Approach to the Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs
152nd day of the Great Star at morning
‘There it is.’ Beyt had halted at the top of a small, flat rise amid muddy fields. The rain out here, without the cover of the canopy, was relentless, and all of them were muddy to the knees, tunics and kilts and hair plastered to their skins. Tayan’s paint had long since washed off and he’d decided not to bother reapplying it until they were dry and able to meet with someone who would respect it.
He squinted, but the Singing City was too far away for him to make out in any detail. One thing he could see, far too close, was the wide, lazy curl of a river below them. He let out an involuntary yelp and leapt backwards from the lip of the hill, Betsu following. The four warriors who always marched at their backs caught them roughly, pinning their arms.
‘We wear the feathers, the peace feathers!’ Tayan shouted.
Beyt was frowning, but it melted into a delighted laugh. She shook her head, clapping. ‘You poor, misguided fools. Another reason why you’d be better off under the song. Bring them.’ She vanished down the other side of the hill and her warriors wrestled Tayan and Betsu forward. Helpless and sliding in the mud, Tayan strained to pull himself free. If this had all been some elaborate joke, some drawn-out murder, he would make them earn their laughter.
The river twisted around the base of the hill, a monstrous, sluggish, lethal snake of brown water, straining its banks with runoff from the Wet. Spanning it was a bridge, wooden and as wide as the limestone road. It wasn’t strung high between the trees like at home, only to be used as a last resort. Instead, it sat solid and stable and only an arm’s length above the water.
Betsu was shouting curses, wrenching at the grips of the men holding her, her muscles bulging. Beyt sent a third warrior back to help and he pulled her into a headlock while the other two dragged her arms up behind her back. She let out a strangled screech of pain. Beyt and the pair of warriors flanking her walked onto the bridge without hesitation.
‘Holy Setatmeh, gods of rivers and lakes, of the rain and the crops, revered spirits, we worship at your feet,’ Beyt said. ‘Know that you live within the song with us, that you live in our hearts with the song, and that the song lives within us all. If it be your will, let us pass.’
Sweat blinded Tayan but he blinked desperately as he was dragged onto the bridge, the planks loud under his scuffling sandals. He squinted right and then left, looking for the mottled skin, the dead black eyes, the reaching hands. He’d only ever seen one up close, and he had the scars from mid-thigh to ankle and a dead eja on his conscience to prove it. His heart was pounding hard enough to burst.
And then they were over, thumping down into waterlogged soil, the river behind them. They were dragged a little further and then released, and Tayan slumped to his knees, barely resisting the urge to embrace the ground and kiss it.
When he looked up, Beyt had her hands on her hips. ‘You’re learning many lessons of the Empire’s greatness on this journey, aren’t you?’ she asked, the mocking edge to her voice sharper than obsidian. ‘You see how proper reverence, proper understanding, shows your childish fears for what they are?’
Humiliation flashed through Tayan, followed by the first unwilling stirrings of awe. The song was right: the Pechaqueh were truly blessed, truly special. They had even tamed the Drowned. But then he saw it, a lucky break in the clouds casting just enough brightness onto the woman’s face. Sweat at her hairline and glistening in the lines on her palm as she wiped casually at her upper lip. She’d been afraid. Terrified. Only bravado was giving strength to her voice now, when in truth crossing that bridge had been as hard for her as it had for them. Tayan deliberately crushed his awe and replaced it with contempt.
‘Admitting fear makes a person stronger than pretending they don’t feel it at all,’ he said and forced himself to his feet. ‘The Drowned are an abomination sent by the lords of the Underworld. They—’
‘You should stop talking before we take you back and throw you in,’ Beyt said, and the edge in her voice had hardened. She jerked her head and the seven warriors spread out around them again. The woman took the lead, striding along the road towards the city.
‘That was well said,’ Betsu murmured as they followed her. The nod of respect was unexpected, but it poured strength and courage into Tayan. He nodded back and set his sights on the Singing City, straining to make out the details and wondering what other tests and horrors lay in wait.
There were horrors, but they were far more mundane – and so all the worse for it. The peace-weavers had become uneasily used to the presence of slaves. On the occasions they’d stopped in a city or village during the trek, slaves had been everywhere, obvious in their undyed maguey and bare of jewellery, charms and feathers. Many still bore tattoos, but without the honour that would have once accompanied them.
Here, too, around the scattered dwellings and in the vast fields lining either side of the road, were slaves. And worse. Tayan hadn’t thought there could be anything below the class of slave. He had been wrong. As they walked towards the most opulent, populous city he had ever seen, the shaman had to force himself not to stare. Starving, filthy, naked beggars, calling out in a dozen accents, the tattoos of their tribes barely visible beneath the grime. Men and women, even children, offering their flesh in return for food. Some had made badly woven baskets or crude pots that hadn’t even been fired, their eyes dull with hopelessness.
‘Why?’ Tayan asked, but his voice broke and he had to repeat it. ‘Why are they here?’
Beyt glanced around as if only just noticing them. ‘The Singing City is the centre of the world and the source of the song. It attracts both the highest and the lowest of society. These have probably displeased their owners and been cast out, or didn’t sell in the flesh markets. Ignore them; the Choosers chip away at their number each new moon.’ She paused in thought. ‘And let me know if one of them touches you,’ she added eventually. ‘It is death for them to touch a free, and while I don’t quite understand your status here in the Empire, I won’t be responsible for your honour being fouled by them.’
‘There would be no dishonour,’ Tayan said quietly, but Beyt had already turned her back and increased her pace. She was as eager to reach the Singing City as Tayan was suddenly reluctant.
‘No wall,’ Betsu murmured. ‘Your Sky City has a wall to protect it from Drowned and to deter cats. This place has no wall. They don’t count either of those as a threat.’
She was right. More and more buildings began springing up to either side of the road, like mushrooms growing in cool shade. There was no clear entrance into the city; rather, it grew around the road – and grew big. Each building was easily the size of the council house back home, surrounded by high stone walls and tree-filled gardens.
‘These have walls,’ Tayan pointed out.
Betsu snorted. ‘That’s because rich Pechaqueh live here and they don’t want their fine senses ruined by having to see or smell these poor broken creatures.’ She gestured at the beggars. ‘Still, it would make taking this city more difficult. Every single estate becomes its own defensive position, and while that means those inside are isolated, it also means scaling walls and knocking down gates every single time. It would slow down any offensive, break it up into hundreds of individual skirmishes. Each estate would fall, but it would take time, and those surrounding it could launch attacks of their own, with multiple places to retreat to.’ Her footsteps slowed. ‘If they have a network of tunnels running between these estates, they could reinforce when necessary, move non-fighters, replenish supplies …’
Tayan let her mutter away to herself. Her warrior instincts had changed from dismissive to intrigued. It would be vital information to take back to the tribes, and he didn’t want to interrupt her as she analysed their surroundings. They might not get another chance to see the city from this angle.
Not that we’re going to need to know the defensive capabilities of the Singing City anyway, he reminded himself, but the words were weak. He shook himself; they were here to negotiate a lasting peace. He brushed at the turkey feathers again, the action instinctive after so many weeks’ travel.
Beyt and the warriors in front turned off the road and padded along a packed dirt track between two tall stone walls. They stopped in front of a thick gate set into the stone and Beyt knocked the butt of her spear against it.
‘Wait, where are we?’ Tayan asked in some alarm. He had expected to stay in the traders’ quarter, if there was such a thing, where rooms could be hired by the night or the week.
‘Spear of the City Enet lives here,’ Beyt said impatiently. ‘I’d brush some of the mud off your sandals if I were you.’
Twelve days they had travelled together, and not once had Beyt alluded to the fact she would bring them directly to someone of power. The idea was so absurd it hadn’t even occurred to them to ask. Tayan exchanged a horrified look with Betsu; they were filthy and he wore no paint. The gate swung open.