PILOS

High Feather’s estate, Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs

162nd day of the Great Star at morning

Pilos’s eyes opened and he stared into the blackness above his bed. It was hours before dawn, but the guard hadn’t passed his door. At home, at the fortress, on campaign, or while travelling, every six hundred heartbeats a guard would patrol past him, as regular as sunrise. The lack of footsteps woke him as surely as if someone had screeched an alarm.

Pilos slid out of bed and reached for his salt-cotton, slung it over his head, and then took his club from its place between the bed and the door. He slipped a knife into the waistband of his loincloth and pressed himself to the cool plaster wall. Silence. A long silence. And then the very softest scuff of sandal on stone. Pilos flexed his fingers on the handle of his club and waited.

The door opened with a slight creak and Pilos let them come in. Three? They should have brought more.

He was standing behind the door and, when the three figures had entered, he barged it with his shoulder and slammed it in the faces of any others who might still be outside. The assassins jumped and spun to face him, but Pilos’s club had already crushed the skull of the man closest. He pushed the falling corpse into the arms of the second.

The third leapt sideways, avoiding the scuffle, and then lunged with a short spear. Pilos parried it diagonally downwards with the club and let out a bellowing war cry that would alert any of his household still alive. She pulled the spear back and jabbed again; again Pilos batted it away, but he was a step further from the wall now and the second man scrambled free of the corpse and advanced on his other side. If one of them could get at his back, out of his eyeline, it was over.

Pilos drew the knife with his free hand; the man hesitated, but then came on. He, too, carried a short spear. Good for them, bad for Pilos.

The woman thrust high and the man low. Pilos blocked the stab to his head with the club and tried to bat the second away with his knife; not fast enough. The spear tip sank in just above his right knee and then tore out through the side of his leg. Hot blood pumped and the limb trembled. He roared as pulsing, searing pain shuddered in sick waves up into his groin.

Pilos threw the knife. The blade lodged high in the man’s chest and he let go of his spear to clutch at it. Pilos caught the falling weapon in his free hand and smacked it into the woman’s arm, battered her spear down with the club and then smashed it into her sternum. It was an awkward move, a jab more than anything, but the club’s head was a smooth polished ball of granite and it had all of Pilos’s bodyweight behind it.

The woman stumbled backwards, fighting for air, giving Pilos the space he needed. He reversed the spear in his off hand and sliced it through the man’s groin and belly.

The door slammed open and Elaq staggered in, bleeding heavily, three house guards behind him. Pilos fell back against the wall. ‘Take them alive,’ he gasped, the pain beginning to work its way past his barriers. ‘I want to know who ordered this before I peel their skin from their bones.’

‘High Feather, are you sure?’ Elaq fretted as dawn bathed their faces with pink and gold. A glare was enough to prevent further protest.

Pilos rubbed grit from his eyes and hissed between his teeth as the stitches above his knee tugged against the raw flesh. The man had died early from his wounds, but birds had begun to sing the sun’s arrival before the woman finally broke. Pilos had been deeply unsurprised by her revelation.

‘It is vital that I attend the council this morning, and not only to say farewell to the Singer. I have finally gathered enough support in the council to be given leave to raise my proposal – which is likely why the attack came last night.’

‘But why would she think it a bad idea?’

Pilos shrugged and then yawned. ‘Who knows what goes on in her head? This way, she’ll be off balance at my appearance – at my survival – and might make her opinion known when the proposal itself is put to council. Now, are you well enough to act as escort?’

Elaq sucked in an outraged breath and Pilos winked before he could expel it along with a protest. The retired eagle had taken a javelin in the shoulder and a cut across his forearm in the fighting, he and the other guards dispatching half a dozen more assassins who’d fought a holding action to give the trio time to reach Pilos. He made no complaint about either wound.

‘And during the council meeting?’ Elaq continued, noting Pilos’s hiss of pain as he flexed his leg again. ‘With everything we now know …’

‘If I am not safe in the very presence of the Singer himself, I’m not safe anywhere.’ He ignored the supreme irony of that statement: the Singer could order him killed and the words wouldn’t have time to stop echoing before the deed was carried out. Still, not even the councillors or Xac’s favourites were stupid enough to attempt an assassination in the source itself.

‘Then you’ll have a guard of three plus myself on the way to the pyramid.’

Pilos nodded, knowing that Elaq wouldn’t be swayed from this and secretly glad for it. The eagle closed the curtains to his litter in sombre rebuttal of the morning.

The doors to the compound creaked open and the sounds of early morning rushed in; turkeys and dogs and children all chasing each other through the streets, the first vendors hawking their wares even though dawn had barely kissed the sky. The stands of palm and bamboo growing on every corner rustled as they passed.

Pilos set his eye to a gap in the curtains, watching for further attacks, his club in his lap and knives in his belt.

‘Spear of the Singer Pilos, High Feather of the Melody, requests entrance to this council.’

As expected, half a dozen heads whipped around to look, and Pilos took careful note of which ones they were. Not only that, but the translucent hanging hiding the Singer’s cronies visibly rippled and an urgent whispered conversation began behind its screen. The Singer wasn’t here yet, and Pilos could guess who sat in splendour back there and suddenly had so much to say.

He didn’t so much as blink as he lowered himself to his knees on the cushion at the back of the council, though the fierce pull of his wound brought a surge of nausea to his throat. He pressed his forehead to the ground and then sat back on his heels, breathing slowly.

‘Our great Singer will not be in attendance today,’ came a low, melodious voice from behind the hanging. Enet’s head, complete with the Great Octave’s enormous and elaborate headdress perched precariously atop it, appeared around its edge and deliberately she drew the curtain back, then settled onto her heels again. Her snakelike eyes bored into Pilos’s and he stared back without emotion.

‘The holy lord leaves the day’s matters to his council and his … closest advisers.’ There was little doubt she meant herself and the others of the Singer’s favourites clustered behind her. They all wore identical, sanctimonious smiles. Pilos breathed.

‘Are you quite well, Spear?’ Enet said suddenly with such fake solicitude that his mouth crimped as though he’d eaten something bitter. Again, all eyes turned to him.

‘Quite well, Great Octave,’ Pilos said casually. ‘I had a matter to place before the Singer. I will petition to see him later, in private, if it is his will.’ Enet’s eyes narrowed in calculation and Pilos allowed a small smile to touch his face. ‘I have had … interesting discussions recently. There is something on which I would like the Singer’s wisdom.’

‘If the holy lord has left today’s business to his council, then there is no reason why you cannot share this information with us,’ Councillor Yana said, and Pilos inclined his head at the old warrior. Yana could smell danger from a stick away and again he was allying himself with the High Feather, this time openly against Enet. Pilos’s respect for him grew.

The pain yammered for him to denounce her, to reveal to the entire council what she’d done, the words that had spilt from her assassin’s own mouth to condemn her. Pilos breathed and was silent, and Yana’s face showed his understanding.

‘Later perhaps, then. To the first scheduled matter: there has been an outbreak of disease in Quitoban,’ the old warrior said, changing the subject smoothly. ‘Reports of at least two hundred farming Quitob dead, with double that number in the towns struck down so far. Some Pechaqueh have been caught up in it, Setatmeh protect them, and are secluding themselves on their estates. The shamans are working hard but it is spreading.’

‘There will be food shortages in the Singing City without their harvest,’ a councillor piped up, sounding panicked. ‘Prices will increase, looting and banditry—’

‘Indeed, but the sick Quitob?’ Yana asked. ‘How can we help them?’

Pilos admired the old man’s tenacity, but he was speaking to the wrong people if he wanted to help the sick. Enet and the Singer’s familiars had no interest in spending jade to save the lives of slaves, even when those slaves provided the food and goods that would see them through the year.

‘Quarantine the district and let the illness burn itself out,’ Enet said, waving a hand and almost dislodging her headdress. ‘When the sickness has passed, send some of the new Yaloh slaves there to bring in the crops. I want a list of names of Pechaqueh in Quitoban. Spear, we will require dog warriors to escort them out of danger. Next.’ And as easily as that, who knew how many slaves, who had come under the song only because of the promises of safety, security, and glory, were condemned to death.

She hadn’t even asked his permission. Pilos breathed.

‘The holy lord, great Singer Xac, 174th Singer since the founding of Pechacan, graces this council with his presence.’

Chorus Leader Nara’s voice boomed through the source and stilled the muttering of the councillors. A choir of honey-voiced children entered, singing the song of Xac’s accomplishments in the eleven years he had ruled so far. Six Chorus followed, their spears held horizontally across their bodies. Then Nara. Pilos saw the Singer’s shadow on the wall before pressing his forehead to the mat.

‘Draw the curtain,’ Nara said, his voice imperious, a tone he would never take with any of the councillors, let alone the Great Octave, under any other circumstances. But this was the Singer, and to look upon him was forbidden. Pilos knew when the Singer entered: the walls of the source almost seemed to bulge and flex to accommodate him. The song’s intensity strengthened within the blood, like taking a draught of honeypot on an empty stomach.

Pilos’s leg throbbed its complaint; he ignored it, though a glance told him the bandage was staining red. But the Singer was here. Thank you, holy Setatmeh, for speeding Elaq’s words to the Singer’s ears.

‘Speak, High Feather,’ the Singer said without preamble and his voice was musical, throbbing with power and magic. The council sat up, nervous, uncomfortable. Several exchanged anxious looks and Pilos wasted a second savouring the furious worry that must be eating at Enet’s perfect features and blackened heart. She’d come to sit on their side of the hanging now, while the Singer’s favourites retreated to the far wall.

‘Thank you, holy lord, for the honour,’ Pilos said and bowed his head briefly. ‘The Melody is in need of new warriors. While we have many new slaves, it will take time for them to be trusted to fight in lands they once counted theirs. Not even the Xentib, four sun-years under the song, are reliable enough to send to Yalotlan once the rains stop. To be so close to their tribal lands could prove too much. In addition, since returning to the Singing City I have seen the aftermath of the most recent purge. I have seen hundreds more people begging. As the wisdom of our forebears forbids slavery of full-blood Pechaqueh, these unfortunates clutter our plazas and bring disease and ugliness to our streets. They breed faster than the Choosers can offer them to the holy Setatmeh. And so my proposal, great Singer, which I submit to your wisdom, is that the disinherited are drafted into the Melody as indentured warriors and engineers, pyramid-builders, weapons-makers, cooks. They have had everything taken from them and now they turn our beautiful city into an eyesore. I propose that they redeem themselves and earn their freedom and their wealth back through war and expansion of the Empire in your name.’

‘You would name them eagles?’ Yana asked with a tinge of distaste.

‘Absolutely not. They have lost their honour; I will not see them tarnish the honour of eagles. I propose a new caste of hawks. With a similar system to that which we operate for the slave and dog warriors, we could ensure a steady flow of new blood into the Melody, a reduction in the number of beggars and instances of disease in the Singing City and our other cities – the Great Octave has told us of the outbreak in Quitoban, for instance – and a way for the disgraced to continue to serve the Empire and glory. When each had paid off their debt and shame in years of service, they could farm the new stretches of Empire they themselves helped to conquer, with half of their crops tithed to Pechacan, as is usual. Their honour will be won by their own hands, some wealth and status within society regained. All at no cost to the Empire other than that expended in housing, feeding, and training them. Still a small sum for guaranteed flesh to hurl at our enemies.’

There were murmurs from the council now, a few scoffing but many, those he had spoken with over the previous weeks, hushed and approving. Yana dipped his head in a tiny nod, satisfied. Enet remained motionless, offering no opinion either way. She would do as the Singer wished – and right now she had no idea what the Singer’s thoughts were. She couldn’t afford to jump the wrong way and incur his ire.

Jump, you bitch, Pilos willed her. Jump and condemn yourself.

He pressed a finger to the bandaging hidden by his kilt and let the flare of pain clear his thoughts. ‘As they are, the disgraced do nothing but stink up our cities and die in its corners. They have no purpose and they have no honour.’ He took a deep breath. ‘They shame us.’

Enet’s face hardened. ‘You speak of shaming Pechaqueh?’ she screeched, one painted fingernail aiming between his eyes. She gripped the hanging as she rose. ‘You who cannot even subdue—’

But the rest of the council had fallen on their faces as the material tore and exposed the Singer to public view. Pilos, too, dropped forward in obeisance as Enet flushed, realising the enormity of her error. He glanced up for a brief instant – like a lightning strike in the dark. Her headdress had slid over one eye and she shoved at it, mouth open. She was standing while the Singer sat, she had exposed him to the council, she had raised her voice in his presence, threatening the very song. Any one meant death, should he wish it.

The Chorus rushed from their stations about the walls, casting aside their spears and fumbling with the cotton, tying it ragged and crooked to the hooks above and once more screening the holy lord from unworthy eyes.

‘Leave,’ the Singer rumbled and the council began to rise in shocked silence. ‘Enet. Leave.’

Pilos felt an uncharacteristic surge of triumph and pushed it away, concentrated on keeping his face averted until the hanging was secure and the council had settled once more. He’d seen enough, anyway. Enet stood in sodden silence, the jade and onyx and feathers of her headdress – feathers like Pilos’s own and denoting high military position – a deliberate fucking insult – nodding and bobbing as she resettled it on her head with awkward, wooden fingers before stumbling out into the gardens, her back rigid with fury and shame.

‘Your proposal is accepted.’ The Singer’s voice sparked with magic and the song flowed into something dark and majestic that reminded Pilos – reminded the whole Empire of Songs – just who and what their holy lord was. He swallowed and concentrated on the Singer’s words.

‘Victory is all and glory is our purpose. Round up the destitute and make of them what you can. Those who cannot fight can carry supplies and make weapons, cook meals and be offered to the holy Setatmeh to ensure success. Find a use for as many as possible, but the rest take their chances with the cats and snakes and Choosers – they are the visible face of betrayal and it does not do for people to forget what happens if they break our laws. My laws.’ The council bowed again.

‘With grace and humble thanks, great Singer,’ Pilos said. ‘I will leave the Singing City for the Melody’s fortress tomorrow. With your permission, I will order a hundred warriors to begin the process of selection in my absence. They will be sent to the fortress in batches, where their training will be fierce and fast through the Wet.’

‘Do it. This council is over.’

‘Under the song, holy lord,’ they chanted, prostrating until he had left. Whispers surged up in a storm as soon as he had disappeared deeper into the source, his favourites following and several turning to stare over their shoulders with cold eyes. Those ones were Enet’s, he guessed, even as they pretended to be Xac’s.

Pilos waited until most of the council had exited before forcing himself to his feet with a muttered oath. The muscle was throbbing, the leg shaking as the blood flowed back into his feet and bloomed through the bandage. Yana was waiting for him and pointed – there was a fresh red stain on Pilos’s kilt. ‘Cut yourself shaving?’ he asked with a grin.

Pilos clapped him on the back. ‘Little girls playing with knives,’ he said.

‘Ah. I suspected as much. You have my support, High Feather, both against the Yaloh and here in the Singing City.’

‘Still taking risks, eagle?’

Yana’s hand went to the feather plaited into his greying hair. ‘Some habits are hard to break. You be careful. There’re more things with claws in this city than cats.’

‘I know it, councillor, and, truth be told, I am keen to be away,’ Pilos said. ‘But your support means much. Under the song.’