‘I am Oata from Tlalotlan. The Tlaloxqueh were brought under the song thirty years ago and many have worked their way free. I was born free and then apprenticed as a servant, as is the way with all non-Pechaqueh born in the Empire. I was—’

‘You were born free and then made a slave?’ Betsu asked, almost springing from the litter.

Oata’s face went hard and cold. ‘I was not,’ he said with stiff formality. ‘I was born free and I was apprenticed; I paid to learn but I was paid for my work in return. When those two payments equalled, I could stay with my teacher or set up on my own. I chose the latter. I was free and remain free.’

‘Only because your parents worked themselves probably to death to afford a freedom that was theirs to begin with.’

‘Peace, Betsu,’ Tayan said. ‘Forgive my friend, Oata. Forgive her, Great Octave. We seek to understand, that is all.’

Enet waved away the comments as if Betsu’s outrage meant nothing, but the Tlalox was not so easily calmed. ‘Did your parents not work to make you happy and healthy, northerner? Do you not do the same for your own children? You know nothing of what you speak.’ He seemed to remember Enet then and bowed again. ‘Forgive me, high one.’

‘There is nothing to forgive except, perhaps, this pair’s prejudice.’

‘Then why does he call you “high one” as if you are some great being?’ Betsu demanded, raising her voice. People in the market were beginning to stare, and Enet’s face had lost its easy indulgence. Tayan was reminded of her position as one of the most powerful people in the Empire.

‘Betsu,’ he hissed, pinching her leg hard. She batted away his hand.

Oata scoffed. ‘Don’t you know whose litter you sit in? Don’t you have terms of respect for your councillors? Truly you are in need of the civilising ways of Empire. I will pray for your people, that you are swiftly brought into the Singer’s grace and under the magic of the song.’

‘You are a wise man, Oata of Tlalotlan,’ Enet said and flipped him a jade bead. ‘With my thanks for your trouble.’

‘Under the song, high one.’ He touched belly and throat and vanished.