Warrior and shaman left earlier than usual for their own home and bed and privacy before they were separated again. The way their eyes had lingered on each other again and again sparked longing in her belly, and when Toxte, tipsy and laughing, said goodbye later that night, she surprised him with a kiss, the first against his cheek, the second grazing the corner of his mouth.
He blinked at her, hope and caution blurring in his eyes, and Xessa’s belly filled with butterflies. ‘Get some sleep, drunk eja,’ she signed, her cheeks warm, ‘and we’ll see if you remember that in the morning.’
Toxte’s lips parted and she couldn’t prevent her gaze flickering down to watch. They curved in another smile. ‘Believe me, I’ll remember,’ he signed. ‘Though I’m not sure I’ll get much sleep thinking about it.’ And he touched her cheek with his knuckles, light as feathers, and then he was gone.
TAYAN
The Neck, Xentiban, Empire of Songs
140th day of the Great Star at morning
‘We wear the peace feathers; we mean no ill intent or violence, but seek passage to the Singing City to begin a peace-weaving that will end the war on Yalotlan. We would speak with your Singer himself if that is possible; if not, then one of his representatives.’
The warriors surrounding them wore the tattoos, paints and hairstyles of three different tribes. ‘You’ll be lucky,’ one scoffed from the rear of the group that barred the trail. ‘Peace-weaving? May as well turn around now, little shaman, and scurry back home. We’ll be along to take it soon enough.’
‘Enough,’ snapped another. This speaker, a woman, wore a long scarlet feather in her shoulder-length, tightly braided black hair. A frog tattoo was visible at the base of her throat, just above her salt-cotton. She turned back to Tayan and Betsu. ‘Though the Coyote leader speaks true. The Pechaqueh have no need for nor interest in peace-weavings, and you would never be granted so much as to look upon the source, let alone meet the Singer.’ There was a bark of mockery in her tone. ‘No one meets the holy lord, and certainly not a no-blood, frog-licking, god-killing Tokob.’
‘I am Yaloh,’ Betsu said heatedly and was ignored.
Tayan blinked at the raw hostility in the faces of the warriors. ‘One of his council then. You … you do have a council?’
The warrior sneered at him. ‘Even they are too far above you,’ she said.
‘And yet that is our destination,’ Betsu said, her tone even and far calmer than Tayan had expected after her last comment. Her mood had been increasingly unpredictable in the two days they’d been under the song, not that he could blame her. The song didn’t stop, not ever. Worse, they couldn’t even drown it out through music or song of their own, or through plugging their ears or shouting at the tops of their lungs. It was there, a constant, nagging presence, a slow insidious poison. And it was beautiful. Oh, ancestors, it was beautiful. It was what frightened Tayan most about it. The disdain in the Coyote’s voice, and that of the woman, resonated within him. Who was he, after all, to think to negotiate with so mighty an Empire?
Betsu, it seemed, had no such insecurities. ‘Stand aside. You are not even Pechaqueh. Our business is with your owners.’
As one, the group of warriors, at least fifty in number from what Tayan could see under the low branches and heavy rain, brandished weapons. The woman with the scarlet feather lunged forward; Betsu’s spear came up in defence and Tayan bellowed and knocked it down. The Empire warrior’s spear raked across his ribs, and unlike the rest, he wore no salt-cotton. He was a shaman. Fire erupted in his chest and he gasped, his knees suddenly weak, but he planted himself between Betsu and the enemy.
‘Peace,’ he screeched, ‘fucking peace!’ Hot blood ran freely down his side. Tayan tried to ignore it and the churning nausea and the sickening pain. He was fairly sure the woman had sliced off his nipple.
Either his words or the blood had had an effect, for the warriors drew back, their weapons pointing at the ground. Tayan shoved one hand behind him blindly, hoping Betsu wouldn’t be so fucking stupid as to do, well, anything.
‘We wear the peace feathers, and you have broken that sanctity.’ The woman paled a little at his words. ‘You may not believe in our peace-weaving, but you understand peace feathers, I see that in your faces.’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘Yet there was … hastiness on both sides. Please, we must continue our journey to the Singing City. If you will not aid us, then at least do not hinder us.’
‘Already our journey will be slower while the shaman heals,’ Betsu added, and this time the woman with the scarlet feather blushed.
‘I will escort you,’ she said, ‘with seven of my warriors. As for the rest, continue as ordered. Report my whereabouts when you reach your destination.’
Deliberately vague, Tayan thought, but he didn’t question her. Tokob and Yaloh warriors would do the same.
‘I am Beyt of the macaws, of the Fourth Talon of the Melody. I – your wound, it—’
‘I am Tayan, shaman and peace-weaver of the Tokob. This is Betsu, warrior and peace-weaver of the Yaloh. The wound is, I hope, no more than a scratch.’
‘Then tend to it.’ She went into a huddle with a couple of other warriors and Tayan finally allowed himself to sag against a tree. He winced and pulled his shirt away from the wound, and then Betsu was there, yanking up the material. He hissed a curse.
‘You’re right. Little more than a scratch. Won’t need stitching. Straighten up and I’ll bandage it.’ The shaman complied, gritting his teeth at her less-than-gentle touch. ‘Well done on getting them to split up; it’ll be much easier to get rid of this lot now, then we can circle back and pick up the trail of that coyote-fucker with the yapping mouth.’
Tayan gripped Betsu’s wrists, stilling her. ‘We are peace-weavers,’ he hissed. ‘And we now have an escort to guarantee us safe passage to the Singing City. That means they – and we – get to stay alive and that is my only concern at this time. No, listen,’ he continued when she tried to pull away. ‘You are a peace-weaver. Whatever else you are, while we are in the Empire, you are a peace-weaver. And I could do without any more scars when I get home to my husband. When I get home. Understand?’
Betsu’s expression was mutinous and hard as flint, but then she nodded once, a single reluctant jerk of the head. ‘You are right,’ she said at last, and finished bandaging his chest in silence.
‘Are you ready, peace-weavers?’ Beyt called and the pair exchanged a last look before nodding. ‘Then stay close. We’ll reach a proper road in a couple of days and our progress will be swift then. I hope you can keep up.’
That last seemed like a challenge, warrior to warrior, and Betsu took it as such. Tayan sighed and then winced. The bandaging had done absolutely nothing to stem the burning agony in his chest, even if it did stop the bleeding. Beyt and three of her warriors took the lead, and the other four followed the peace-weavers. He had been two days under the song, and had had his flesh torn and was in the hands of enemies. He prayed neither were an omen.
The Neck was so named because it was the narrowest part of Xentiban, a thin corridor of jungle and farmland separating Yalotlan from Pechacan. All too soon they were across it; all too soon they were into Pechacan itself, the song’s heartland.
Tayan hadn’t been sure what to expect – would the song change again, become more powerful, or purer, or have more meaning for him? Would it sweep him up so that he was lost in its promise? They crossed the border marked not with a pyramid but a tall, carved finger of rock, an ancient marker that had once formed a symbolic barrier between two lands and two tribes. The warriors escorting them passed it without a flicker of hesitation, but just as when they had finally come under the song, Tayan and Betsu paused and slowed their steps. The shaman held his breath as he walked through the shadow of the stone.
Nothing.
Sighing and slightly embarrassed, he hurried after the others. The jungle disappeared a little more each day they walked, becoming tamer, shrinking into strips and wedges o
f trees and shrubs and tumbling vines only a few sticks across between wide tracts of brown and green farmland. Huts were gathered at each end and entire families toiled between the small shoots of beans and maize. Only the bamboo and water vine and wide-leaved plants were allowed to grow wild and lush to provide Pechaqueh and their slaves a safe water supply.
Children ran, arms flapping to scare away the birds pecking at the crops. It took Tayan a couple of days to realise why it made him uncomfortable. Tokob children did the same thing, but they laughed and squealed and chased each other as they did so. Here it was silent, without joy. They were too young to learn such lessons, but the wide leather collars on the children’s necks were eloquent teachers.
Over everything loomed the pyramids, more and more of them, some old and crumbling, liana-covered, others newer and shining in the sun, their paint vibrant, the murals almost alive.
The sky was too open for Tayan’s liking, despite the fact he lived on the sparsely treed slopes of Malel. He was used to the confines of the Sky City, the comforting press of building and plaza and steep, walled streets. This was different, an artificial emptiness, and every horizon was bounded with smoke from burning jungle, acrid, the taste of ash and defeat ever on his lips.
The trail they followed was wide enough for ten people to walk abreast and made of finely carved blocks of limestone and sandstone. ‘This is how they move their warriors so fast,’ Betsu hissed, gesturing at the trail. ‘This is how they conquer so easily, by moving thousands at once to the edge of the territory and then invading in huge numbers, unstoppable. This is what they’re doing to us. The resources to quarry so much stone …’ She paused, both wondering and worried. ‘Are their numbers as vast as the stars at night?’
The steep slopes and narrow trails of hilly Tokoban would slow them when they came, but as the horizon widened day by day and he saw the multitude of slaves toiling in fields too wide for him to see across, and they passed cities greater than the Sky City and stepped off the road to let free people, not only Pechaqueh, pass them, he knew the hills wouldn’t stop them. He began to suspect nothing would. Were they still on a peace mission, or just a negotiation to delay the inevitable? Could trade and tithes stave off their endless numbers? Or would they be forced to accept the song before they were allowed to live in peace? Would even that concession be enough to sate Pechaqueh lust? Would anything?
PILOS
Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs
148th day of the Great Star at morning
It was good to be home. Better than good, it was cleansing to the soul to be back in the Empire, to be back under the song that had been absent his blood for so many months. It coursed both around him and inside him, through his veins, beneath his skin and within his bones, the comforting endless music of divinity, of glory. Of home.
High Feather Pilos, commander of the Melody and all its Talons, wore a fresh tunic and kilt in alternating bands of red and black, new sandals laced up at his ankles, and a cloak of feathers denoting his rank, brushed of dirt and freshly oiled against the rain. More feathers were braided into his hair, war feathers and honour feathers, and the single stiff tail feather of a turkey sticking up over his ear to announce his peaceful intent.
At his side marched Atu; the young warrior was his second in command, not that it was apparent from his gleeful, grinning appearance. He’d been away from his home and wife here in the Singing City for a year, and she’d been one of the first waiting beneath the ceremonial arch to welcome the Melody home in victory. Pilos smirked at the heat of her welcome for him – he knew what Atu would be doing within an hour of being dismissed.
Behind them in a long snake marched the Melody, slave warriors at the rear, dog warriors in the middle and the elite, full-blood Pechaqueh eagle warriors immediately behind the High Feather. The macaws, wearing their scarlet feathers, patrolled to either side of the long lines of captives – they were half-blood Pechaqueh, a step below elite, a step above the no-blood slaves and dogs. Scattered among them were the secretive, anonymous Whispers, more rumour than fact, more legend than living.
Every warrior wore a peace feather above one ear, and that covenant was sacred.
In the Melody’s midst, long lines of Yaloh and even some of their Tokob allies walked, hands bound to their waists, roped at the neck. Men and women brought under the song to learn its glory, to serve its majesty, to understand its power, all taken before the Wet forced Pilos to abandon the offensive for the season. The fighters would be inducted into the Melody as slave warriors, the rest sent to the flesh markets and from there to every corner of the Empire that needed their labours so they might learn of the song and the Singer’s mercy. Not as many as he’d have liked to have brought under the song by now, but enough to give advantage to the Melody and, with the Singer’s blessing, a swift end to the annexation after the rains. Another year and it would be done and then, perhaps, a time of peace.
The Street of Fighters was crowded with cheering Pechaqueh in their brightly coloured kilts, as well as clumps and spatters of house slaves in the dun of undyed maguey, holding palm-leaf rain shields and bowls of fruit and meat for their owners. Pilos was impressed that so many had turned out despite the weather – citizens of the Singing City weren’t known for their enthusiasm for inconveniencing themselves. He acknowledged faces in the crowd with the occasional wave, indulging Atu’s more enthusiastic responses and those of his subordinates behind them.
They reached the first loop of the Blessed River and Pilos and his Feathers came to a halt. The offering was fine – a young, healthy Yalotl with clear skin and wide, dazed eyes. Pilos had ordered her bathed and her clothes washed and now she stood dumb, not understanding why she wasn’t bound with the rest of her people. The long walk had dampened her fire to embers and the holy Setatmeh would be pleased with her quality.
Feather Atu gave her the traditional cup of liquor and she choked it down, and then they approached the edge of the river with the girl gripped between them. She began to squirm and then to yell, digging in her heels as those embers sparked into the raging fire of terror. Behind them, the Melody processed over the wide wooden bridge, the captives in their midst panicking and screeching like monkeys and even some of the slave warriors still skittish. It was the same with every new batch until they understood the way of the world and the Singer’s divine will.
‘Holy Setatmeh, gods of rivers and lakes, you who bring life and plenty to our world, accept this offering as your just due,’ Pilos said, tugging the girl forward. She struggled harder, bound hands clubbing at him. He transferred his grip to the back of her neck, his long fingers compressing the big veins on either side. He squeezed until her face filled with blood and her screams became wheezed whimpers.
‘Wise Setatmeh, gods of streams and waterfalls, you who control the crops and the rain and bring the barren to ripeness, accept this offering as your holy reward,’ he prayed, and scooped her into his arms. Pilos walked forward until he was thigh-deep in the river, a thrill of religious fear raising the hairs on his arms. She was fighting hard as he lowered her into the water and held her head down while she thrashed.
The offering was accepted.
A form glided through the water to Pilos’s side and he suffered the exquisite terror of looking it in the eye. ‘I honour you, god,’ he said. It wrapped webbed hands around the girl’s waist and Pilos let go and stepped back. ‘Take your prize, sacred spirit,’ he added and the offering shrieked again as the black claws bit into her back. The holy Setat dragged her away from shore, and then it tore open her belly and vanished with her beneath the water, trailing bubbles and thick streams of blood.
‘Blessed are the Setatmeh, and glory to the Singer,’ Atu murmured from the bank.
Pilos echoed his words and saw the shadow of awe in Atu’s face as he exited the river. He managed a grimace, making no effort to hide the trembling of his hands. To be so close to one of the gods was to know fear and rapture in their purest forms – there
was no shame in shaking afterwards. Besides, there was another loop of river to cross before they reached the heart of the city and the great pyramid, and an offering would be required there too, in thanks for a victorious return to the Empire.
‘To finally meet the Singer himself,’ Atu muttered as they resumed their march. ‘The thought of it frightens me more than facing the enemy ever has,’ he admitted as the next offering was passed forward. This one began struggling straight away, knowing what awaited him.
‘We come to report victory,’ Pilos assured him. ‘The Singer will be pleased with us.’ Despite his words, he felt a flicker of unease. The council was a nest of vipers. The High Feather needed to be on his guard.
As always, the palace never failed to exact its toll in awe. A great tiered pyramid of seven pale stone levels and a grand central staircase that led all the way to the summit, with its precious songstone cap. There was one entrance off the main staircase, halfway up, that led into the pyramid’s interior and then to the very source. Brightly coloured images were carved and painted on its sides, and each level was green with cultivated gardens.
The pyramid crouched at the end of the Way of Prayer, surrounded by the smaller, lesser palaces of the council and of the Singer’s family and confidants. The wide plaza before the pyramid was thronged with more citizens, and it was soon full to capacity as the Melody marched in to accept their cheers. The slave and dog warriors gaped up at the pyramid and their wonder was a tonic to Pilos’s nerves. This is why we do what we do. This is glory. This is Empire.
The Stone Knife Page 8