Fie pursed her lips. So far, the only difference she’d spotted betwixt the lordlings was which one mummed at liking the Crows.
“Sorry, lads. We don’t have enough spare Peacock teeth to glamour you all the way to Cheparok. And on that notion…” Pa dropped a wheel of dough onto the hot griddle, then pointed his tongs at the lordlings’ fraying topknots. “Those? They have to go.”
He was right. Both lordlings had inherited a gold cast to their brown skin from the northern Hawks, but it’d take a close study to pick them out from Crows, and their dark hair and eyes only helped. The topknots, though … those would mark them for royals on sight.
“Absolutely not.” Prince Jasimir recoiled. “I’ll just keep my hood up. I’m sure you have long-haired Crows.”
“Only ones that fancy lice,” Wretch chipped in as she nabbed a piece of panbread and held it out for Pa’s salt.
Behind her, Swain let out an unvarnished laugh. “Madcap bet me two naka these boys would blow their own cover by the end of the day. I bet we wouldn’t make it to a league marker. At this rate I’m bound for fortunes.”
“Because I won’t cut my hair?” the prince asked, stiff.
Fie prayed the boys wouldn’t be this tedious the whole way. “Because you’d fuss the chief over it.”
“I’m sure you don’t follow his every little suggestion to the letter,” Tavin said with the slick assurance of an unscathed blade.
Pa scratched at his gray-flecked beard, but his face stayed mild. “Aye, Swain. You’re bound for fortunes.”
“Be serious.” Prince Jasimir’s lip curled as Swain and Wretch retreated. “You can’t truly expect us to obey your every command until we reach the Fan.”
Pa flipped the panbread. “You’re smart lads. I expect you’ll do what’s needed.”
Tavin stood and cracked his knuckles. “How much longer until we leave?”
“The Fan’s a province, not a debtor,” Pa answered, watching the dough. “It won’t be running out on us anytime soon.”
“If Rhusana takes the throne, she’ll want to do it on the solstice, two moons from now.” The prince’s face had frosted over. “My father could be dead before the end of Peacock Moon.”
“Chief swore to find people who like you,” Hangdog sneered over Fie’s shoulder. He’d risen at last. “No surprise that’ll take a while.”
Tavin’s expression stayed sharp but polite. “How much longer?” he asked again.
“An hour, if that, ’til we’re on the road.” Pa scratched a rough map in the dirt with one finger, tracing the route to come. “The walk from here to Cheparok … I say it’ll take a week, if we’re lucky.”
“‘Lucky’?” Tavin picked up his sword. “A crone could walk there in four days.”
Besom swatted him on the shin.
Fie froze. Tavin had been beastly clear about not being touched by Crows.
But he just laughed and sheathed his blade. By Fie’s eye, it hadn’t needed sharpening in the slightest. “Apologies.”
Pa flipped more dough as Barf the cat stretched and climbed from Besom’s lap. “Lucky means we only have to answer one plague beacon, and it’s close to the road. Unlucky means that beacon’s a day’s walk out, and there’s a day’s work there and a day’s walk back.”
“That’s unacceptable.” Tavin was more sharp than polite now.
Fie had had enough of the Hawk’s paper threats. She got to her feet. “Take it up with the Covenant.”
“Don’t speak to him like that,” Prince Jasimir snapped.
“Don’t speak to Pa like that,” she spat back.
Tavin turned his glass-hard stare on her, and a warning glinted in his tone. “You’re addressing the crown prince of Sabor.”
“Funny,” Fie hissed, “could’ve sworn that prince is dead.”
The Hawk opened his mouth—then looked down. Barf had rolled onto his sandals, purring.
“Fie.” The tongs scraped on iron as Pa flipped the panbread. Like it or not, she knew her chief’s signal when she heard it. She sat.
“Crows go where we’re called,” Pa said. “A beacon’s a beacon. Hawks run those stations, and they don’t take kind to Crows ignoring their calls.”
“I’ll deal with the Hawks,” Tavin said.
Pa didn’t look at him. “That’s only the half of it. We answer every beacon we see, or we answer to the Covenant later with scores of dead on our account. If we don’t take a sinner in time, plague takes the whole town—every animal, every seed, every babe. Can’t do aught but burn it all to the ground before it spreads. You ever listen to a child die by fire?”
Prince Jasimir swallowed and shook his head.
“Then let’s keep it that way, aye?” Pa drew wavering branches on the dirt map. “Direct, it’s two days southeast to reach the Fan region, and another two days to Cheparok. Count on at least one detour. But we’ll have His Highness to safety by week’s end, well before Peacock Moon is up.”
Prince Jasimir shifted, uneasy. “For all we know, Rhusana’s already set Vultures on our trail.”
Fie flinched, one palm sliding over the black curves of her own witch-sign. A Vulture-caste skinwitch had put it there years ago, when Fie had registered as a witch as required by Sabor law. The woman had been a northerner like most Vultures, sour and pale as bad milk, and her clammy fingers had glued so tight to Fie’s wrist that it stung when she let go.
The best skinwitches could track flesh like a hound. Fie had felt the tracking magic when she’d practiced at Vulture teeth: the long-dead skinwitch saw every footstep, every thumbprint, everything her prey had touched, all spinning a trail plain as thread. If skinwitches like that came looking …
Pa patted the nubby string of teeth around his neck. “I’ll know when they come, lads. You’re with three Crow witches now. We’ll keep the Vultures busy.”
Fie slipped her hand from her witch-sign and tried not to think on how Pa had said when, not if.
“Hm.” Tavin pried his foot from under the tabby and scuffed Pa’s map out of the dirt.
“Wee over-fearful, boy?” Besom asked.
“No.” Tavin didn’t elaborate, just held his hand out to the prince. “Jas, give me your knife.”
Prince Jasimir passed his dagger over, jeweled hilt twinkling in the sunlight. Tavin stuck it through his sash, then started to undo his topknot.
“You can’t.” The prince straightened. “How are you supposed to pass for me?”
“I already won’t pass for you once the glamour wears off. If Rhusana is looking for us, two needlessly hooded Crows is a little conspicuous. Besides, if there’s an emergency, they can spare a tooth to fix it.”
Fie tilted her head and donned her most cloying smile. “Who’s ‘they’ now, Hawk boy?”
Tavin rolled his eyes, twisted his dark hair about his knuckles, and began to saw. “You know what I mean.”
A tense quiet fell over the clearing as he hacked through all but a few wayward strands. Whether he kenned it or not, the Hawk boy had just chopped off his rank. And he’d done it because a Crow chief had asked him to.