PILOS

Melody fortress, the dead plains, Tlalotlan, Empire of Songs

184th day of the Great Star at morning

Pilos, High Feather of the Melody and Spear of the Singer, came out of the song and slumped, breathing harshly. The Melody’s Listener, Citla, was kneeling opposite, holding Pilos’s hands in her own, tight and comforting. She hadn’t been in there with him, but someone had noticed him being pulled under and sent for her. Once he was settled back in his body, he let go and gratitude flickered through him. Citla smiled and waited, patient. There would be messages to send in reply, she knew.

Pilos had come out of the song alone many times, but it was harder and far more dangerous. Even those experienced in such communication could be lost, their minds unable to find their bodies and their spirits stretching ever longer between the two until they snapped. Madness and death always followed. Always.

Feather Ekon was kneeling behind the Listener and he bowed as soon as Pilos straightened his spine and nodded. ‘Feather Atu has been sent for,’ he said. ‘Is there anything you need until then?’

There was a cup of water next to Pilos and he gulped it down. ‘There will be a full report coming from Whisper Ilandeh via a Listener in the Neck,’ he rasped. Citla nodded. ‘The enemy are destroying pyramids, freeing slaves, and killing warriors in Yalotlan. I must inform the Singer.’ Citla nodded again and Ekon swore, very quietly. ‘When Atu arrives, let him know and then get me every Feather in the fortress. And the administrators. We can’t count on either the new slaves or the hawks or the Xentib slave warriors, so I need to know who we can count on.’

Pilos’s mind spun with logistics, racing across the various Talons and where they were based, who he could pull back and replace with Xentib, which parts of the Empire were currently peaceful.

It was too much, coming so soon after that awful moment when the song had jarred out of its natural rhythm so wildly and then taken almost three days to return to normal. Something momentous had happened that had changed the Singer or his grip on his magic. And now Pilos knew instinctively that they would be marching to war – in the Wet – because Ilandeh’s information made that inevitable. At the very time they should be strengthened by the song and the Singer’s magic, the fortress was alive with rumour and whisper and concern.

Pilos’s mouth turned down as he remembered how helpless he’d felt, here in the Melody’s own fortress in Tlalotlan, far from the Singer’s side and unable to aid him. He had tried to contact Enet through the song in the immediate aftermath, but her Listener had simply said there was no danger and that he was not to return to the Singing City. He had sent her frantic letters, asking what had happened, but she hadn’t bothered to reply.

Not for the first time, he wished for a Whisper in the great pyramid, one of his finest assassin-spies secluded among the administrators, Chorus and councillors, but only full-blood Pechaqueh could hold such positions, with a written lineage to prove their right to serve the Singer. Whispers were half-bloods, for no Pecha would risk their honour by undertaking the quiet, bloody work the Whispers were made for. In this, though their loyalty was without question, their credentials were lacking.

‘I’ll have Feather Atu draw up some recommendations for when you have finished with the Singer, High Feather,’ Ekon said, pulling Pilos back to the current crisis.

Yes. Concentrate on the Singer first. He didn’t have all the information, but he couldn’t wait for Ilandeh’s full report; the holy lord needed to know now, and perhaps Pilos might be able to ascertain the holy lord’s health for himself during their communion. Citla looked at him, magic in her eyes and veins and sweat already gathering on her shaven scalp. Pilos took a deep breath, took her hands, and allowed himself to be swept away.

At his request, Citla had bypassed the source’s Listener and attempted to contact the Singer himself. They did not slide into his mind as Ilandeh had into his; instead Citla held open a space in herself and let Pilos and the Singer fill it. The High Feather was dimly conscious of the Listener’s hands closing on his with bruising force when the holy lord entered her mind, his might and power overwhelming. He didn’t understand how Citla could bear it, how she could contain so much without losing herself entirely.

Pilos bobbed helplessly, feeling himself unravel into the Singer until somehow his Listener stopped it, containing him and keeping him separate. The Singer’s unspoken question – Why? – flooded through him and the High Feather poured out the sea of images and information received from Ilandeh. Words were almost impossible to form in the raw, unconfined presence of the Singer and the crackle of his magic, but Citla formed them for him, shaping his impressions and gifting them to Xac one at a time. A lifetime of training had prepared her for this, and Pilos could do nothing but trust her.

There was … a pause? An absence? Something, during which Pilos tried not to lose parts of himself, and then the Singer was gone and Citla was guiding him back into his body and there was new knowledge in his head and no memory of it being put there.

When he opened his eyes this time, the Listener was still kneeling but she was slumped against his chest, their hands still gripping tight. Her breath was a high, thin wheeze and Pilos looked up – Feathers Atu, Detta and Ekon were all with him. He nodded very carefully so that he didn’t fall out of his body again, and Atu moved behind Citla, ready to catch her if Pilos faltered. The High Feather was shaking as he supported her weight and laid her gently on the mats. There was a wet stain on his tunic – drool or tears or sweat – from where her face had pressed.

As soon as she was prone, Atu helped Pilos to stand and they left her alone. Touch and voices could do her more damage in the aftermath of communion with the Singer than solitude. The High Feather’s knees wobbled as he staggered out of his office and into another room, bigger, more comfortable. The Feathers followed and they all waited until he was sitting cross-legged with a stool under one elbow as support.

‘The Singer will consult the stars and the prophecies and inform us when we need to move,’ he croaked. His head was pounding with tiredness and strain and his lower lip was swollen from where he’d bitten it. Strange tingles and twitches plagued the muscles in his forearms and lower legs, but he ignored them. His state was far better than Citla’s. ‘It will be soon. We’re going to throw every experienced Talon at them until they break, so I want options for the security of the Empire with our best in the north. I want to know who we can call back and how long it will take to march them direct to Xentiban.’

His Feathers looked at him, intent and focused.

‘Get to it.’

They’d planned and argued and counter-planned until Pilos couldn’t see straight and he’d dismissed them – or rather dismissed himself to bed, where he’d slept three hours past dawn and woken feeling vaguely alive again.

And despite the frantic hurry – or because of it and what it meant – he’d ordered the Feathers and the Third Talon to assemble and he’d finally elevated eagle Calan to Feather, a leader in her own right with three hundred eagles under her command, all full-blood Pechaqueh of course, all warriors of exquisite skill and renown. They cheered as Atu and Detta braided the war feathers into the command fan at the back of her head. When it was done, the trio faced Pilos.

He pressed his hand to his belly and his throat. ‘Feather Calan, welcome. For the glory of the Empire and the holy Setatmeh, you have been gifted the feathers of command. Use them wisely, learn from your elders and betters, and fill me with pride when next we go to war.’

‘For the Singer!’ Calan shouted, returning the salute and then bowing her head at Pilos, unable to disguise the width of her grin. ‘For the holy Setatmeh, for the Empire, and for High Feather Pilos.’

Pilos permitted himself another small smile; he should probably put a stop to it, but the war in Yalotlan had been bloody, and the Melody had taken to chanting his name when they achieved victory.

As long as mine comes after that of Singer, Empire and Setatmeh, I suppose there’s no real harm.

‘Back about your work, eagles, there’s a lot to be done. Atu, I want the first of the new slaves brought up; they’ve been stewing in their own filth long enough. Let’s see how many are willing to fight and die for their Empire. We may as well make a start on them while we’re still here.’

‘Yes, High Feather,’ Atu said, and dismissed the eagles to their barracks and training. On one side of the huge drill yard, dog warriors trained under the watchful eyes and eager whips of their Coyote commanders, the rain washing the sweat from their bodies.

On the other, the new hawk caste worked their way through basic spear forms. They were slow and awkward, but they were eager, knowing it was their only chance to put their shame behind them and regain honour and status again.

Pilos’s view of the hawks was cut off by the appearance of hundreds of stumbling, squinting, filthy, chained men and women: the Yaloh warriors who had survived the first battles and been captured. Pilos had left them baking in the underground cells for the last five moons, coated in their own filth and scrambling for the rations dropped through the slats from above.

Only the strongest would have survived that, and the sound of more Yaloh being forced into the neighbouring pits month after month as the war progressed would have hardened them and given them an edge like the finest obsidian. Only those who were proven or suspected warriors were at the fortress. The rest – the old, the children, and the obvious non-combatants – had already been sold. For moons, this batch of slaves had listened to the pitiful cries and bravado-filled curses of their way of life ending, filtered, always, through the glory of the song that showed them what they could be, how great they could be. Now Pilos needed to turn the remains of their hate and rage against a target other than the Pechaqueh who’d defeated them and the Empire that would, given time and good service, raise them up to heights they couldn’t imagine.

Pilos picked up his heavy war club. Swinging the weapon idly in his hand, he wandered up and down the ragged lines.

‘Warriors,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘Fighters. Killers. Proud and upright and strong and fierce. No fear and no regret.’ Some Yaloh watched the club as he passed, a few watched his eyes, most watched his feet, and some watched his chest. Each meant something different – those watching the club thought it the biggest threat, those watching his eyes would likely not bend, those watching his feet were broken. Those watching his chest, though, oh, those were the ones he wanted. They were waiting for him to strike, club or foot or hand, ignoring the lies he’d tell with his face and eyes and focusing on his body to give him away. Those ones recognised that more than just the club was dangerous. Those were the warriors who would win the world for the Melody and the song.

‘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!’