“I’m sure you don’t follow his every little suggestion to the letter,” Tavin said with the slick assurance of an unscathed blade.

Pa scratched at his gray-flecked beard, but his face stayed mild. “Aye, Swain. You’re bound for fortunes.”

“Be serious.” Prince Jasimir’s lip curled as Swain and Wretch retreated. “You can’t truly expect us to obey your every command until we reach the Fan.”

Pa flipped the panbread. “You’re smart lads. I expect you’ll do what’s needed.”

Tavin stood and cracked his knuckles. “How much longer until we leave?”

“The Fan’s a province, not a debtor,” Pa answered, watching the dough. “It won’t be running out on us anytime soon.”

“If Rhusana takes the throne, she’ll want to do it on the solstice, two moons from now.” The prince’s face had frosted over. “My father could be dead before the end of Peacock Moon.”

“Chief swore to find people who like you,” Hangdog sneered over Fie’s shoulder. He’d risen at last. “No surprise that’ll take a while.”

Tavin’s expression stayed sharp but polite. “How much longer?” he asked again.

“An hour, if that, ’til we’re on the road.” Pa scratched a rough map in the dirt with one finger, tracing the route to come. “The walk from here to Cheparok … I say it’ll take a week, if we’re lucky.”

“‘Lucky’?” Tavin picked up his sword. “A crone could walk there in four days.”

Besom swatted him on the shin.

Fie froze. Tavin had been beastly clear about not being touched by Crows.

But he just laughed and sheathed his blade. By Fie’s eye, it hadn’t needed sharpening in the slightest. “Apologies.”

Pa flipped more dough as Barf the cat stretched and climbed from Besom’s lap. “Lucky means we only have to answer one plague beacon, and it’s close to the road. Unlucky means that beacon’s a day’s walk out, and there’s a day’s work there and a day’s walk back.”

“That’s unacceptable.” Tavin was more sharp than polite now.

Fie had had enough of the Hawk’s paper threats. She got to her feet. “Take it up with the Covenant.”

“Don’t speak to him like that,” Prince Jasimir snapped.

“Don’t speak to Pa like that,” she spat back.

Tavin turned his glass-hard stare on her, and a warning glinted in his tone. “You’re addressing the crown prince of Sabor.”

“Funny,” Fie hissed, “could’ve sworn that prince is dead.”

The Hawk opened his mouth—then looked down. Barf had rolled onto his sandals, purring.

“Fie.” The tongs scraped on iron as Pa flipped the panbread. Like it or not, she knew her chief’s signal when she heard it. She sat.

“Crows go where we’re called,” Pa said. “A beacon’s a beacon. Hawks run those stations, and they don’t take kind to Crows ignoring their calls.”

“I’ll deal with the Hawks,” Tavin said.