“And?” Pa turned his head toward a fenced pasture crowded with goats and cattle.
“That’s all we can spare.”
Cranes commanded the Birthright of honesty, but just because they could catch lies didn’t mean they never told them. Fie counted at least three iron bells collaring livestock in the pasture—three beasts marked for slaughter. For Common Castes, the villagers looked well enough, no one skimping on meals or garments. They could spare a bolt of cloth or the smallest cow for proper viatik, or even just a bag of salt, easy.
Fie caught a mumble of “feed the Crows” from the cluster of townsfolk. The Crane’s jaw stiffened.
“That’s all,” she repeated.
The full proverb was less charitable: One way or another, we feed the Crows. The Covenant did not look kind on skinflints. Shorting the Crows now only made it likelier they’d have sinners to collect later.
Pa waited, giving the Crane one final chance to put it to rights. No one stirred. Only the clank of an iron slaughter bell punctuated a long silence.
Pa went to a compartment in the wagon’s sideboard and removed a pair of pincers as the lordlings fidgeted. He passed them to Hangdog. “Take the teeth.”
Tavin’s hands curled to fists.
“Aye, chief.” Hangdog reached for the first shrouded corpse. Fie hoped it wasn’t the woman whose throat they’d just cut.
She turned her mask back to the villagers before she could find out. Most of them had gone gray. Families like theirs stashed milk teeth for viatik, having neither the desperation nor the belly to pull teeth from their dead. Their buzz of anger wound even tighter with every rustle of the shroud.
“Here?”
Of course the prince would get squeamish.
The villagers glanced his way. Prince Jasimir coughed and lowered his voice. “Do we have to do this here … chief?” He dropped the title like a redjay rolling its rival’s eggs out of the nest.
“Aye.” That was Pa’s Chief voice.
Behind her, metal scraped on bone as Hangdog went to work.
The Crane arbiter flinched with the steady click, click, click of every tooth hitting the wagon boards. Behind her, villagers traded darkening looks that boded ill to Fie. The sooner they got out and on the road, the better.
At last the clicking stopped. A moment later, Hangdog handed a knotted rag to Pa, little red sunbursts blooming in the cotton.
“Are you done?” the arbiter demanded.
Pa weighed the rag in his hand. “Aye, cousin, this’ll do.” He whistled the marching order. “We’ll be back when you call.”
When, not if.
The wagon creaked into motion. They rolled to the gate, only to find the signal post’s Hawks had descended to hurry them along, waving at stacks of firewood beside the trough for their mammoth mounts. To Fie’s surprise, Tavin followed Swain to the wood. Maybe he was ready to be back on the flatway as swift as possible. For once, they were of the same mind.
Tavin loaded up an armful of firewood, but as he straightened, one of the Hawks let his bronze-tipped spear slip, just enough of a twitch to make Tavin jolt back. A log fell from his arms and landed on the guard’s foot. The guard swore.
“I think you owe my friend an apology.” The other Hawk guard laughed.
Tavin stiffened with indignation, an indulgence no Crow could afford. The only thing saving them all was his mask.
Swain looped his arm through Tavin’s and bobbed a hasty bow. “No disrespect, guards, none. The boy doesn’t speak. Nasty accident. Terrible sorry about that.” He steered Tavin back to the cart as Pa signaled for the others to collect the firewood. Soon enough, the Crows rolled on their way.
For a while, only their footfalls and rattling wheels broke the forest’s birdsong-speckled hush; not even Madcap dared a walking song this far off the flatway. Then Pa stripped off his mask and tossed it into the cart. Fie followed suit, dragging fresh air through her teeth. Soon a pile of masks rested atop the shrouds and firewood.
The Hawk kept both his mask and his prince’s, one slung over each shoulder, as over-fearful as he’d been with Pa’s dirt map.
“Was that really necessary?” The prince’s chin was set proper mulish beneath his hood.
“How do you mean, Highness?” Pa asked, not looking back.
“They left you payment. And you ripped their friends’ teeth out in front of them.”
“Firewood isn’t a real payment.” If Tavin noticed heads turning his way, it didn’t show. “You can’t hire a smith to make a sword, then pay her only enough steel to forge it. There’s no compensation for the labor, let alone walking three leagues for the job.”
Jasimir’s cheeks darkened. “That’s no excuse for mutilating bodies. The dead should be treated with honor.”
“Honor?” Fie asked, heat creeping up her own neck. “That village wanted to spit in our faces. And they wanted that more than they wanted their dead friends to leave with dignity. They got what they wanted. Why shouldn’t we?”
“And who decides if you want too much?” Clearly Prince Jasimir was still sore from cutting the oath. “What if you demanded half their cattle? Or a year’s wages? Or the rest of the bones, while they’re still warm?”
Fie glared. “The Oleanders would gut us all before sundown—”
“Perhaps if you didn’t give them a reason—”
“Jas.” Tavin cut him off. “Taking the teeth was a message. A harsh message, yes, but that village will think twice before trying to cheat Crows again. It’s no different from our court games.”
Either the Hawk was starting to ken their trade, or now that half the Crows liked him well enough, he was working double-time to woo the other half. Fie snuck a look out of the corner of her eye, wondering if a Crane would smell a falsehood from him. All Fie saw was a lordling with a haircut and a new scar—
She blinked. It was a tiny thing, a thin line through the Hawk’s right brow, but it was a mark the prince didn’t carry.
The Peacock glamour would keep breaking with her every blink. With his hair shorn to his ears and a face almost his own, soon no one would mistake him for the prince.
The Hawk boy had cut his hair for Pa, he’d had the sense to not push the guards, and he’d reined in the prince. Fie didn’t trust him as far as she could shove him, but perhaps he’d earned the benefit of the doubt.
Tavin flashed a broad, too-pretty grin at her. “Besides, taking whole bones, that’s just impractical. Or do I have it wrong? You strike me as someone who would tear a man’s spine out if she fancied it for a new necklace.”
Fie’s newfound goodwill withered.
She narrowed her eyes at the road ahead. “You got one part awry,” she said. “I don’t truck with jewelry.”
“What do you truck with, then?” Tavin’s grin hadn’t faded one bit; if anything, it curled wider. “Flowers? Poetry? I know I can rule out patchouli.”
The prince pulled a face like he’d found a hair ball in his sandals. It was plain he’d seen this dance before, and that told Fie all she needed to know.
“Silence,” Fie answered. “I truck with silence.”
“And punching corpses,” Tavin added. “I’ll concede I have that effect on people. So you’ve a shine for silence and violence. What else?”