They ran into no disputes with the water-lifts this time. The attendants’ ashen faces said the sooner the Crows took the sinners, the better. One tier after another they ascended, market crowds splitting before the Crows’ grim procession with a sober, furious hush.
The final water-lift released them into a waiting line of Hawk guards on the tiled lane of the first tier. Walls of snowy marble and iridescent glassblack towered around them, plaited into green-roofed mansions and pavilions where the soft trickle of fountains whispered through stone and shadow. Vivid painted tiles bordered each household’s foundations, layer upon layer detailing generations of Peacock-caste achievements.
The Hawks fell into step at their flanks as they marched up the tight coil of the first tier and past gentry mansions, each more absurdly ornate than the last, until at last the great round black eye of the open reservoir drew into sight. The Floating Fortress sat no more than a man’s height above the Fan, stilted on thick columns that jutted from the water’s surface.
The Fan itself flowed direct under the fortress and into the massive well, and as Fie followed their wagon up a limestone slope, she saw no sign of the reservoir’s bottom. Rumor said it reached all the way down to the fifth tier. At the top it fed the canals, spilling out into the blue-tiled chutes that cut down the city’s tiers. Tavin had been right: the view was best from up here, a grand mosaic of jewel-toned roof tiles and lush gardens tumbling down the tiers.
The dying sun sent odd whorls across the sea-green walls of the Floating Fortress as the wagon neared. Fie tilted her head, wondering if it was a trick of her glassblack, until a gold hue burst across one shimmer. The walls had been painted in enamel and gold dust.
A hot lump rose in her throat as she thought of every time Pa had passed his dinner to her. Every time she’d made herself sick on moldered panbread or chewed a fistful of mint just to keep from thinking about the hunger, just to hold out until the next viatik.
“There’s Governor Kuvimir,” Prince Jasimir whispered, relief flashing through his voice like gold dust.
Sure enough, a man watched them approach from the balcony of a courtyard ahead, his neck and chest glinting with the necklace-plate bearing the governor’s fantailed insignia. A peculiar wrench wrung Fie’s gut.
Almost over.
She found a stray thread to pick at. The wagon rolled on.
The walkway curled upward, leading to a marble bridge that stretched betwixt earth and fortress, over the rushing water where river met reservoir. Jade statues of the dead Peacock gods lined the railings. Governor Kuvimir still waited above the courtyard at the other end, clutching the balustrade with both fists.
Fie’s sandal-nails gave a particular horrid whine as she set foot onto the marble bridge. Wagon wheels rattled after her, the oxen lowing with unease as their hooves clicked and scraped without purchase. More scratching echoed across the water as Crow after Crow marched onto the stone.
Someone tapped her shoulder.
“Fie.” Tavin’s voice was almost too quiet to pick out. “Something’s wrong.”
She cast a look about and found the lordlings to her right, still walking like they owned the fortress. “What?”
“The lord-governor should walk out to greet us.”
“You think he’d walk out for Crows?” Hangdog barked out a laugh.
“I’m telling you—” Tavin’s voice rose.
Fie turned to hush them both—
And froze.
Their Hawk escort had lined up across the bridge at their back, a bristling wall between the Crows and the only way out.
Fie heard a scuffle and whipped around. Hangdog had shoved the lordlings out in front of the wagon, stripping off his mask and theirs.
“They’re here!” he shouted as Pa cursed and yanked on the reins. “I did what you wanted—”
An arrow sank, soft and immediate, into Hangdog’s eye. He crumpled to the ground.
The world went silent. Fie stared at the impossible heap of black fabric and limbs that ought to have been Hangdog.
Another arrow whistled past, carving a stripe of searing pain above her elbow before it clattered against marble. She cried out.
A bellow echoed down the bridge like thunder: “The queen wants him alive!”
“Get behind the wagon!” Pa shouted, scrambling out of the driver’s seat. Another arrow struck one of the oxen. It screamed and leapt forward, crashing into the other ox and sending the wagon skidding over the stone as Barf screeched inside.
Someone seized Fie’s arm and hauled her behind the shuddering wagon. Another scream ripped through the air. This time it sounded like Wretch.
Pa emerged, fist locked around his string of teeth.
“This wasn’t—He must have gone over to Rhusana—” Tavin’s arm still wound round hers. The other kept Jasimir kneeling on the ground, where arrows couldn’t reach. “We have to get out—”
Pa shook his head.
“I’m a marked man,” he said, cutting his chief’s string loose with a chilling calm. “Those Vultures could follow my witch-sign through all twelve hells. There’s no ‘we’ here, Lord Hawk.”
Pa threw the string over the wagon and closed his eyes.
Two Phoenix teeth roared to life in Fie’s senses. There was a terrible crack and a blast of heat. A wall of fire swept around the bridge, circling the Crows.
“There’s only you,” said Pa.
When, not if.
Fie finally, terribly understood.
She found her voice. “Pa—no—”
“You get out, get as far from here as you can.” He thrust the broken sword to her, and she hated it, hated the weight of it, hated the sudden flash of two deadly edges now in her hands. “Stay out of sight. Burn as many teeth as you have to.” His bag of teeth fell into her arms with a horrible thud.
They were Pa’s teeth, they were his sword, he was the chief, this was all wrong—
He gripped her shoulders. “You have to keep the oath, Fie.”
“No—Pa, I’m no chief, I can’t!”
“You have to keep the—”
An arrow pierced the flames from behind, striking Pa in the shoulder. He dropped to a knee as the fire sputtered.
Beyond the golden flames, Fie saw a towering shadow, crowned in a helmet ragged with notches.
“Get them out,” Pa spat.
Fie shook her head, frantic. “No, no—”
Tavin dragged Jasimir to his feet, wrapped an arm around Fie’s waist, and said, “Yes, chief.”
She’d forgotten how damned fast he moved.
Fie saw walls of gilded fire. A break in the flames. A saw-edged Vulture helm. Pa’s face cracking into desperation.
And then she saw naught but blood-soaked sunset as the prince, the Hawk, and the Merciful Crow tumbled over the side of the bridge, down to the black water below.
CHAPTER NINE
IN THIS LIFE OR THE NEXT
Fie had never expected to die quiet.
Young, maybe. On the end of a sword, also likely. And doing what she did best: picking a fight over something easier left alone.
She did not expect to die swallowed whole. But the Fan River had done just that.
The river churned with thrashing limbs and arrows like viper strikes, gurgling through the sides of her mask. Yet beyond her glassblack eyes lay naught but the bottomless dark of the reservoir sucking at her heels.