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.

Pa didn’t look at him. “That’s only the half of it. We answer every beacon we see, or we answer to the Covenant later with scores of dead on our account. If we don’t take a sinner in time, plague takes the whole town—every animal, every seed, every babe. Can’t do aught but burn it all to the ground before it spreads. You ever listen to a child die by fire?”

Prince Jasimir swallowed and shook his head.

“Then let’s keep it that way, aye?” Pa drew wavering branches on the dirt map. “Direct, it’s two days southeast to reach the Fan region, and another two days to Cheparok. Count on at least one detour. But we’ll have His Highness to safety by week’s end, well before Peacock Moon is up.”

Prince Jasimir shifted, uneasy. “For all we know, Rhusana’s already set Vultures on our trail.”

Fie flinched, one palm sliding over the black curves of her own witch-sign. A Vulture-caste skinwitch had put it there years ago, when Fie had registered as a witch as required by Sabor law. The woman had been a northerner like most Vultures, sour and pale as bad milk, and her clammy fingers had glued so tight to Fie’s wrist that it stung when she let go.

The best skinwitches could track flesh like a hound. Fie had felt the tracking magic when she’d practiced at Vulture teeth: the long-dead skinwitch saw every footstep, every thumbprint, everything her prey had touched, all spinning a trail plain as thread. If skinwitches like that came looking …