And with that awakening, I shall wax into my full power. None shall withstand us. None shall want to withstand us. The world spirit and I will make a garden of the world, and a music of living. All shall know my name. All shall know me.
For I am the Singer, and my will is stone.
TAYAN
Great Octave’s estate, Singing City,
Pechacan, Empire of Songs
153rd day of the Great Star at morning
‘I mean it, Betsu. Yesterday was a disaster – already she has refused us the full length of the peace-weaving. We must make progress in the days we have, which means that if you cannot charm her, then you must hold your tongue.’
Betsu paced their room like a jaguar on a riverbank debating whether it was safe to drink. ‘Who do you think you speak to?’ she spat. ‘I am a Yalotl – it is my people dying, my people fleeing Pechaqueh spears. And you ask me to charm her?’ This time she did spit, accurately, out of the window.
‘And it is our warriors dying alongside yours, our cities feeding and housing those refugees who flee. We are in this war, standing shoulder to shoulder with you. We have been all season.’ Tayan fought for calm, fidgeting with the peace feathers woven into his hair. They were old now, shabby. Much like the prospects of the peace-weaving itself. ‘We’re running out of time and we’ve been stuck in this room all morning waiting for her to agree to see us.’ The shaman took a deep breath. ‘I think if we haven’t made progress in three days, we have to make the land and trade offer.’
Betsu stopped and faced him. ‘That’s the offer of last resort,’ she said, incredulity colouring her tone. ‘That’s the end of Yalotlan. We said we’d let them keep what they’ve already stolen only if there was no other choice.’
‘There already is no other choice.’ He bit off the words that wanted to tumble from his mouth, that Betsu had practically assured there would be no other choice through her behaviour. She hadn’t been like this with the Zellih, but something about Pechacan, or the song – or Enet herself, maybe – had stripped the diplomacy from her tongue.
‘If you make that offer, you condemn us to death. If they know we will give them half our land, they will know they can take it all. I cannot allow it.’ Betsu’s voice was very cold.
‘And yet your council of elders agreed it. And you would be welcome in our lands,’ Tayan tried, sick at heart, for he was not at all sure that they would be. ‘You would have farms, homes, as you do now. You—’
‘We would live on your charity because you gave away our homes? Gave up on us, on the fight? No.’
Tayan whirled from the window, acid burning in his throat. ‘Let us at least begin the weaving,’ he said. ‘I am merely suggesting that we agree in advance which concessions we are happy to make and when.’
‘You talk of selling us, as if you are Pechaqueh yourself.’ There was violence in the air, but it was Betsu’s words that made Tayan take a step away from her. The breath caught in his throat. How could she say that?
She crossed the room and held up a clenched fist. ‘There is no peace we can weave that will preserve Yaloh and Tokob autonomy – only violence can do that. So that’s what we give, side by side, offering violence for freedom. As your council promised us.’
Tayan didn’t answer her. Instead he stared out at the Spear’s estate, filled with people and gardens and small plots of crops. It seemed so normal, if you discounted that every person was a slave and the estate had been built with, and was maintained by, their blood. Not even the most fevered journeying had ever shown him something like this, so subtly, nauseatingly wrong.
The Pechaqueh sat in these grand stone houses and ate food they hadn’t planted, tended, harvested or killed. They wore clothes they hadn’t made themselves or traded their own skill for, ate from plates they hadn’t created, took medicine they didn’t know how to gather and prepare. They did nothing but accumulate wealth and enemies and buy people to tend to them, as though they were helpless newborns.
Their actions tilted the world beneath their feet, destroyed the harmony of nature, the delicate pause between plenty and poverty, life and death. The ancestors cried out at the indignity, at the brands of ownership, the bowed heads, the fearful silence. Surely the lords of the Underworld stirred, restless and secretly pleased with the turmoil – as if the Pechaqueh were calling to them through their monstrous intermediaries, the Drowned.
The Empire was sick, Tayan realised, feasting on its own flesh and bones for sustenance, unable to see the poison for what it was. There were rivers out there, rivers curling through the city. Infested with Drowned so bloated and gorged on human flesh that they did not sing, did not need to. Slaves were thrown into those rivers every new moon.
And we are going to see it.
Hundreds of sacrifices to placate the so-called gods – though really just to feed their bellies. In an Empire that prided itself on its song-magic, the Pechaqueh lived in terror of theirs. The irony was so thick Tayan could taste it.
Under the song. The blessing and valediction, words that were both a promise and a threat. And the song itself, a low, voiceless melody filled with emotion and power and yearning and comfort, pulling at his spirit, bleeding into his ears, his mind, never to be expelled. He’d miss it when they returned to Tokoban, just as Enet had promised. It’s poison. But so sweet, so gloriously sweet that my skin drinks it like nectar.
‘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.
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—’
Enet cut him off. ‘Even as allies, you could plot against us with the aid of your goddess and the spirits. We guard against that by bringing people to other parts of the Empire until they have seen the strength that lies in unity. Here and elsewhere they can work within our households and with our farmers and artisans. They can mine the songstone and see how the Pechaqueh way of life brings peace and plenty and contentment. They learn from us, are educated by us, understand how we trade and sell and buy, how we live, how we worship. They come to understand the glory of the song, the glory of the Empire. Why then would they run away?’
‘You’re honestly telling us that slaves do not escape and carve through their brands?’ Betsu demanded and Tayan was too shocked to caution her.
Enet spread her hands. ‘Some,’ she admitted. ‘But you speak as if we are monsters, not teachers. The vast majority of new citizens come under the song and embrace it. It is of benefit to all. The system works. Peace works. You are fond of that word, are you not?’ She grinned so disarmingly that Tayan blinked, and then she leant forward and squeezed his knee and, like a youngster on the cusp of his first relationship, he blushed. His hand went automatically to the wedding cord around his neck, but if she noticed, she gave no sign.
‘You speak of songstone,’ he said, floundering for a topic. ‘We do not know of this. Is it …’ He paused as something suddenly made sense. ‘I see. This is how the song travels across your land, yes? You build your pyramids out of songstone and your Singer’s magic is channelled through them somehow so the song is heard all the way to your borders?’
Enet laughed. ‘Songstone is far too rare and precious. No, the pyramids are built from any stone, whatever is local and to hand, but each is capped with songstone. Other than that, yes, you guess correctly. You are clever, aren’t you, shaman?’
Tayan didn’t answer that. ‘Fascinating. May I see a sample of this stone? Perhaps we know it by another name, other properties. How does the magic work, exactly?’
Enet’s smile was enigmatic. ‘Ah, we are here,’ she said, gesturing. ‘This is our craft district. Most of our textiles and ceramics are made here. All the people with dyed hems to their kilts are servants. They are working – for jade – to buy their freedom. And see how many wear the traditional and fully dyed clothes of their homelands? They are all free. All of them, working alongside us. Where is the subjugation you are so fond of imagining? Where are the punishments? No, my friends, a slave class might be necessary, but it is neither cruel nor permanent. You have been sadly misinformed by the wildness of your own rumours. Stop,’ she added and the litter-bearers paused.
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.
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.
The Stone Knife Page 13