The Stone Knife

by Anna Stephens

  ‘You fought gloriously for your people and your way of life, and I honour each and every one of you in my heart, those who stand before me and those who fell. You fought gloriously – and for the wrong reasons.’

  A few more eyes snapped up to his face then, a few fists clenched, a few shoulders tightened. Pilos wandered on, undaunted. Feathers and eagles bracketed the lines and a few stood behind him, all relaxed. Strength and confidence would win them to the cause, not brutality. At least, not unless he had no other choice.

  ‘For moons now you have been under the song. You have heard its ever-changing beauty, its power, its glory. It has slithered into your hearts and spirits and now will never truly let you go. But it does not need to, for the best among you will be inducted into the Melody, to fight for the song and its Empire, for glory, for the Singer and the holy Setatmeh.’

  A woman, taller than Pilos and almost as broad in the shoulder, sprinted from the front line behind him. The shift in the prisoners alerted him, that and the prickle along his spine. She didn’t come screaming her war cry; she didn’t come cursing.

  She was three strides from him when he spun, club swinging up on the diagonal. At her peak, before her moons of incarceration, she would have been terrifying. Even now Pilos gave her the respect she deserved. She dodged the club, slamming into his chest, the edge of her left hand chopping into his right wrist and numbing his fingers, loosening his grip on the weapon. But it didn’t matter, because the knife in his other hand had opened her from womb to liver. Blood sprayed between them, a puff of crimson almost lost in the sticky grey of the afternoon.

  Her left fist was moving before she knew she was dead and Pilos jerked his head to one side so her knuckles just caught his cheek instead of breaking his nose. The hand with the club came around her back and supported her as she realised what had happened. Her eyes swivelled downwards and then back up to his.

  ‘Under the song,’ he said and lowered her to the limestone blocks of the drill yard. Blood coated his shirt, his belt and kilt and left hand to the elbow. Blood pooled beneath her, bright against the pale stone, the greying of her skin. ‘Your ancestors will be proud.’

  Pilos stepped back, sheathed the knife and took a two-handed grip on the club. ‘Mercy,’ he said loud enough for the front rows to hear, and swung, crushing her skull. He pointed the bloody end at them. ‘Each and every one of you will have the chance to prove yourself in battle. Those who prove outstanding, and who commit to serve as a slave warrior for five years, will be able to provide the names and descriptions of their families.’ More eyes looking up, dragged away from the leaking corpse on the stone or their own broken sandals or bare feet. Looking at him but not in defiance now, not in hate. Desperate, ugly hope blazed in every face.

  ‘Five years as slave warriors during which your families will be kept safe and together, parents with youngsters, old folk with your siblings, if you so wish. They will serve together in one house, somewhere in the Empire. Well treated, not abused, fed and clothed and healed when sick. Your children educated.’

  There were murmurs among the ranks now and Feathers cracked whips and called for silence.

  ‘After five years of successful service, your deeds and accomplishments will be tallied up. Those of you who have captured slaves for the Empire, who have committed acts of outstanding bravery, who have saved the lives of your fellow warriors … those who have tallies enough will be promoted into the dog warriors.’

  Pilos gestured behind him with the club. A few drops of blood pattered to the stone. The dog warriors there were training hard, their unarmed combat fluid and fast and lethal.

  ‘Dog warriors are not slaves. Dog warriors are paid good jade for good service!’ Pilos shouted, drawing all eyes back to him. ‘When word is sent to your families of your promotion, they too will be elevated, from slave to servant. Servants are paid good jade for good service!’

  He paused and grinned at them. ‘When between you and your families you have earned enough to buy your freedom, you may do so. A few years only, in most cases, sometimes less, and you can all be reunited. If you wish to earn that freedom faster, you can. How?’

  The Feathers chanted the answer. ‘By capturing slaves, by acts of bravery, by saving lives.’

  ‘I know you are more than just warriors. You are farmers, artists, weavers, hunters, shamans. We are all, at the end of the day, hunters, gatherers, and farmers first. Warriors last. We pick up weapons only out of necessity. Once you and your family have bought your freedom, you will be given a plot of land within the Empire to farm. Half of your crop will be sent as tithe to the local governor of your district; the rest is yours to do with as you wish. Mostly, I recommend you eat it and grow fat and fuck your partners and have more children. But I leave that choice up to you.’

  There were a few half-smiles in the throng and Pilos’s grin outmatched them. ‘This is how you earn your freedom. This is how you earn the freedom of your families. This is how you return to the lives you led before, but this time under the song, in its power and glory. Seven years, maybe eight, and freedom and land and family are all yours. Eight years – one Star cycle, no more. Just a Star cycle.’

  He paused to let that sink in and then the timbre of his voice dropped, roughened. ‘Refuse this gift, and your families will be slaves until the day they die. Your children will never be permitted to take a partner and any children they do have will belong to the people in whose homes they work. If they disobey or rebel, they will be offered to the holy Setatmeh in ritual. Neither education nor medicine will be theirs, for you show us by your refusal that their lives have no value. Your line will die. They will die.’

  The choice that was no choice at all.

  ‘Attend!’ Feather Atu bellowed. ‘Dog warriors, fall in.’ The four hundred dogs drilling across the yard sprinted into position. ‘When I give the order, ten slaves and ten dogs will fight. We want to see your skill, your aggression, and your footwork. We do not want to see death or crippling. We are here to assess you, not execute you.’

  They’d lose a score of dogs, probably, and a quarter or more of the slaves, regardless of the order against killing. But those who were left would swear oaths to the Singer and replenish his numbers. When they could be trusted, they’d be sent into peaceful, happy Chitenec to enforce the Singer’s laws. In the meantime, the Melody would march to Yalotlan and bring it beneath the song. And the cycle would begin again.

  It was the end of a very long day, filled with far too many demands on his time, and Pilos would have already been snoring if not for being wound so tight about … everything.

  ‘High Feather? Anything you need?’ Atu was a shadow against the night as he paused in the doorway. Pilos shook his head and beckoned him in and onto a stool, sloshed beer into a second cup and handed it over. Atu knocked it back and then groaned. ‘Thank you, Setatmeh,’ he breathed and Pilos snorted, sipped at his own cup and gestured for his subordinate to top up his own.

  ‘How long do you think we’ll have?’ he asked.

  Pilos rubbed the back of his neck. ‘It’s seven weeks, maybe eight, until the Wet begins to taper. Under normal circumstances, we’d set out for Xentiban a week or so after that. But these aren’t normal circumstances, so I think we’ll be moving in four weeks and fighting up Yalotlan’s hills and dying in mudslides a few weeks after that.’

  Only because it was Atu, and only because it was late and he was a little drunk, did he allow those words to pass his lips, tight and bitter.

  ‘The Singer’s will,’ Atu said quietly, and although there was no reprimand in his voice, Pilos sat up straighter.

  ‘Look at Quitoban,’ he said. ‘A flooded delta in the east, tidal marshes in the south, and the worst Wet in living memory. We won there; we’ll win in Yalotlan.’

  ‘And the Quitob make up the bulk of our dogs now,’ Atu added. ‘The older ones will be useful in assessing the ground for danger. And of course, we’ll be able to access Yaloh populations that have to
stay for the harvests. That will make things easier.’

  Pilos nodded; it had been the biggest difficulty they’d faced before the Wet, making significant progress in a society mostly comprising small villages. Even Xentiban had a few decent-sized cities that, once taken, had crippled any cohesive counter-attack. In contrast, the Yaloh had fled his advancing Melody and then returned to their villages and fields once they’d passed by. But harvest time would be different.

  ‘We can supplement our own travel rations,’ he confirmed as Atu suppressed a yawn. ‘Point taken, Feather. Get some rest. I want twenty good eagles overseeing the new slaves at dawn. We’re in for a tough war season and I want to know we’ve got replacements ready to go if we lose Feathers. Rotate any with promise into training and leadership roles with the hawks in the time we have left and get me a shortlist for review.’

  ‘As the High Feather commands,’ Atu said and then hesitated. ‘This is my favourite time, you know,’ he added and then blushed. ‘Forgive me.’

  Pilos raised his hand to still him. ‘No. Tell me,’ he said, intrigued.

  The Feather shifted, uncomfortable, and then said in a rush, ‘When they first swear, High Feather, whether reluctant or not. When the slaves first swear and we have this chance to show them …’

  ‘To show them how honour and discipline can bring peace to the spirit and joy to the heart,’ Pilos said softly. ‘How the loyalty of the pod, the Talon, the Melody becomes the new tribe, the new identity.’ Atu nodded, bright with the warmth of it. ‘Me too.’

  They stared at one another for a long second and then Pilos cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on his cup. ‘Get some rest,’ he said again.

  Atu touched belly and throat and inclined his head. ‘Under the song, High Feather,’ he said softly, and left. Pilos watched the door and then gusted a sigh. A good man, that Atu, he thought wistfully. A good, married man.

  The slaves had done well, with fewer than fifty refusing to fight. Those ones had been marked as failed and put back in a pit, to be offered to the holy Setatmeh in the river outside the fortress. They’d be given one by one in return for the gods’ blessing. Their fate would terrify them, the agony of waiting, and so the warriors incarcerated around them would be more likely to swear when their turn came. It was crude, but it was proven to be effective, too.

  The rest had fought, and some had died or been damaged beyond repair. The latter would be used in the kitchens or fields, or sent as scribes if they could no longer walk. A few had chosen it as a way to kill themselves, and Pilos admired their resolve even as he was disgusted they would abandon their families in such a way. The survivors were all his, blooded and sworn into the ranks of the Melody’s slave warriors and moved to the barracks of the Seventh Talon, where there was soap and water for washing, fresh clothes, fresh food, and clean sleeping mats. Small luxuries that would mean everything after so long beneath the ground, bathed in the sweat and shit and blood of others.

  A second army of flesh-merchants had emerged to take the names and descriptions of their families, the locations where they’d been taken captive and when, or their descriptions if they so far remained free. They’d be identified and their details entered next to the slave warriors’ in the central records. Wherever they ended up serving, their fates were tied together.

  Though some had probably not expected it to be true, Pilos hadn’t lied: their families would be kept safe where possible and, as long as they didn’t break any rules or attempt to flee or kill their owners, they’d be looked after. If they did rebel, they would of course be offered to the holy Setatmeh for their crimes. If their slave-warrior relative survived to become a dog, they would be told then of their family’s disloyalty and a year would be added to their service. By that time, most were more loyal to the Melody than to their kin anyway.

  Pilos drained half his cup of beer as another form appeared at his door. Citla. He beckoned her in, noting her pallor and the tremble in her hands. ‘From Councillor Yana,’ she said as she held out the bark-paper. ‘Confidential.’

  He eyed her and then took it. ‘Are you all right?’ She nodded, swaying a little, and then padded away. Confidential information could be sent through the song, but it was difficult, involving the Listener receiving the communication while chanting a particular melody as the information was dictated to them. It ensured that once the message was written and handed over, they remembered nothing of what they had heard.

  Pilos untied the message hurriedly.

  Honoured High Feather, Spear of the Singer and servant of our holy lord, greetings.

  In light of the information provided by your spies, the Singer has viewed the skies and read the histories and the prophecies. He has communed with the holy Setatmeh here in the heart of Empire and cast the bones and dice. He orders that the Yaloh are to be brought under the song immediately, as are the Tokob, whose deicide can no longer be ignored. He charged me with the honour of informing you, for which I am obliged.

  Upon conquest of the Tokob Sky City, he commands you to bring him examples of these so-called ejab, as many as you can find. If you must kill every Toko and Yalotl to get to them, then that is your order. The god-killers must be stopped.

  You are to march on the 210th day of the Great Star’s appearance at dawn.

  Pilos stared at the letter and the deadline for moving an entire army – through the Wet – to the border and war. It was even shorter than he’d expected. Twenty-five days. A laugh bubbled up in his chest and overspilt in a very undignified, slightly hysterical snort. He slapped his hand over his mouth and took a deep breath.

  Calm, Pilos. We knew this was coming and we’ve already begun preparing. All will be as the holy Setatmeh decree. There’s a war to win. Against two tribes. In the Wet.

  Another laugh threatened and he suppressed it; then he checked the timeline again. The two hundred and tenth day. Right.

  ‘Atu!’ he bellowed, and then scanned the rest of the letter.

  You will know better than I that the fever in Quitoban remains out of control. Despite my repeated requests, the order remains for quarantine and to let the illness burn itself out. Those Pechaqueh who have been able to flee to estates outside the major cities and towns have done so, and trade between Quitoban and Pechacan has ceased for now. Whichever Talon you have there will not be permitted to withdraw to aid you in the war.

  Pilos dropped the letter again. ‘Shit.’ The Fifth were in Quitoban, and the Fifth were good. Experienced and steady – the very reason they’d been sent to calm a panicking populace.

  ‘Where is— Atu!’ he bellowed again.

  I pray they remain safe from contagion, though if matters there get much worse, they are likely to be ordered to massacre anyone showing so much as a sweaty brow, and for what? Our shamans may have found a medicine, but they are not allowed to test their theories. No, the consensus is to lock them up and let them die. A pity and a waste.

  The Singer is much distracted these days, High Feather. I’m sure you understand. Disappointing him would not be good for your health.

  Under the song.

  Your friend, councillor and retired Feather, Yana

  Pilos puffed out his cheeks. That would explain the confidential nature of the letter then. Those were dangerous words no matter to who they were spoken. Yana was dancing with fire by even hinting that the approach in Quitoban was wrong. Again the old Feather was throwing his support behind Pilos instead of Enet. Were divisions in the council so great Yana was anticipating a coup, even all-out war? If it came to it, he’d take Yana’s support with gratitude, though he had no desire to squabble over a position at the Singer’s side. The holy lord would judge his service as he would – if Pilos was chosen to ascend with him, it would be because of his honour, not his political manoeuvring.

  He snorted, knowing it was a naive and dangerous stance, but one he found it hard to change. As a warrior and then High Feather, politics had never been something he’d had to concern himself with: he
was more used to being courted than courting others. It was different when he became Spear, with a voice that had real weight in council, but he’d always trusted his blunt honesty was enough to win him allies and reverse the way that Enet would poison the Singer’s heart against him every time he was away from the Singing City.

  I should have done more when I was there.

  Pilos blinked away the worry. It meant nothing when he had only twenty-five days to organise the Melody and get them ready to march.

  Not enough time. And yet the Singer’s command.

  ‘Atu!’

  TAYAN

  Southern Yalotlan

  190th day of the Great Star at morning

  Fifteen days they’d travelled north, through farmland into forest, and only in the last few had the slave guards begun to answer his endless questions, more out of frustration than anything else, it seemed. As a peace-weaver, Tayan could be charmingly persuasive; as a shaman he was relentless. He’d known they’d give in sooner or later.

  They were Chitenecah, supposedly the most loyal of the Pechaqueh subjects because they had been part of the Empire the longest. They had been born slaves, which didn’t sit quite right with everything Enet had told him, but Tayan had expected no less. Secrets and lies and half-truths were her armour, and she wore them well.

  Like the male estate slave in Enet’s house, these men had more freedom to act and speak than Tayan would have expected. Though still property, they were fiercely loyal to Enet, and within that framework of obedience and at the mercy of her whims and tempers, they had carved for themselves a life that was bearable. They bore weapons and wore finely woven, though undyed, maguey, as well as jewellery, to reflect Enet’s wealth and status rather than their own. Two were married, a third had children, and all were vehement in their love of the Empire. Enet trusted them, and their pride in that fact was conspicuous.

  She had told Tayan that when he returned he, too, would be enslaved, and he remembered the estate slave with his quiet competence and respectful familiarity, how the Great Octave trusted him and had even listened to his opinions on occasion. Tayan could picture himself alongside him, advising, scribing and researching. A far better fate than to become another of the empty-eyed, exhausted creatures toiling in the fields. He knew it was the song inviting him to choose the manner of his servitude, but once the seed was planted, it grew sturdy and fast.