Tatterhelm shoved Tavin to his knees, knife still at his throat, one hand digging into Tavin’s scalp. The northman hadn’t even bothered to don his favored helm to reckon with a little Crow half chief; he wore just a chestplate and heavy boots over his grubby yellow tunic and wool leggings. His pork-pink arms bulged bare and stark with valor mark tattoos in the gloom, his wild straw hair coiling about his shoulders. A beaked Crow mask swung from his belt like a prize scalp.

“You’ve been a pain in my ass,” he rumbled. “Making me hound you across the damned nation all on some fool’s notion.”

Fie spat in the cinders again. “You here to deal or not?”

“Y’know what the problem is with you people?” He pulled the mask free of his belt and tossed it into the dust at Fie’s feet. “You forget what you are. Queen’s comin’ for your kind, won’t be stopped by some bone thief brat.”

Long-dead mint sprigs spilled from the beak.

We have something that belongs to you.

The Vultures had trailed her the whole time. Not the prince, not Tavin. They’d known to follow her.

“Maybe the prince learns his lesson about trusting Crows,” Tatterhelm grunted, “but I’d say that lesson’ll be … eh, short-lived.”

He wanted her rattled. Fie knew a Money Dance when she heard one.

“Enough,” she snapped. “I did what you wanted. Now let them go.”

“Settle down.” Tatterhelm’s knifepoint scratched at Tavin’s throat. “Viimo.”

“Aye, boss?” Viimo answered from Wretch’s side, one fist holding fast to the older woman’s bonds. Wretch’s mouth moved, too quiet for aught but Viimo to hear. The skinwitch ignored her.

“These two bring any company?”

Viimo closed her eyes a long moment. Her brow knotted, then untied. Her free fist curled. “I see nothin’, boss.”

Draga hadn’t yet noticed their absence, then. Or she had cut her losses like Fie couldn’t. Either way, Fie was on her own.

On her own and in too deep to get out now.

Tatterhelm narrowed his eyes at her. “Drop the cloak.”

She let go of Jasimir. “Move and I’ll gut you,” she warned him, and pulled her ragged robe over her head.

Tatterhelm squinted at her shirt and leggings, searching for any hint of hidden weapons. She knew he’d find none. He jerked his chin. “The teeth.”

Fie clenched her jaw, then lifted Tavin’s sword and sliced through her chief’s string. It fell to the ash with her robe.

“Now the sword.”

Fie let the Hawk blade drop. When it struck the earth, she’d have sworn she’d stripped herself bare. Thin wool wouldn’t stop arrows. No teeth, no steel. Easy prey.

Pa had said she was a dead god reborn. She did not feel like one now. Not even Little Witness.

Her pulse beat a funeral march in her ears.