It was a long, hushed walk out of the capital city of Dumosa, lit only by their torches and the occasional Dovecraft lantern in a mansion window. Fie wagered the rest of the Crows felt the same tight-throated impatience to make it past the city walls before Hunting Castes rode them down. Every single Crow knew what carrying a bag of Phoenix teeth meant. Every one of them wondered if they’d truly be allowed to carry it out of Dumosa.

Fie felt eyes spying from behind lattice screens or through knotholes every step of the way, past the fine pavilions of the Swan-caste courtesans, through the granite-pillared Magistrate’s Row, even in the Pigeon commons, where dirty faces cowered behind cracks in shanty walls and spat in the Crows’ wake to ward off ill fortune.

She kept a sharp eye on the shadows, and more than once she caught Pa tapping his sternum slow, just below the string of teeth about his neck. If the dead gods were kind tonight, he’d have no call to use them.

But if Fie had learned aught over the years, it was that the dead gods skewed miserly with kindness when it came to Crows.

It was nigh midnight before they set foot on the League-High Bridge over the Hem. The great river thundered only a few hundred paces below, but for murder’s purpose, it worked near good as a league. Fie minded her step during the ten minutes it took to cross.

The moment her nail-studded soles touched gravel instead of cobblestone, Fie held her breath. If the royals meant to claw back their teeth, this was where the Hunting Castes would strike.

All of them strained to catch any hint of company. The long, terrible silence stretched thin and treacherous as young ice while Fie scoured every flicker of leaves for an ambush.

None came.

Maybe—just maybe—they’d done it.

Someone inhaled sharp. Then a deafening cry broke out:

“OH, I ONCE KNEW A LAD FROM ACROSS THE SEA, WITH A MOST PARTICULAR SPECIALTY—”

Madcap’s voice split the night like an axe, swinging into the bawdiest walking song Pa’d let them sing in Fie’s presence. The rest of the band broke into wheezing laughter, near weeping with relief.

“Twelve hells, Fie!” Wretch clung to the cart for dear life, slapping a knee. She had near as many years as Pa and twice as quick a temper, one of the few who’d known Pa when he was still called Cur, not yet Chief. She took the cat from Fie and scratched its brow. “I thought you’d ask the queen to throw in a crown for all that trouble!”

“What good’s a crown?” Swain drawled from behind Wretch. A flash of mirth leavened his perpetually dour voice. “She could have just asked to slap the king. Probably would’ve gone over better with Her Majesty.”