Great Octave’s estate, Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs
7th day of the grand absence of the Great Star
Enet sat in the light from the window, enjoying a rare break in the clouds, and mixed her tonic. She drank it down, barely noticing the grit or the aftertaste any more.
Reports had come from both Pilos and Atu, confirming progress was being made in Yalotlan. Once they had peace throughout Ixachipan, it would be time to consider waking the world spirit. And Xac with his red-stained song was perhaps not … the correct holy lord for so delicate a task.
It was frightening but freeing to know she didn’t need to worry so much about the Singer reading her intentions through the song any more. The holy lord was much preoccupied these days. Under her gentle, invisible guidance, she had led him to concentrate his attention on demanding and receiving updates on the war. The more stories of victory and bloodshed filled his head, the more they might begin to fill the gaping, black-toothed maw of hunger within him.
And of course, it kept Pilos accountable.
The song was a rumble of warning and impatience, summoning her as surely as any messenger or Listener. She would have to answer soon. She did what she could to keep his hungers in check, stretching out the days between offerings, but she also knew when Xac was reaching the point where he would take her if she didn’t supply an alternative. These days there was always a pretty slave held ready in her quarters within the source.
The holy lord grew ever more voracious in his appetites, and she had let it be known he was coming into the fullness of his power as Singer. The gossip was the opposite: that the Singer was waning and beginning his ascension, and the resultant scrambling among his council was as predictable as it was pathetic.
By now, it seemed that the entire council and most of the nobles were aware of the blooding – or that the Singer’s indulgences had gone wrong, at least. Some of his favourites had quietly disappeared from the source, likely fearing that they would be the next to leave a bloody stain on the mats. Those who remained redoubled their efforts to ingratiate themselves, hinting at the blooding and making approving noises. So far, none had attempted to procure an offering themselves, and Enet worked hard to ensure that one of the Chorus loyal to her was on duty whenever she couldn’t be there. She couldn’t afford for anyone else to start supplying the Singer with this particular experience.
Not that anyone would be able to harm Enet now, no matter their suspicions. Not Yana or the remaining favourites, not even Pilos when he slunk back from war like the blood-clotted dog he was. No one. Curving up the column of Enet’s throat was a tattoo of a dark feather. The mark of a Chosen. Chosen of the Singer. Chosen to ascend with him – or even, perhaps, to succeed him. Singer Enet.
Xac had taken very little convincing in the end. He had seen the exquisite twin slaves she’d found for him and begged for them. Actually begged her, panting like a dog in heat and the song building in waves all around. Enet had cooed and flattered and placed the tattoo equipment into his hands. The Singer had complied without even a murmur. Quickly, while the slaves knelt at the edge of the mats with their eyes cast down in respect, he had dipped the thorn into the ink and given her the mark. And she had given him the twins.
Enet had inspected it in a piece of polished gold later that night when the Singer slept in his bloodstained glory – and then she’d summoned her own tattooist and had the design tidied up around the edges, so that none might mistake it.
Nothing could take this away from her now: Enet was Chosen, elite even among Pechaqueh nobility, as far above them as the sun was above the earth. The future was bright – incandescent – with possibility.
For now, though, Enet put such thoughts from her mind and slipped into a loose kilt and tunic, with a wide red sash bound from her hips up to her breasts. Another symbol of power. The body slave knelt near with the tray of cosmetics, but she could wait a little longer. The Great Octave reopened the letter and scanned its contents. Another potential source of songstone had been uncovered, in Chitenec of all places. She’d thought all those quarries had been worked out. She’d been told so. Now there was yet another challenge to her supply of the sacred stone and she still hadn’t managed to successfully raise the subject of the Tokoban songstone with the Singer. Fixated as he was on war and blooding the song, he could fly into a spectacular rage when she mentioned anything that might increase her influence.
‘You,’ she said to her estate slave and the man bowed. ‘I want an accurate report on the supply in Chitenec, and I don’t want anyone to know it’s me asking, so use at least four intermediaries to cover your trail. If it’s rich enough, buy it but keep my name out of it. But if it’s small, buy a stake in it – and do that publicly. We can afford to lose a little wealth for the status it will bring. But I want to know who buys the other stakes.’
‘As the Great Octave commands,’ the man said and bowed again. Frowning, Enet put the letter in a dish and touched a candle to it. She couldn’t let just anyone begin supplying songstone, for new pyramids were always required, not just in the new parts of the Empire but to replace those that grew old or unstable, or where the songstone caps cracked and failed.
The construction of pyramids and supply of their crucial, magical capstone was an honour that could not be handed out thoughtlessly. While theoretically, anyone with the wealth to do so could contribute a songstone cap, the reality was that Enet had spent two Star cycles covertly gathering all the songstone supplies into her hands, and strictly monitored those whom she allowed to purchase from her. Not that anyone knew they were purchasing from her, of course. But controlling the pyramids controlled the flow of status, the height or depth within society of the family offering their wealth to their development. Let them scrabble for limestone and sandstone and timber; Enet didn’t care for those. But for the songstone, for the source of the world spirit’s own voice, its own dreams, perhaps? No. No, access to that must be strictly supervised, and who better to do so than the Great Octave herself?
‘You. Do my face.’ The slave scurried over and began to apply the cosmetics, the charcoal around her eyes and the staining for her lips. Another began fixing the feathered headdress to Enet’s hair with pins.
‘A guest, mistress,’ her estate slave said moments later. ‘Councillor Chel seeks entry.’
Enet grimaced. ‘Show her into the garden room and provide refreshment. If she wants to see me, she’ll wait.’
When the paint was correctly applied and the headdress secure, Enet padded sedately into the outer room and found Chel reclining on the mats and examining the new mural the Great Octave had had commissioned. Enet paused to admire it herself, to admire how well the artist had captured the tilt of her head, her demure obedience to the stylised symbol of the Singer before which she knelt.
Enet’s gaze tracked from the image of herself to the curve of Chel’s neck, left exposed by the hair piled atop her head and secured with jade and bone. An undoubtedly pretty woman. With the voice and manners of a starving rat. But few people in this world were perfect, and when the two of them were among the pillows it didn’t matter, when Chel’s abrasive tones gentled into urgent whispers, begging and commanding. It was only in the pillows that Enet allowed herself to be commanded by anyone other than the Singer.
She held her feathered fan before her. ‘Councillor Chel.’
Chel twisted on the mat and craned her neck to look up. Her lips puckered in appreciation of what she saw. ‘My, my, all for my benefit?’ she teased. She waved away the need for Enet to reply. ‘I have news, Great Octave.’ Her use of the title didn’t go unnoticed and Enet stopped preening and moved to the mat opposite, dropping down to sitting heedless of the fall of her kilt. Chel wasn’t here for pleasure.
Enet gestured to the refreshments first, as propriety demanded, but the other woman shook her head. ‘Speak then,’ she said.
‘There are concerns throughout the city, among the nobles and some of the council. Concerns about the changes to the song.’
Oh, pretty little Chel. How bold of you. And unexpected. Do you come to me because I am Spear, and Great Octave, and principal courtesan? Or because you suspect my involvement? And how was it that you were the one chosen for this task, to be the sacrifice on the altar of my wrath? Pretty, yes, but not clever, I think.
They watched each other, cat studying rat, seeing who would blink first. ‘Changes? You mean the swelling of power as the Singer exerts all his will to crushing the Yaloh and Tokob resistance? How he exhorts the pyramid-builders to work faster in Yalotlan to bring the succour of the song to those of the Melody stationed there? So that they may be as close to glory as possible? How his power waxes to its fullest might so that all Ixachipan might hear it?’
Chel twisted a strand of artfully dishevelled hair around one finger. ‘Indeed. Perhaps the Singer might make a public announcement stating that is the cause, to reassure the … more superstitious among the population?’
The cat flexed its claws. ‘What a good idea. Why don’t I secure you an audience with the holy lord and you can suggest it to him yourself?’
The hair-twirling stopped. ‘Thank you, Great Octave, but no, although the honour is great. For a start, my status is not sufficient for such a privilege. And also … well, it is rumoured that those who enter the Singer’s presence at your side are never seen again.’ Chel shrugged. ‘My lovers would miss me if I were to, ah, vanish into his domain.’
Enet narrowed her eyes and let the fan fall. Chel’s gasp as she saw the feather tattoo was gratifying. ‘There are always rumours dripping from the tongues of the jealous and the stupid,’ Enet said. ‘Rarely do such rumours have any truth to them. But I will pass on your suggestion nonetheless. It is my life’s greatest honour to advise the holy lord. If his people are restless, we shall do what is required to calm them.’
And she could say that now, ‘we’, because she was Chosen, and if Chel had thought to trade on their occasional intimacy she was very much mistaken. Enet enjoyed watching the other woman come to the same realisation.
Nothing could touch her now, not Chel’s jealousy or Pilos’s scheming or even Councillor Yana’s quiet hostility. She and the Singer were almost one, their words and bodies joined, her divinity second only to his, her future secure and her past buried so deep none would ever unearth it.
And if they did, they would die before they could tell what they had learnt. They would not be the first.
‘Anything else?’ Enet asked.
‘Well,’ Chel murmured, sliding a finger into the neck of her own blouse and tugging gently downwards. ‘Seeing as I’m here …’
Enet gave her the smile that made the sun seem dim in comparison. ‘My love, I wish for nothing more, but I am the Singer’s first and foremost and he has sent for me.’
Chel’s hand fell back into her lap and her face smoothed. ‘Of course, dear. The Singer’s will is all. His appetites, though … well, they too are becoming the subject of speculation among the council and the wealthier nobles who hear of such things.’
‘Yes, I am exhausted these days,’ Enet replied, but said no more. And to that, Chel was unable to find a suitable response. They exited the house together and climbed into separate litters. Chel drew the curtains of hers; Enet did not. Let the Singing City see her, adorned in feathers and dripping with jade, that mark of the Chosen dark on her throat, as she travelled to the palace and into the Singer’s presence. Let them marvel at her. Let her glory steal their attention so that none would notice the two slaves walking behind the litter, the newest gifts for the Singer.
It had been ten days since the last. The holy lord needed to be fed.