“They’ve been trying to kill us. There’s always some ‘they.’ Reckon they’ve been 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.

“I won’t demand your obedience in this.” Torchlight danced over Prince Jasimir’s bloody face. “But with Rhusana on the throne…”

“… the Oleander Gentry will ride where they please, when they please,” Fie finished. Hangdog was gripping the cart so tight, his knuckles looked near to burst through the skin. She could only guess what he saw in his own terrible memory.

Tavin nodded. “And they’ll get an armed Hawk escort to help.”