Enet gestured languidly and the litter began to move once more. She didn’t speak; nor did she look at her guests, not for a long time. They moved through the markets and bustling buildings and yards where pots, plates, cups, and statues were being made, or kilts and blankets and tunics were being woven in a variety of colours and patterns. Everything was exquisite, finished or not, the cotton weave so fine it was translucent despite the cloudy morning. Tayan even recognised Xentib patterns, though those people had been conquered less than a Star cycle before.

Enet laughed when he tentatively asked her about it. ‘No, tribes do not become free quite so quickly as all that, I’m afraid. But some of our children like to adopt the fashions of others. As the Xentib are the most recent to join in the glory of the song, you can imagine they are quite popular at the moment. And as any people do, we enjoy indulging our youngsters.’

‘Their patterns are sacred to them, as I expect yours are to you,’ Tayan blurted.

Enet was quizzical. ‘They are children; they mean nothing by it.’

‘Tell that to the Xentib,’ Tayan muttered, but too quietly for her to hear, he hoped. Either way, she didn’t respond.

Enet ordered the litter stopped again a few stalls further on. She beckoned, and the merchant scurried forward with an armful of lavish, bright shawls. With his free hand he touched his belly and throat, his head bowed. ‘Under the song, high one. Your beauty outshines my wares, as ever.’

The corner of the Great Octave’s mouth ticked up. ‘And one day your tongue will rot, covered in so much sweet flattery.’ The merchant laughed and spread the shawls between them on the litter, even draping them over their knees where they sat. ‘I’ll take two today,’ she said, and although there was easy familiarity in her voice, Tayan noticed how she didn’t speak the merchant’s name. He bit the tip of his tongue to still his laughter, convinced that she didn’t even know it and was trying to hide that fact.

Betsu was staring over the merchant’s head, refusing to be drawn into conversation, but Tayan couldn’t help examining the shawls. They were beautiful, edged with red and green beads of clay and dyed bone. Each had its own distinct pattern, though he didn’t recognise which tribe it belonged to.

Enet made her selection and one of her slave warriors paid, removing three jade beads from the long cord that hung around his neck and down inside his salt-cotton. Tayan blinked at the cost, though Enet didn’t seem to notice. Why would she? Her palace is more luxuriously decorated than our temples.

The merchant collected up the rest of his wares and retreated with another bow and the litter-bearers began moving again. ‘Here,’ Enet said, handing them each one of the shawls.