The Stone Knife Read online

  ‘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 t
urning 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.’

  LILLA

  Sky City, Malel, Tokoban

  165th day of the Great Star at morning

  It was time. The peace-weaving would not yet have concluded – would barely be halfway through its course – but the councils had argued, bitterly and at length, and the members of the shamanic conclave, advisers to the council, had journeyed to the ancestors and to Malel herself for guidance. In the end, agreement was reached.

  It wasn’t unanimous, but as the Wet strengthened, even Lilla couldn’t help but see that they needed to do something. The enemy were building another line of pyramids, this time in Yalotlan hill country far too close to Tokoban’s border to go unanswered, and there had been another desperate influx of Yaloh refugees to strain Tokob villages and cities. Yet they were not going to war, despite some of the more strident voices on the councils and among the Paws.

  Instead, they would destroy the stockpiles of wood and stone and paint that would become pyramids. They would not take life unless they had no choice; they would not hunt down the builders and kill them, for they were likely to be slaves. They would simply … halt construction. Resistance without violence, as far as possible, to prevent the magic within the pyramids being brought to life and thus all the land through which it rang belonging to the Empire.

  But before Malel would grant her blessing, she had a demand. And her first children had listened.

  Tokob wore their finest tunics and salt-cotton, their best jewellery and paint. There were so many drums that the plaza shook with sound and Lilla could feel it through his chest. The ejab had space at the front of the crowd so that those whose hearing was stopped by the spirit-magic could still take part.

  Two thousand warriors of the Yaloh and Tokob were grouped behind the ejab, and as many others as could fit into the biggest festival plaza crowded its edges, its streets, the roofs of the buildings lining it.

  The bone flutes joined in, a jarring, skirling, skating sound as though the spirits themselves were flooding into the flesh world with bloody intent. And then the rattles, a low sliding counterpoint slithering between the drumbeats like the Snake-goddess who helped bring the world into being. Malel’s second creation, the wise and patient predator who gave strength and kinship to the ejab.

  The heartbeat of Malel. The wails of the spirits. The hiss of the Snake. Lilla’s heart waited, sweat beginning to break out on his skin. And then it came, rushing out of the dawn from a hundred shamanic throats. The coughing roar of the Jaguar, brother to the Snake. The warriors’ god.

  Lilla’s heart gave a great liquid thud and began pounding faster than the drums. Malel was listening and so were her daughter and son. Listening to the first children and their allies. They crouched close, their presence felt in wind and cool and pressure. The Jaguar called again; the Snake hissed; Malel’s heart beat. The people crammed into the plaza moved in time, swaying and stamping their feet as the music and the gods swept them up into one creature, a single form with thousands of eyes and mouths and hearts and hands.

  At the top of the plaza, above the steps where the musicians knelt, on a platform open to sky and wind and rain and sun, the shamans roared and whirled in a complex dance around the prisoner. Lilla’s heart ached; Tayan should have been up there. The dance grew faster, the leaps of the shamans more exuberant, their roars now interspersed with wails and whoops and Lilla felt it, felt the gathering magic, felt the closeness and tension, a blanket of power sitting heavy across the Sky City.

  And then, at some unseen, unknown signal, the shamans fell still and the music halted. Between one beat and the next, one breath and the next, silence.

  ‘Malel, mother, goddess of all the world, hear our prayer.’ Vaqix’s voice, normally so reedy, throbbed with power and control. He had stood immobile next to the kneeling prisoner throughout the commencement of the ritual, but now all of its magic was gathered in him.

  ‘Snake-sister, Jaguar-brother, hear us. Spirits of before, spirits of now, spirits yet to walk the world, hear us. Ancestors, hear us. We do not call to you all through some petty need; we call to you from danger and dire terror. We call to you, O Malel, O Snake and Jaguar, O spirits, O ancestors! We call to you for our very lives and our very way of life.

  ‘And so that you might hear, and so that you might listen, and so that you might intervene, we offer you a life. One life for thousands, O Malel, that you extend your protection over Tokob and Yaloh. That you purge the threat from our borders. That you grant us life in which to honour you, O Malel.’

  Aez, the Axib Coyote of the Empire’s Melody, had been washed and dressed in a long, belted tunic, blackened with charcoal. His fine hair had been shaved at both sides and the remainder braided. Vaqix and the Yaloh high elder, Zasso, pulled him to his feet. He didn’t resist: to fight a sacred, ritual death would be to condemn his spirit to the Underworld.

  The two shamans cut the seams beneath Aez’s arms and lifted the tunic from him. His face and body were covered with thick, alternating stripes of chalk and charcoal. Even from this distance, Lilla could see his chest heaving, though he worked hard to keep his expression neutral.

  ‘Thank you,’ Lilla whispered, as did thousands of others, a susurration of noise lifting from the plaza. ‘Thank you for the honour of your life.’

  ‘O Malel, O Snake, O Jaguar! O spirits and ancestors, hear our prayer! O world that was, and world that is, and world that will be, do not see your children cut from your skin. Do not see your children in bonds and degradation. Do not see your tribes broken and scattered to the winds. Accept this life and this blood; accept this courage and this strong-beating heart. Accept this man, as he accepts his time for rebirth is at hand. We call to you from despair, O Malel. Answer us!’

  Vaqix turned to face Aez, who took one single step backwards and then halted. In the silence, Lilla heard a sound, small with distance, a cut-off plea. And then Aez flung his arms wide, baring his chest. To preserve the spirit, his body would die. The high shaman smiled behind the blue of his paint. ‘Fair and noble warrior, your death will carry our prayers to Malel. We honour you. We thank you. Go now in honour and in thanks. Go without pain. Go with peace.’

  Vaqix struck, a single hard blow that entered just beneath the ribs and angled upwards, cleaving stomach and lung and then heart. The Axi shuddered once and opened his mouth, but the knife had stolen his breath and whatever sound he made this time didn’t carry to Lilla’s ears. His knees buckled and Zasso and Vaqix caught him. They lowered him gently, reverently, to the platform and he disappeared behind the ring of kneeling shamans.

  Lilla’s breath whistled through a tight throat. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered again. Malel was close, her god-born were close, and spirits and ancestors gathered around them. Magic overlaid them. And then a single drum, a single beating heart, that stuttered and skipped, and finally stopped.

  Lilla thought his own heart might do the same as the goddess filled him and filled them all. A flute screamed, so unexpected that he jumped, a
nd then the drum started up again, a wild celebration, a rattle bursting through. Next, a cacophony of instruments. On the platform the shamans spun out of their positions and began again to dance, screeching and roaring, flinging themselves into the sky in twisting leaps, clawing fingers reaching for the magic, the spirits, Malel herself.

  In glimpses between their whirling bodies, Lilla saw Vaqix and Zasso making the final prayers over Aez’s body, cradling his head and his hands. There were tears on Lilla’s face, tears of joy and thanks. Aez had begun as an enemy; he had died carrying all their hopes and dreams. Had died an ally; a friend. His name would be remembered among Tokob and Yaloh alike.

  The shamans split and leapt down the steps over the heads of the kneeling musicians and whirled into the ejab and then the warriors grouped ready to march. They carried bowls of animal blood and whisks of feathers, and as they spun they flicked it high into the air to rain down in blessing.

  Lilla turned to Lutek and Tiamoko and swept them up in his arms in turn, planting kisses on their cheeks and smearing the fine sprinkles of blood that peppered their skin. ‘Malel will listen,’ he said. And it wasn’t just as Fang reassuring the warriors of his Paw that he spoke. He knew it. ‘Malel will send us her aid. The Pechaqueh will be stopped. But more than that, the magic will reach Tayan and Betsu, too, even so far from our soil as they are. It will lend its strength to their weaving and they will return home with word of peace. And we will escort the Melody from Yalotlan and then lay down our weapons. Malel will listen,’ he repeated, but softer now as they hugged again and he was jostled by spinning shamans and dancing warriors.

  The gods had listened. And they would act.

  The shamans had taken Aez’s body up to the womb to hasten his spirit’s passage to Malel, and to honour the life he had given in service of theirs. The long snaking procession was gone, the musicians were gone, much of the crowd was gone.