A grunt echoed from the ragged helm as it swiveled about, slowing when the eye-slits turned Fie’s way.

She lit another Sparrow tooth swift as she could, snapping it into harmony. The twin teeth showed her each beacon of a gaze, as before. This time, some gazes fractured into spidery branches picking at the tracks on the road—skinwitches sniffing for their marks. None stuck.

Glee flashed through Fie at that. Skinwitches were like hounds: they needed to know a scent to track it. Without something that belonged to her or the lordlings, they couldn’t sift their footfalls out of the flatway. So far, the Vultures had their wits alone to lead them, and those were about to lead them astray.

Tatterhelm let out a harsh cry and lashed his horse into a gallop. The rest of the Vultures followed, leaving three Owls in the dust and three fugitives in the brush.

Fie tallied them up as they left: less than a score of Vulture riders, fewer than Viimo had numbered, all carrying naught but a few packs and furs. She thumbed Pa’s tooth: the spark flickered yet.

Once the Owls had shaken off the dust and carried on down the road, grumbling about the indignity of it all, Fie sat back. “They’ve a caravan.”

Tavin rocked on his heels. “How can you tell?”

“The horses,” Jasimir answered for her. “They’re packing just enough supplies to camp a day or two. They must have a supply caravan trailing them. I suspect that’s also where they’ll have the…” He faltered. “The hostages.”

That sick wrath shook its cage once more. Fie stuffed it down.

Near three weeks left in Peacock Moon. That’d be time aplenty for other castes to ride to Trikovoi, but for Crows with beacons to answer, that’d be cutting it close. Too close to waste any lead they could scrape up.

Fie picked at Pa’s tooth the way the Vultures had picked at the road: angry with what it couldn’t tell her. Then she pushed herself to her feet. “We keep moving.”

She felt Tavin’s eyes on her as she shoved her way back to the road, but all he said was “Yes, chief.”

“Now you write it.”

Fie took the twig from Jasimir and fumbled about for a grip that felt right. None did. Her fingers shook as she carved a tremulous line in the dirt, then another, and another.

They looked nothing like Jasimir’s tidy letters; hers were overlarge and tilting like a drunk. Her ears burned.

“This is nonsense,” she mumbled, and dropped the stick.

Jasimir scuffed out her first attempt, then handed the twig back. “My mother said my letters wobbled like colts when she first taught me to write,” he said. “It’s like anything else: it just takes practice. Try again.”

“Do you miss her?” Fie began to scratch out another line.