The Stone Knife

by Anna Stephens

  ‘They’ve travelled all the way from Tokoban?’

  The slave nodded. ‘Yes, high one. They wear … full heads of turkey feathers.’ Enet’s eyebrows rose. ‘I have sent a boy to fetch what he can, should you wish to see them and be likewise attired. Eight Melody macaws led by Second Flight Beyt brought them. They await your pleasure at the door. The peace-weavers’ – he stumbled over the unfamiliar phrase – ‘I have shown to the small room.’

  Irritation took over from amusement. ‘I will see this half-blood macaw and learn their intent in disturbing me. Make sure Pikte is kept away from the northerners.’

  ‘As the high one commands,’ the slave said. He stood aside and then wrestled the screen back into place so the door was invisible. Enet didn’t wait for him, striding along the brightly painted corridor towards the main door.

  The Second Flight stood just inside the entrance, her mouth slightly open as she gazed at the murals and woven hangings adorning the walls and corridors leading to the public and private parts of the palace. Four of Enet’s slave warriors surrounded the woman, while the other macaws waited out in the gardens.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Enet demanded and the macaw shut her mouth and dropped to her knees.

  ‘We found them in Xentiban two weeks ago, Spear,’ the woman said. ‘A Tokob shaman and a Yaloh warrior. Peace-weavers. They wanted to come to the Singing City and negotiate. I thought it was best to escort them so they couldn’t get up to any mischief. I … thought you might be prepared to speak with them.’

  ‘You should have killed them.’

  The macaw flinched. ‘High one,’ she said, adding the honorific though her half-Pecha blood didn’t strictly require her to, ‘they wear a multitude of peace feathers. My place is not to determine whether such as they might be harmed.’

  ‘So you brought them all the way here, into our very heart, instead of to the nearest eagle who could make that decision for you?’ Enet’s voice dripped with scorn, but they were here and, worse, they’d been invited in. The Great Octave’s own honour and status demanded she at least see them.

  ‘Forgive me, high one,’ the macaw said.

  ‘No,’ Enet snapped. ‘You will leave your name with my estate slave and you will get out of my house. Now.’ She already knew the warrior’s name, and there was only one macaw Talon in the whole Melody, but the woman needed to understand the consequences of what she’d done.

  The warrior pressed her blushing face to the floor and then rose and fled, pausing to whisper to the estate slave who waited at the door. Enet watched her go, sorely tempted to give her guard the nod, but didn’t. She’d have to end all eight of them, and it would be loud and messy before it was done. A boy came in with a basket of turkey feathers soon after, while she was putting on a fresh tunic and kilt and reapplying her cosmetics. She allowed him to bind one into her hair, over her right ear, as the warriors wore it. She would be interested to see what these peace-weavers made of that. She found she was interested to see what they made of everything – and what she made of them.

  Peace-weavers. What a novel concept. She smiled to herself as she patted the feather again and then made her way to the small room with the view of the gardens. She paused in the doorway for just the briefest moment, seeking to gain whatever advantage she could. Her mouth thinned and then she smiled to herself. They were filthy. They were exhausted. They’d been brought straight here, judging by the packs her slaves had taken from them and the dampness of their clothes and hair. That, at least, the macaw had done well.

  The man was slender and fidgety, hastily rubbing blue paint onto his brow from a small pot, while the woman stood with her arms folded across her chest and looking like she’d just bitten into rotten meat. She was older than Enet, heavyset, shoulders thick with muscle and hands and wrists hatched with scars. There were bands of grey in her hair and lines around her eyes and mouth, but violence sat lightly within her, ever ready to be tapped. The Great Octave didn’t let it bother her.

  ‘Welcome to the Singing City and the deep magic of the song, honoured guests. I am Spear of the City Enet. I am also Great Octave, though you need not concern yourself with that. Under the song.’

  They’d whirled at her first words and Enet recognised the wide-eyed blink from the man as he got his first look at her. She took it as her due. ‘Thank you, Spear, I mean Great Octave. I am Tayan, called the stargazer, shaman of the Tokob and peace-weaver. This is my friend and colleague, the warrior Betsu of Yalotlan. We are honoured that you have agreed to speak with us. And … under the song. Or as we would say, may the ancestors guide your steps.’

  He rubbed the last of the paint in a hasty, slightly crooked line from the middle of his lower lip to the point of his chin.

  ‘Betsu,’ the woman said, as if she needed to imprint her authority on the meeting. Or as if she didn’t like this Tayan speaking for her.

  ‘And do you offer me the grace of your ancestors, Betsu of Yalotlan?’ Enet asked, her head on one side and her hands clasped before her. The woman grunted. ‘Ah, well. I am sure the Tokob ancestors will watch over me, even if yours do not.’

  ‘Hundreds more of my people are now ancestors because of you, because of Pechacan and the Empire and your—’

  ‘Peace, Betsu,’ Tayan barked and then, astoundingly, blushed. ‘Forgive me, Great Octave, I should not have raised my voice in your house. It was impolite and goes against the protocol of the peace-weaving. May we begin?’

  Enet suppressed a sigh and sat; then she gestured for them to do the same. She clapped once. ‘Refreshments for my guests, and arrange clean clothes for them. And some cloths so that they may remove the worst of the mud,’ she added. They’d removed their sandals in the entrance, but their feet appeared just as filthy and there were already marks on her mats.

  Tayan grimaced and looked down. ‘The Wet is heavy already, is it not?’ he asked. ‘I apologise for the mess we have made. We were, ah, unaware we would be meeting you immediately upon our arrival or we would have ensured we were more presentable. Thank you,’ he added to the slave handing him the square of cotton. He scrubbed at the mud coating his feet and legs, then used a clean corner to squeeze the water from his hair. It was long, coming halfway down his back, threaded with strings of dyed-blue bird bones and painted clay beads. His kilt was patterned with blue squares, as was his sleeveless tunic. Four long, pale scars marred the side of his left leg; that would have been a nasty injury.

  ‘Would you like to bathe?’ she asked before they were settled and was gratified to see them both recoil.

  ‘Thank you, no. Unless that is a requirement of your society? We do not wish to cause offence and this is only our first meeting.’

  Enet met Betsu’s eyes and an understanding as to the nature of these meetings passed between them.

  ‘You cause no offence,’ the Great Octave said softly.

  The shaman retrieved his bag and knelt opposite Enet. Betsu joined them, impassive, as he began to lay out items on the low table between them. One of Enet’s guards shifted away from the wall and she raised her hand to still them, curious. There was a small clay jar, tightly stoppered, a series of well-carved statues, and a soft deerskin pouch. ‘Do you have a bowl and grinding stone for us to prepare the magic?’ he asked.

  ‘The … magic?’ Enet asked. The man indicated the vial and the pouch. ‘Oh yes, your frog-magic. It is true you lick them? Is there one in there?’ She leant forward and prodded the pouch with a long fingernail; it was disappointingly soft.

  The shaman coughed. ‘See how we already learn about each other?’ he said with forced cheer. ‘When we journey to the realm of the ancestors, or to speak with Malel, our goddess, or those spirits not yet reborn, the path is arduous, and to speak with the dead is a difficult task. Our magic eases that passage. Does your song-magic require the same?’

  ‘It does not.’

  The Toko waited for more, but Enet was silent. Her estate slave knelt behind the peace-weavers, alert t
o her smallest gesture or requirement. It clearly made the pair nervous to have his silent presence behind them.

  ‘I hope that over the coming days we will continue to learn about each other, the better to reach an agreement that pleases all parties. For now, shall we begin? The grinding bowl?’

  ‘Begin what?’ Enet was losing patience. She had been called from her books and her research for this, these childish overtures of friendship, this babbling nonsense of ancestors and herb-magic.

  ‘At the commencement of a peace-weaving, it is customary to visit the ancestors, so that all know we hold the same purpose and that our hearts are pure. It creates trust. The ancestors will know if anyone has evil intent.’ He picked up the pouch and gave her a bright smile.

  Enet ran a considering finger across her lower lip. Betsu rolled her eyes, but Enet’s performance wasn’t for the Yalotl. ‘Forgive me, Tayan – or should I call you Peace-weaver? – but our dead rest within the world spirit, and we access that through the song. The song is the voice of the world, you see. Do you see? We are constantly, endlessly connected with our dead. We need no frog-juice to show us our past. Or our future.’

  Tayan lowered his head. All Enet could see was the tension in his shoulders and the rather tatty crown of turkey feathers. Betsu was blank-faced next to him, as if she didn’t even speak the same language. Enet waited, the patient, smiling host, until Tayan’s shoulders dropped and he raised his head. He smiled again.

  ‘You are right, of course. We have come to your land to request a peace-weaving. It is your traditions we should honour here, not ours.’ He packed away his instruments and tucked the bag behind him. ‘Tell me then, Great Octave, how should we begin the peace-weaving?’

  ‘Ah, my honoured guests, that is where there is a small problem,’ Enet said, holding up her palms. ‘We have no such thing.’

  The silence was dumbfounded – until it was broken by ugly, wheezing laughter. Betsu’s face was red and tears filled her eyes as she laughed, her face twisted into a horrible grimace that was part humour, part despair.

  ‘Betsu? Betsu, peace,’ Tayan hissed. ‘Great Octave, you have no protocol for establishing peace with others?’

  ‘We already have peace,’ Enet said, pointedly not looking at the Yalotl as she struggled to contain herself. ‘All the Empire is at peace. When you are brought under the song you, too, will know it.’

  ‘Then the peace-weaving can proceed,’ Tayan said with clear relief. Enet arched an eyebrow. ‘Your position is that we will only know peace if we join your Empire. Our position is that we wish to retain our autonomy and end the war. The negotiation now will lead to a compromise satisfactory to all parties.’

  ‘Yes, indeed you can end the war here and now,’ Enet said and she let irritation trickle into her voice. ‘Join the Empire and not one more of your people will be lost to our weapons. Look around you, look at our wealth, feel the song’s might in your hearts. You walked through hundreds of sticks of farmland: imagine the amount of crops they grow. Your warriors can join our Melody and serve with honour. Your artists will find new subjects and new markets. Your shamans can learn about the song and our magic, our ways. The whole world will open up to you.’

  ‘We do not wish to join your Empire,’ Tayan said when she paused for breath, and his voice was as smooth as polished jade. ‘But let us not try to solve everything in one day. A peace-weaving traditionally lasts for thirty days, so we have plenty of time to—’

  Enet threw back her head and laughed, genuinely amused. ‘Thirty days?’ she gasped, one hand pressed to her chest. ‘You expect me to sit here and listen to such nonsense for thirty days? Only because you arrived unexpected and unasked-for at my home have I done you the courtesy of listening so far. But do not forget: you are in my home, and you are here unannounced. You come in spouting traditions and waving around herbs and you demand my attention and time – and then you demand thirty days of it? No, honoured guests, no. I am curious, and so I will grant you seven days of my valuable time. You will stay in my home and I will show you the city and Pechaqueh ways and all that might be yours upon joining the Empire of Songs.’

  She stood and they stared up at her, dumbstruck. Enet snapped her fingers and the slave kneeling behind the peace-weavers rose, collecting their bags.

  ‘I’m sure that by the end of our time together you will be eager to return home to tell your people of the virtues of laying down their weapons and surrendering. We will speak again tomorrow. You, show them to a room and feed them.’

  ‘You subjugate your neighbours and keep them as property,’ Betsu said, her voice heavy with scorn as she rose. ‘You worship the Drowned. You steal from the balance and the Ixachipan you profess to love suffers as a result. Ancestors’ bones are disturbed, spirits forced from their resting places in tree and rock. That is not balance; it is sacrilege against Malel – against the world. And you say we will beg to join you in this wholesale slaughter?’

  ‘Betsu, peace,’ the shaman snapped, his eyes flashing with an uneasy mix of anger and pleading. ‘This is not how to begin a peace-weaving.’

  ‘How much land is enough land?’ Betsu demanded, strident.

  Enet put her head on one side and gave them a quizzical smile that masked her seething outrage. ‘That is for the Singer to decide. The song is a glory to all who hear it – as you know. We wish only for as many peoples as possible to live within the joy of the song. We do not steal; we bring a gift of immeasurable bounty to those who join our Empire. This is something you will come to understand.’

  ‘Join your Empire?’ Betsu mocked. ‘You mean be enslaved by it. Stolen from our homes and our ancestors. Turned into things.’

  Enet shrugged. ‘What better way to learn how our society works than from the bottom? With faithful service, slaves are made servants who receive compensation. Servants save up enough to pay off their debt and become free. The free live and farm and make babies and raise livestock under the glory of the song. Peace, peace-weavers,’ she added with another smile. ‘That is what we offer the world.’

  Betsu’s face reddened, veins standing out in her throat.

  ‘Betsu,’ the shaman warned in a low voice. ‘We are guests—’

  ‘Your Singer has ordered you to flood over the land like locusts, conquering all in your path and forcing them to serve you like dogs, but it was not always so. This noise you call a song is poison and it has poisoned you all. We will never—’

  Enet’s polite mask fell from her face. Her slave knelt and pressed his forehead to the floor. The guards rushed forward from their places around the walls. ‘The Singer is a living god and the song is his grace spread across us,’ the Great Octave said in a soft, deadly voice. ‘It unites us in one great, glorious purpose, a purpose every Pecha believes in. And our free, our servants and our slaves all hold that purpose in their hearts alongside the glory of the song.’ She gestured to the slave. ‘You. You’re happy, aren’t you?’

  The man bobbed his head and raised it just enough to speak. ‘Of course, high one.’

  ‘Do you even know his name?’ Betsu demanded.

  Enet didn’t so much as glance at her. She wouldn’t be able convince Betsu, but the shaman. Oh, the shaman was promising. ‘The song would light up your lives,’ she said, soft and coaxing now. ‘It would take your small, sad world and polish it like jade. Like pearls from the ocean. It would enhance everything you did and saw and ate and smelt, every feeling, every decision. The song is the world, Tayan.’

  She stepped between her guards and put her hand on the shaman’s chest, felt his heart thudding against his ribs, and looked deep enough to see his spirit burning in his eyes. ‘It has been inside you for weeks now, brightening you, glorifying you; I see its light in your face. When you reach the border you will no longer hear it. You will be lost. Bereft. Don’t throw it away. Don’t discard the glory inside you and condemn your thousands of brave warriors to pointless death.’

  ‘She is a scorpion, Tayan. Her words ar
e venom.’

  ‘Betsu, peace,’ the shaman said, but he neither looked at her nor moved away from the pressure of Enet’s hand on his chest. They stared into each other and she felt him waver, she felt him teeter on the edge of surrender. And step back. ‘May we speak again tomorrow, Great Octave?’ he asked formally.

  ‘I have duties in the source, with the Singer,’ Enet said. ‘But I will find some time to show you the city.’ She walked to the door and looked back over her shoulder. ‘You are lucky you arrived when you did,’ she added as if it was an afterthought. ‘The new moon will come before you leave. You can take part in our ritual offerings to the holy Setatmeh.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ Betsu demanded, clenching her fists.

  Enet only smiled. ‘Under the song.’

  THE SINGER

  The source, Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs

  The song is eternal. My song shall be eternal, spreading across Ixachipan and then the world until all know my strength and the Pechaqueh power.

  I, Xac, 174th Singer of Pechacan, wielder of the magic that binds the Empire, will be the once, last, and only Singer, walking at the world spirit’s side for eternity.

  I honour my ancestors, who have brought the Empire so close to its final glory. Because of them and the grand work of expansion they began, I shall wake the world spirit.

  Because of myself and all the reverence I am owed, I shall achieve greatness so radiant it will reflect back through the years to burnish their legacy brighter.

  Through me Ixachipan will be brought to harmonious glory. Through me will be an end to war and division. Through me will the Pechaqueh rule supreme and the Empire be prosperous. Through me the world spirit will awaken.