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 saidwhen, notif.
“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.
Tavin caught the stares and gave a sheepish grin, hair falling in an uneven black curtain. “That bad?”
“I’ll tidy it for you,” Wretch offered, and that was when Fie knew Tavin had won the old Crow over. Her belly sank. Was it naught but one more ploy to charm the Crows?
“Thank you.” Tavin started to toss the hair in the fire, then thought better of it, wrinkling his nose. “Is there a place to wash up?”
“Hangdog.” To Fie’s shock, Pa lifted a string of teeth from the grass and handed it to him. “Anyone who wants to wash, follow Hangdog to the creek.”
Strings were for proper chiefs. Fie hoped Hangdog was closer to a chief than she wagered.
Tavin stuck the dagger back in his sash. “Creek it is. Jas? Coming with?”
“Once I’m done eating.” Prince Jasimir picked at his remaining panbread and didn’t look up until Tavin was out of earshot. Then he mumbled to Fie, “Was my father upset?”
“What?”
Jasimir ducked his head. “When you took us through the Hall of the Dawn. Could you see if my father was all right?” Fie shook her head. “He wasn’t all right?”
“He…” She didn’t know why it felt so sour to say. “King Surimir wasn’t there.”
Jasimir stopped tearing at his panbread.
“The thrones were empty,” Fie said. “Rhusana paid us at the gate.”
Jasimir went still. Then he stood, dropped his panbread in the fire, and stalked off after Tavin without another word.
“Hmph.” Besom raised her eyebrows. “Waste of good bread.”
Fie supposed she ought to feel sorry for the prince. She might have if the king’s throne hadn’t been good as empty for every Crow, long as she could remember.
And she had other matters on her head. Apart from her, Pa, and Besom, only Swain lingered, tallying inventory by the cart.
She could talk plain. “Hangdoggets a string?”
