The Stone Knife

by Anna Stephens

  Though if I do have to throw barely competent hawks at the enemy, we’re truly fucked.

  Feather Atu stood at Pilos’s side. ‘Feels strange to be heading out again so soon. In the Wet. Reminds me of Quitoban.’

  Pilos snorted. ‘You were still sucking your mother’s tit when we brought the Quitob under the song,’ he teased, for Atu had been one of the youngest Pechaqueh ever to become an eagle and his youth and wide-eyed innocence had been a constant source of amusement among the older warriors.

  His second laughed. ‘There was many a day I’d have gladly run back home for a cuddle during that campaign,’ he admitted.

  ‘Wouldn’t we all,’ Pilos muttered. The Quitob offensive had been bitter, drawn-out, and a fucking shambles, if he was honest, and though it was fifteen years in the past, the memory still bit at him. Forcing the final the battle in a flooded river delta, holy Setatmeh snatching the unwary on both sides, and warriors drowning in mud only strides from the fighting, sucked under before anyone could reach them. He’d lost an entire Talon of dogs and Coyotes and a full fifth of his eagles before the Quitob capitulated.

  Now one in six of the dogs he was taking to war were Quitob, their tenacious, fierce determination put to work bringing peace to all Ixachipan. The glory of the song made manifest.

  He didn’t doubt the Yaloh and Tokob would fight like the very lords of the Underworld in the moons to come, and he worried for the Melody as if each warrior, down to the lowliest slave, were his children. How many would they lose this time? How many offspring and partners would never see loved ones again? How many dog warriors, drunk on promises of freedom for themselves and their families – promises Pilos himself had made – would instead die screaming on Tokob and Yaloh spears?

  Too many. The number, no matter how small, was always too many.

  The eagles’ feathered banner was hoisted into the grey sky and the march began, first to the Singing City where Pilos would seek an audience with the holy lord, and then on, through Pechacan and Xentiban, out from under the song once more, and, with the Singer’s blessing, for the very last time.

  Pilos’s feathered cloak fluttered behind him as they marched down the limestone roads, eight abreast, weapons and shields bright, war paint fresh on faces and arms. There was a long way to go yet, but the paint focused his warriors’ minds and reminded them that they didn’t march to sport or their families. They marched to war.

  They made the Singing City in a week, but there were no messengers from the source waiting under the ceremonial arch to tell Pilos that the council or the Singer wished to see him. Despite the second incident with the song. Or because of it?

  Pilos gritted his teeth and marched in impenetrable silence and his Feathers faded back behind him to avoid being a target if his temper snapped. He didn’t realise his mood had spread to the thousands of warriors marching behind him until Feather Atu coughed and then appeared at his shoulder.

  ‘Perhaps a song to lift the heart, High Feather?’

  Pilos grunted, eyes fixed ahead, but then Atu’s words reached him and he consciously loosened his hands and shoulders. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said and then his gaze flicked sideways and he huffed a laugh. Elaq was marching off the edge of the road, unconsciously in step with the Melody and waiting for Pilos to glance over.

  Atu touched belly and throat and vanished and, at a gesture, Elaq replaced him. Moments later the Feathers began the song of Chitenec, an old favourite. It rippled down the seemingly endless snake of warriors with its tail of cooks and builders and weapons-makers and offerings. Pilos and Elaq marched in silence for a while, listening to the voices settle into harmony. The song within the song.

  ‘Atu’s right; it does lift the heart,’ Pilos said and clapped Elaq on the shoulder. ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘The former,’ Elaq said, and Pilos sighed. Of course it was. ‘About the Great Octave; about the song,’ he added and Pilos was suddenly grateful for the singing of thousands of warriors behind him. He let it fill his consciousness, focusing on the rhythm and the story, so that as Elaq spoke, the words mingled in his mind and would be harder see. A poor imitation of the Listeners’ method to transmit confidential information.

  ‘Tell me about the song first,’ he said. Whatever Enet was up to could wait; the changes to the song could not.

  ‘Word from the source is that Pikte, son of the Great Octave and the Singer, is dead.’

  ‘The song first,’ Pilos repeated and Elaq held up a hand to still him. The eagle so rarely acted as Pilos’s equal that when he did, it meant something, so Pilos bit his tongue and waited.

  ‘Pikte was murdered. In the source, by Enet and the Singer. That’s what caused the change in the song—’

  ‘Stop,’ Pilos interrupted, his stride faltering. ‘This can’t be right. Why are you saying this?’

  Elaq marched in silence, sympathy mingled with grim reality twisting his hard face into something harder. Pilos felt sick and the warriors’ singing suddenly seemed more like the wailing of spirits condemned to the Underworld. The afternoon was grey and windy – a typical end-of-Wet day – but it seemed more. Portents in everything.

  ‘The Singer was casting Enet out, stripping her of title and status, and so she offered him Pikte and the old ritual stone knife from back before. He took it, Pilos. He blooded the song, against all tradition, against the law. He blooded the song with his own son.’

  There was such bewilderment in Elaq’s voice, usually so calm and capable, that it choked Pilos and he put his hand on the man’s shoulder again, giving and taking wordless comfort even as his mind rebelled at what he was being told. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.

  ‘Councillor Yana’s nephew is one of the Singer’s courtesans,’ Elaq continued after a pause, as if hearing his thoughts. Behind them, the ballad was coming to an end; they didn’t have much time. ‘He heard it from another courtesan, who heard it from an administrator, who got it from the Chorus warrior who was there when it happened.’

  ‘But—’ Pilos began, but Elaq interrupted again, and he let him.

  ‘The first time the song skewed, one of the peace-weavers, the woman Betsu, was brought into the source. The courtesan doesn’t think she ever left. We think that was the first, because Enet let it be known that one of the peace-weavers had returned home. The other followed a couple of weeks later – and he really did go; I had people watching. But not the Yalotl, as far as we can tell. Yana thinks the Singer killed her, too.’

  ‘Enet is blooding the song?’ the High Feather whispered, dread dragging icy claws down his spine. ‘Is she truly fucking insane? Does she know nothing of our history? She will destroy us all, destroy the Empire itself! Why would she do this?’

  ‘Yana and I are making enquiries, High Feather, but at this stage we don’t know whose idea it was. We don’t know if the Singer decided to blood the song, or if she encouraged him and provided him with … the means to do so.’

  ‘The Singer would not do that,’ Pilos said immediately. But was it loyalty or truth?

  ‘Her lust for power has no limits,’ Elaq said quietly.

  It was rare for Pilos to be lost for words, but he could do nothing other than stare around him in bewildered disgust. Despite its size and strength, despite its military prowess and wealth in food and jade and slaves, the Empire of Songs forever trod a knife’s edge. The song lifted up the Pechaqueh and subdued and glorified the other tribes brought under its power, but if that song broke, if it became corrupted, even the most content slaves might become restless. The song was the resin that bound them together; Enet was wilfully, intentionally picking it apart. How would that bring them the stability needed to waken the world spirit?

  ‘I’m almost afraid to ask, but is there anything else?’ Pilos asked eventually, because Elaq had that shifty look he knew well.

  ‘The other information I have for you is from Councillor Yana. He is almost certain Enet controls a songstone quarry, at least one, owned through a number of
subsidiaries so that it cannot be traced back to her. For the last four sun-years she has controlled all the provision of songstone to the Empire. He says that through clever manipulation of the council she has been earning enormous sums selling it to the architects capping pyramids and expanding the reach of the song. When you forwarded on Whisper Ilandeh’s report that Tokoban is rich in songstone and it was read out in council, Yana says Enet was furious. He thinks she fears the loss of her control over its supply.’

  Pilos gaped again. The news, in its way, was just as shocking. ‘Songstone is divine,’ he spluttered. ‘It is not to be, to be fucking bartered for like a slave or an ear of corn. How has the council allowed this to happen? She cannot just sell it. No one sells songstone.’

  Elaq’s mouth twisted with bitter humour. ‘The costs have been cleverly disguised – the use of artisans to quarry and shape the stone before removal; the prohibitive costs of transport, both of materials to move the stone and in offerings to any holy Setatmeh encountered along the route; the alleged difficulty in accessing the stone itself and the increased labour required to chip it free. Not one of the costs has ever actually been attributed to the stone itself. That remains, for all intents and purposes, free and sacred as it always has been. The Great Octave has merely been requesting compensation for the labour.’

  ‘That bitch-slut-snake,’ Pilos growled. It made sense though. For years Pilos had tried to discover the source of Enet’s influence and failed. The number of families who could afford the honour of commissioning a songstone cap for a pyramid – gifting the money directly to the source rather than to anyone who owned a songstone mine – was vanishingly small, and nearly all of them had a seat on the council. And … all of those councillors were loyal to Enet. ‘So Enet can deny her rivals access to songstone if she chooses, or she can barter for information from them. Payment in knowledge if not in jade.’

  Pilos turned to walk backwards and caught Atu’s eye. He circled his finger in the air and his second nodded, and as the last notes of the marching song faded away, he began another.

  ‘That is the councillor’s thought also,’ Elaq said when their voices were covered by the Melody’s. ‘And the Great Octave sees you as her biggest rival. If she has as much power as Yana fears, it’s likely why the Singer didn’t meet you today. You need protecting, High Feather,’ Elaq added. ‘I’d like permission to come with you, to watch your back and front and every other fucking direction. I wouldn’t put it past Enet to have assassins among your Melody – even your eagles.’

  Pilos smiled despite himself. ‘What an ignoble end for the mighty High Feather, to be gutted by one of his own, seduced from him by the snake in the council,’ he said with mock solemnity. ‘Peace, my friend. With fever in Quitoban, a conquest in the Wet, and the blooding of the song, my life means little in the grand scheme of things. Still, I promise to be careful,’ he added, seeing Elaq’s scowl. ‘But you know I need you in the city. You and Yana are the only two people there I can trust. I need you working – discreetly – to discover anything else you can. Definitive proof of the blooding, for a start. And look at my wealth, too, will you? Start drawing up papers to have me buy any mining rights in Tokoban. I’ll see it’s worked and gifted as it should be. For free. For the song. The more we can do to loosen Enet’s grasp, the better.’

  ‘As the High Feather commands,’ Elaq said with pointed courtesy.

  Pilos gusted a sigh. ‘Setatmeh preserve me from overprotective eagles and the manipulations of beautiful women. I’ll be careful. And you be careful, too. You’re living in the viper’s den, remember. Under the song, my friend.’

  TAYAN

  Sky City, Malel, Tokoban

  205th day of the Great Star at morning

  They’d fled the fighting, deep into the darkness beneath the trees, moving fast and quiet until Tayan was thoroughly lost.

  He’d sat in miserable, shivering silence through the rest of the night, and as dawn broke they’d returned to the ambush site. They’d found a few survivors and a lot of bodies. They didn’t find Lilla.

  Tayan stopped paying attention after that. His husband was gone. Not dead, not unless he’d crawled away and died in the undergrowth somewhere. Captured, then. A prisoner of the Empire of Songs. A slave. Lutek’s mouth had moved and her arms flapped, but the shaman didn’t care. He’d followed numbly when the survivors began to head north, taking the straightest route they could towards Tokoban and Malel. He was going home. He just didn’t have anyone to go home to.

  And now there it was, the Sky City a bright blur above them as Tayan climbed out of the jungle below the Swift Water. After all this time, it was almost impossible for him to conceive it. It didn’t take long for the relieved chatter among the surviving warriors to fade, though, as they made their way past the Swift Water’s loop and towards the walls and no one challenged them.

  Tayan managed to swallow his grief long enough to summon some worry. ‘What’s happening? What can you see?’

  ‘It’s what we can’t see that’s the problem,’ Tiamoko said uneasily. They’d found him the morning after the ambush unconscious beneath two corpses, covered in their blood; the enemy must have assumed he was dead. ‘No warriors watching the approaches and barely any farmers in the fields or the orchards. Only two pipes running from the water temples, not four. And … shit, is that smoke?’

  Tayan squinted desperately to where the young warrior was pointing. ‘Where?’

  ‘Looks like Xentibec’s burning,’ he said, and at that, no matter their fatigue and their wounds, they began to run again.

  The weeks of journeying had done more for Tayan’s strength than he’d known until their flight from the ambush, and now he kept up with the warriors as they laboured up the hill and the images slowly resolved themselves in his poor vision. Smoke was billowing from at least four, no, five places in the Xentib quarter, and the gate leading out of it – the one closest to their route as they followed the boundary wall past the Swift Water – remained closed.

  Tiamoko sprinted ahead, but he slowed before he got there and turned back. ‘I can hear fighting!’ he shouted and then hurled himself at the gate. It was locked from the inside and, even stranger, barricaded from without. They tore away the wooden props and the stones piled against the gate. ‘Up and over,’ he said when it was clear and Lutek ran at him, put her foot in the cradle of his hands and was thrown upwards. She got her elbows over the top and stared down through the smoke, then scrambled up to straddle the gate.

  The others were shouting questions, but she pointed downwards and vanished. The shouting and screams were clear now and dread was a punch to the gut. Was it the Empire? The gate creaked open and Lutek’s face appeared. ‘I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but you need to get in here. There are Yaloh fighting Xentib.’

  Everyone paused. ‘What?’ someone asked.

  Lutek pulled the gate wider and they crowded through, into burning buildings and savage fighting. The Xentib were a mass of terrified citizens hiding behind their few score warriors, but the Yaloh were there in their hundreds, it seemed. Stones were being hurled from deep in the crowd. Blood spurted and a woman went down, screaming.

  Tayan stepped forward. ‘Xentib! Gate’s open,’ he roared as loud as he could. Those nearest looked back and then sprinted towards the gate without hesitation. Tayan and the rest flattened themselves against the buildings, urging them on. More and more left the protection of their warriors and began to flee, and the first were passing them when a flight of arrows arced against the morning.

  ‘Stop shooting!’ Tayan screamed, waving his arms. ‘Stop shooting.’

  But the Xentib were moving as one now, all of them running, and more arrows were falling among them. One shattered on the stone in front of Tayan, the flint head ricocheting through the air to hit him below the eye. He rocked backwards at the impact and felt the immediate, hot rush of blood.

  ‘Stop!’ he yelled again as the Xentib raced past him and the Yaloh follow
ed, faces contorted with mad and inexplicable rage and a terrible sort of justice.

  Lutek and some of the warriors tried to get between Yaloh and Xentib, but they were too mixed in together now and the attackers were hacking spears and axes into the backs of the fleeing people. They were yelling too and being ignored, and the runners were slowing as they got trapped in the narrowness of the gate, fighting and snarling and screaming to get through.

  More people racing into the street from the far end – Tokob, shoving people out of their way so they could get in. Tayan felt a moment of utter panic at their appearance, but then they too started dragging Yaloh out of the mass and forcing them back. Holding weapons to them until they backed away. The street echoed with conflicting voices and orders and screeching, and the shaman waded back in, hauling on the arm of a Yalotl with an axe raised. He fought for the weapon, shouting incoherently, clung on even when the man’s other hand punched him in the face, right in his split cheek.

  Tayan howled and headbutted him, pure instinct, and felt the man’s nose crunch under the impact. He ripped the axe out of his hand and shoved him backwards. ‘Fuck off,’ he screamed right in his face, and stepped into the gap to stop the next, dropping the axe. He wasn’t going to fight Yaloh, no matter what.

  Too slowly, the Tokob overwhelmed the rioters and wriggled through their number to form a cordon between them and the Xentib, who continued to struggle out through the gate as the fires intensified, choking them all in black smoke. When the last Xenti had run through the city gate, Tayan went to look. None of them had stopped once they reached safety and the fastest were already disappearing into the jungle below.

  He turned back into the city. ‘What the fucking fuck was that all about?’ he shouted and a few sullen Yaloh turned to face him, hostile.