Tayan sobbed. He hadn’t been able to tear his attention from the Singer until it was too late, until the friend of his heart was gone and he hadn’t even signed that he loved her.
Around him, the last few ejab that were still fighting were clubbed onto their knees and three Chorus warriors now held Elder Rix. They forced him onto the mats, hauling on the collar to cut off his breath, the easier to tie his hands behind him. It had been a good plan, the only plan they had, and it had failed. Everyone there knew what would happen next and as stillness fell in the room, the Tokob began muttering prayers.
Tayan took a deep breath and added his voice to theirs. He was shaman; he would call the ancestors to witness and beg Malel to take them to the spiral path to rebirth.
‘Holy lord, these insects are beneath you. Do not tax your strength on them. I will bring you fine gifts tomorrow, great Singer. Tomorrow is the appointed day. Tomorrow. Shut them up,’ Enet hissed and the warriors hit Tayan and the ejab some more. The prayers faltered, stuttered, stopped.
Death was coming, one way or another, and the shaman wanted nothing more than to delay its arrival for a few heartbeats more.
‘I know how this works,’ he blurted, too loud. ‘The flesh-traders took our names, homes, and families when we crossed into Pechacan. My husband was captured; he will have been sent to the Melody. He will work – as I will work – so that we may be free. His name is Lilla, he is a Fang warrior of the Sky City. He is tall and broad and he has a tattoo of—’
Enet waved a hand, though she seemed a little relieved. ‘Yes, yes. I remembered the husband you spoke of at such boring length the last time you were here, little peace-weaver, so I did keep an eye on the slave records as they came in. So far we have captured seven men named Lilla from Tokoban, and two from the Sky City’ – Tayan gasped – ‘but neither claimed you as kin when they swore their life and spirit to the Melody.’
Enet’s smile was as beautiful as a death rite. She took a small clay jar from a table and mixed the contents with a cup of water and drank it down. A tiny grimace twisted her lovely mouth. ‘No one claimed you, peace-weaver. Not a husband, not a friend, not a family member. But I promised you we would meet again, didn’t I? And now here you are. Mine, even if you were gifted me by a traitor.’
‘No,’ Tayan breathed. And then again, louder: ‘No. No, that’s not true. I don’t believe you. Lilla wouldn’t do that – he’d never abandon me, he wouldn’t. It’s a mistake. You’ve made a mistake.’
The song lurched crazily and drool ran from the Singer’s mouth. He jerked, as if Tayan’s shout had awoken him – or, as with some magics, the shock had jolted his spirit’s connection to his flesh. The Singer pressed a trembling hand to his chest. ‘I need one,’ he rumbled. ‘I need one now.’
‘Not today, holy lord, Xac my love. Tomorrow is the appointed day.’ There was a sliver of desperation in Enet’s voice, a hint of pleading. She was trying to regulate the Singer’s consumption of whatever medicine he was taking, but why? It was … He looked spirit-haunted.
Blood thumping in his head, Tayan eased himself to his feet and raised his bound palms in a gesture of peace. The rope connecting him to the other slaves tightened, forcing the next in line to half-stand, almost choking. Tayan ignored her. ‘You are sick, great Singer, I can see it. I have travelled many sticks to meet you.’ A warrior grabbed him; he ignored them.
‘If you would tell me of your illness, then I can cure it. I’m sure of it. I am a shaman and a skilled healer. I will cure your body, great Singer, and then you will fix the song.’
‘How dare you,’ Enet began, scrambling to her feet. ‘Chorus, take him to the offering pool. I will not have—’
‘You can fix me?’ the Singer asked, his voice childlike. Enet spun to face him, gaping.
‘I can, holy lord,’ Tayan promised, faint with adrenaline at a ruse that couldn’t possibly work.
‘I only feel well when I have them, you see,’ the Singer continued. ‘And I need them, all the time. More and more of them.’
‘More and more of what, Singer?’ Tayan asked gently, as though he was trying to tame a wild dog.
‘People. I need people.’
‘I am sure the Empire’s people love you,’ Tayan began; then he knelt as the Singer stood and shambled towards him. He reached the eja next to Tayan and fell to the mats in front of her. Tayan put his hand on the Singer’s clammy shoulder and Enet choked on outrage. The warrior behind him grabbed a fistful of his hair and pressed something sharp to the side of his neck.
The Singer blinked at Tayan. ‘I need them all the time,’ he repeated, and then he pulled a beautiful, pale-bladed knife from his belt and rammed it into the ejab torso, out and back in, again and again, his arm pumping up and down with sickening regularity. The warrior behind him fell back and Tayan scrambled away as far as the rope would let him. The song spun out of control, growing in power until it seemed the individual stones of the pyramid were in danger of vibrating apart. With the song came emotions, pouring through them all like a storm: need and desire and lust combining until Tayan shook with the force of it, until he wanted nothing more than to feel Enet or the Singer or both of them writhing beneath him.
There was blood everywhere and the Singer shoved his face into the gushing red font. His jaw moved, but he wasn’t speaking. He was chewing his way into the woman’s belly, enlarging the knife wounds, his sharp nails digging through cotton and flesh and muscle to soft, stinking innards, hot and pulsing. His skin burst with golden light.
Gasping with need, fists clenched against it, Tayan shuffled back towards him as the other ejab shuddered and hunched in place, overwhelmed with sensation and distant horror. The shaman groaned and then swallowed hard and knelt at the Singer’s side in the blood, willing himself not to vomit at the warm sticky stench of it all, at the sight of the slobbering, chewing monstrosity. Willing himself not to lean forward and bury his face as the Singer was doing.
Tayan put his hands on the man’s back, the shock of contact sending a thrill throbbing into his belly and balls that nearly undid him. The Singer sat back on his heels, red from nose to waist, panting.
‘I can fix this,’ Tayan lied. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t need … people? Because you have all this power, don’t you, lord, but in this you are powerless. You are in its grip. I can break that grip. I will do anything for you.’ If you will take me in your arms. He clenched his jaw, trapping the words behind his teeth.
The Singer’s eyes were a strange, light amber colour and Tayan wanted to drown in them. He was foul and terrifying and quite, quite insane, and in the hurricane of desires moving through the room, Tayan put his hand on the Singer’s cheek, leant in and kissed his bloody mouth.
‘Yes,’ the Singer whispered against his lips. ‘Yes, I want that. I want – I need – my power back.’ He put his hand in the neck of Tayan’s tunic and twisted. ‘Everyone out.’
The warrior cut the rope attaching Tayan to the rest of the prisoners and dragged them out. Enet spoke over the thud of hurrying feet. ‘He lies, holy lord. He is a Tokob shaman. Tokob, great Singer. A god-killer.’
Tayan inhaled saliva and coughed, pulling away from the Singer’s suddenly tightening grip. ‘Not I, holy lord,’ he said quickly. ‘I am a shaman; I have never killed a holy Setat.’
Enet appeared in his periphery, vicious with triumph. ‘No, you just tortured one instead. We know the reports. We know exactly who you are.’
‘No! It was already captive. I did nothing to hurt it. I spoke to it, learnt from it and learnt about it—’ He cut himself off. ‘I didn’t hurt it,’ he repeated. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘The Tokob kill our gods!’ Enet repeated with desperate spite. ‘You cannot trust him.’
‘Why don’t you want me to help the Singer?’ Tayan’s voice was low, and he didn’t dare look at either of them, but even within his madness and depravity, the Singer heard. And understood. For good or ill, Tayan had cast the bones and now he ha
d no choice other than to live out the fate they decreed. Perhaps he really could save the man. He didn’t know. He didn’t think Enet knew.
‘Your holy kin, great Singer,’ Enet hissed, not responding to his question but seeking to deflect it. ‘This man tortured one of your kin. Who is to say he will not torture you?’
It wasn’t clear whether the Singer had heard that, but Tayan had. He looked up sharply as something fell into place. ‘Kin? How can the holy Setatmeh be kin?’
‘Have you still not worked it out, little peace-weaver?’ Enet demanded, suddenly sure of herself again. She knelt on the Singer’s other side and caressed his shoulder. ‘You want to know why the holy Setatmeh are gods. You should be asking who they were before they became gods. Before they ascended.’
She laughed at the expression on his face. ‘Now do you see who it is you’ve just promised to cure?’
XESSA
High Feather’s estate, Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs
83rd day of the grand absence of the Great Star
The prison on Pilos’s estate was small and Xessa was its only inhabitant. She didn’t know why. She hadn’t understood anything after their plan to kill the Singer had failed. All she knew was that she’d left and the others hadn’t.
Toxte. Tayan. Lilla. Lutek. Tiamoko. Tika.
Her fathers, Kime and Otek.
Her dog, Ossa.
Toxte. Toxte. Toxte.
The names were a litany of pain, each one a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding. For most of them, she had no way of knowing if they were dead or slaves. She could promise them vengeance, but she already knew she couldn’t keep that promise. She was a prisoner – a thing. If nothing else, the brands on her shoulders, which had cut their way through the tattoos there, were reminder enough.
And Ilandeh! Xessa ground her teeth together and thought of all the ways she’d hurt the woman when next they met. That was one promise she was making, because it didn’t bind the spirits of the dead to the flesh world until it was fulfilled. She’d kill Ilandeh, slowly and inventively. For Toxte, vanished in the dawn and the battle. For Tayan and Lilla, captives. For the betrayal of the Sky City and the deaths of thousands. Ilandeh was responsible for it all and Ilandeh would pay in ways she couldn’t even imagine. Ways Xessa couldn’t yet imagine.
The fantasy was all that kept her going through the days of her incarceration. The slaves or servants or whatever they were who brought her food and took away her waste had quickly learnt to put their hands over their mouths when they spoke. Only the slanting light through the cracks in the heavy wood door told the passage of days. She’d spent the first three lying still, refusing food and waiting for her dead to come and prise her loose from her skin. She picked at the threads stitching her spirit to her flesh, seeking death, drumming the death rite with her hands on the packed dirt floor. She didn’t die.
On the fourth she woke crying, reaching for the soft warmth of Ossa and not finding him. They’d tied him like a turkey for slaughter and that’s probably what had happened; she didn’t know. She hadn’t seen a single dog since the city fell and his absence was a missing limb. Half her heart. In the deep, animal corner of Xessa’s spirit, it hurt more than losing her home, her people, or her liberty.
On the fifth day she woke from a dream of Toxte. He was angry with her and she couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear to think of his spirit on the spiral path raging at her. She gave in to him and to living and began to eat, to move around the small empty room where she was kept, practising her fighting forms until her skin beaded with sweat and she stank. More days passed and she became used to her own smell and that of the pail where she pissed and shitted.
Xessa whistled and clicked commands and orders, seeing how much it annoyed the guards and slaves who passed the prison. When they told her to stop, she pretended she couldn’t understand them, gesturing at her ears and shrugging. Their frustration was delicious – and dangerous. She had the broken nose to prove it. She drummed more death rhythms on the wall to farewell those who had returned to Malel and she danced the sacred steps in the confined space.
Eventually, she decided to live – not just gave in to it. Chose it. No one would take Xessa’s spirit but the goddess and not even she could break it. Not now, not ever.
The door opened in the middle of the eleventh day when Xessa was lying on the dirt floor, staring up at the dust dancing in the cracks of sunlight. The door never opened in the middle of the day and so she scrambled to her feet, the sudden movement after so much stillness sending a rush of blood to her head. She blinked and backed away, falling into a fighting crouch.
The man in charge of the estate, whose name she thought was Lock, entered. He was armed but held his hands away from his weapons.
‘You are to be bathed and dressed in fresh clothes. High Feather Pilos wishes to see you. You will not be harmed if you comply. Do you understand me?’
She debated the wisdom of pretending she didn’t, then shrugged and nodded.
‘Can you write?’ Lock asked. Another nod. ‘Good.’
Xessa told him he was a monkey’s mangy, shitting arse and infested with maggots and he watched her hands with blank incomprehension. ‘Finished?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. Xessa followed almost at a run and was through the door before she noticed the four warriors guarding it and him. Two reached out and slowed her rush as the other pair slid behind, boxing her in.
The shove in the back was part of the universal language and she stalked between her captors, noting their wrinkled noses at her stench. Their discomfort made her feel disproportionately better, but that lasted only until she glanced down to her right and Ossa wasn’t there.
Xessa balked at the entrance to a small building set in the gardens. She could smell the cold dankness of water. Lock faced her. ‘You go in and wash,’ he said, miming. He held his nose and pointed at her.
She shook her head. ‘Weapon. For Drowned,’ she signed. Lock shrugged. She made stabbing motions and the warriors guarding her tensed. She pointed at the water and repeated the gesture.
Lock scowled. ‘There are no holy Setatmeh in the bath. Not that we’d give you a weapon if there were. You are not in danger.’ Xessa shook her head again; there was no way she was going in there unarmed. ‘It’s safe,’ he added, but she backed up against the warriors, turned and tried to push her way free.
They grabbed her by the arms and wrestled her through the low door. The room was small and cool, the pool malevolent in its centre and surrounded by benches holding cloths and soap. Lock reached the edge, grabbed Xessa beneath her arm as the others released her and twisted his hips and somehow she was sailing upside down through the air. She landed arse-first in the water hard enough to sink to the bottom.
Bright, all-consuming terror filled her and Xessa came up out of the pool faster than a jaguar’s pounce and flailed for the edge, screaming. One of the warriors began to laugh and Lock was saying something but she couldn’t see through the mass of wet hair. She reached the edge and pulled herself up; the laughing warrior shoved her back with his foot and she sank her teeth into his calf until he wrenched away, kicking. And then Lock was in the water with her, wrestling her against his chest, pinning her there with her arms trapped against him. In the water.
In the water.
Xessa threw up on his shoulder and he grimaced, bent his knees and brought them both down until they were neck-deep to wash it off. She was sobbing, rigid with a fear stronger than any she’d ever felt. They were going to hold her here until a Drowned came and ate her. She had no weapon. She had no weapon.
Lock’s chest rumbled as he spoke to her. He held her still, one hand caressing the back of her head, arms tight to hold her but the rest of him relaxed as if there was nothing to be scared of. Xessa counted his heartbeats against her cheek, slow and strong, not racing with fear. When she reached thirty and nothing had torn her apart she leant back slightly.
Lock looked down at her, let go of her skull and raised a
palmful of water to his mouth. He sipped and pulled a face. ‘Salt. Do you understand? Salt water.’
She licked the water from her upper lip to confirm that he spoke the truth. The Drowned thrived in fresh water but sickened in any that was poisoned with salt or rot or wood ashes. There could be no Drowned in this pool, or at least not one that could survive for long.
Xessa shuddered, head to toe, but she nodded and Lock let her go and hoisted himself out of the pool. She stood in the water, alone and small and, despite his words, still afraid. Shaking.
‘Bathe and put on those clothes there. Be fast and do not try to escape. There is no way out. And there is nothing to fear if you obey.’ He picked up a spare kilt from a shelf and gestured to the warriors to leave the bathhouse. He changed into the dry kilt and then squeezed water from his tunic and hair. He wandered out.
How readily he’d tried to soothe her, though he wore the feather of a full-blood Pecha that made her his enemy and killer of his gods. She didn’t understand, but she pulled herself out of the bath, shuddering, and checked the room – no other exits, nothing lurking in the shadows or beneath the benches. The clothes he’d indicated were cut in the Pecha style but plain, woven from undyed maguey. Slave clothes.
Xessa ripped off her leggings and shirt and knelt, dipping a cloth into the water and scrubbing her skin. Too many memories – Ossa dragging her away from the bank, venom in them both; Kime in the Swift Water surrounded by Drowned, screaming, his fingers bitten off; Toxte in the womb, fixing the Drowned’s leg; Tayan, calling it a ‘holy Setat’.
As the dirt and old sweat was scrubbed away, she revealed the dark, jagged, unlovely lines on her flesh. Slave brands and Drowned scars and knife scars, the marks of both – of all – her enemies. Eternal reminders imprinted into her flesh that she was not safe and she was not loved. But tied around her neck, filthy and faded, was her marriage cord.
There was a small jug next to the soap and she used it to wash her hair, hissing as she dragged the wooden comb through tangles of blood and dust and sweat and grime.
The Stone Knife Page 51
