But Tavin was a Hawk, not a Crow, and the high castes never bothered with who paid for their folly.

“Best get used to that scum, bone thief,” the courier laughed. “You’ll be drowning in it with the rest of the filth when the White Phoenix gets…”

He trailed off, looking at his hands. Then he let out a short yip as his fingers purpled and curled like pill-beetles.

And that was where Fie had fouled up: she’d forgotten that war-witches needed no steel to kill.

The butcher crumpled, screaming, as blisters boiled over his blackening flesh.

Panicked shrieks ricocheted off the paving stones. In seconds the throng of onlookers had dissolved to a jostling rush shoving away from the sewage channel. Only the Sparrow remained, a twitching heap of limbs and smoking rag.

The air in Fie’s mask savored of mint and pig fat. Like burnt sinner.

Get out. She had to get out.

“Fie—”

Tavin swayed at the edge of her sight. One hand reached for her.

Then he crashed to the stone, and moved no more.

The prince stumbled down the stairs as she froze. Hangdog had fallen just so—the bridge was behind her, the Floating Fortress was behind her, Hangdog was behind her—no, he lay on the steps now, as good as dead—not again—

Jasimir shook Tavin by the shoulders, again and again. He didn’t stir.

Look after your own.

She was their chief.

Some stony part of her broke through the fear and fury. Cold reckoning ratcheted through her head. The Pigeon courier would be back any moment with some ugly surprise. She couldn’t leave the sinner. Or Tavin. The sinner was dead. Tavin was—

Silent.

Jasimir stripped off Tavin’s mask. Blood trailed from the Hawk’s nose and shuttered eyes.

Terror sucked Fie’s cold reckoning under.

“He breathing?” Her own voice rang pitifully high and strangled in her ears.

Jasimir held a trembling hand over Tavin’s mouth, then nodded.

The flood ebbed. Still alive. She had to get them out.

“Flashburn,” she barked, pointing a bloody finger at her pack.

For once, the prince didn’t argue. Maybe he distrusted his voice as much as she’d doubted her own. He passed the jug to her without a word.

Fie gritted her teeth and turned her back on Tavin. She knelt by the dead sinner, forced her fingers into his mouth, and upturned the jug. Clear ooze slid over her knuckles and down the man’s throat, its bitter reek running roughshod through the air.

“Water.” She snatched up her stump of a sword, spun on a heel, and held her arms out to the prince. “Hands and blade.” He emptied a water skin over her palms and sword until the wet rags on her hands ran near clear.

Cloth scuffed over stone behind her—but neither Jasimir nor Tavin had moved. Where had the sound come from?