“Then I’ll rephrase,” the Hawk said. “Rhusana wants us dead.”
“She wantsmedead,” Prince Jasimir corrected. “She’s wanted it since she used Father to marry up into the Phoenixes, and she wants it even more now that she’s birthed a prince of her own. First it was just a hunting accident, then a viper in the bathhouse, then ground glass in the wine… and it won’t stop until she’s gone. Or I am.”
Wretch flung her arm at the road. “Well done, then! You’ve given her square what she wants. So now that we’ve dragged you to freedom, we’ll be taking our leave, aye?”
The Hawk—Tavin, he’d said he was Tavin—didn’t answer, instead holding out a hand to Fie. “I’m sorry for scaring you, by the way.”
She let him pull her back to her feet before yanking free. “Well, I’m not sorry for punching you.”
“That’s probably not the last time you’ll say that.” His teeth flashed in a grin. “Jas and I need to tag along with you for a few days.”
Pa stiffened, crossing his arms. “That wasn’t our deal.”
Tavin and the prince traded looks. Tavin’s mouth twisted. “It’s complicated,” he began.
“It’s not. I kept my word. Our business is done.” Pa’s tone had turned a chill sort of civil. Fie snorted. Typical high castes, thinking they could twist the terms of a deal as they pleased. They’d picked the wrong Crow chief for that.
“You don’t understand.” Prince Jasimir’s voice rose. “We’re—”
“Out of Dumosa,” Pa answered, even and immovable. “And we have our viatik. That was the deal. No more, no less.”
The Hawk guard scowled. “Youhaveto hear us out.”
Fie contemplated punching him again.
“This isn’t your palace, lads.” Pa bent to pick up a drag-rope. “We don’thaveto do aught.”
“They’re going to try to kill you,” Prince Jasimir said, abrupt.
A moment’s hush dropped, then ruptured in laughter. Madcap wheezed so hard, they had to lean on the cart. Both the prince and the Hawk looked taken aback.
“Oh, they’ll try to kill us?” Wretch cackled. “That’s new. That’s bold. Oh, I like that.”
Prince Jasimir’s brow furrowed. “How could you possibly find that amusing?”
“They’vebeentrying to kill us. There’s always some ‘they.’ Reckonthey’vebeen at it a few centuries now.” Fie swept him the same mocking bow she’d given Queen Rhusana. “My deepest of sorrows, Your Highness, but if you mean to frighten us into helping you, you’ll have to think bigger.”
“Are the Oleander Gentry big enough?”
Fie snapped up straight to stare at Tavin as the laughter died. The Oleander Gentry were more than a “they.” The Oleander Gentry were a fist to the windpipe of every Crow.
“It’s a funny story, you see,” the Hawk guard continued, the sudden razor edge in his words suggesting it was anything but a jest. “Turns out the queen’s been making lots of new and horrible friends. Right now I’d give it a month before she tries to take the throne for herself. And when she does, she’ll owe most of her success to her greatest allies: the Oleander Gentry.”
Part of Fie wanted to hit him again. Part of her wanted to run clear from Sabor.
Every Crow carried scars from the Gentry. They were the reason Crows didn’t stop near many a village after sundown. That was when the Gentry would ride, bearing white oleanders on their breasts, faces hidden in pale paints and undyed cloth so they couldn’t be traced to kin or caste.
Most of Sabor believed Crows to be dead sinners reborn, sentenced to repent through a hard life of containing the plague. Oleanders believed the part they liked—that the Covenant meant to punish Crows for their misdeeds—and claimed the Crows spread the plague themselves. Then they took it upon themselves to dole out that punishment. The Covenant was one more mask for them, and Fie kenned too well the monsters that rode beneath it.
They were rich and poor, nameless and infamous, many and merciless. Their hunts were only called murder when they were caught. And since they only hunted Crows, the regional governors were in no great hurry to catch them.
When the Gentry took Crows, only the lucky few walked away.
Fie’s mother hadn’t been lucky.
Fie thought of a road in the dark, one that stretched over a dozen years behind her, when she’d scarce reached Pa’s knee. Yet she still remembered the trail of fingers the Oleander Gentry had left to point the way.
She caught up her robe’s loose thread again and twisted it hard.
