The palace had leered at them, drawn steel on them, all but spat on them, and now they’d made a mockery of payment. Queen Rhusana didn’t care about sending her family into the next life with the barest scrap of dignity. All she cared for was flaunting the brutal truth: as queen, she could give Crows naught but contempt, and every time, Crows would have to take it.

No chief would abide this, not even one in training. Not even one facing a queen. Something had to be done.

The Crows were merciful, but they weren’t cheap.

The cart had near caught up to Pa. Fie leaned forward, blinking sweat and tears from her eyes. “Pa,” she whispered. The beak of his mask dipped. “Money Dance?”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then the beak dipped again.

For the first time that night, Fie grinned.

She jammed her nail-studded sole into the ground and stuffed every grain of spite into a long, satisfying scratch, the marble screaming for mercy. And then she screamed back.

Around her, the dozen Crows wailed in answer to the call, jolting to a halt. Thirteen torches clattered to the ground.

For the second time that night, the galleries above went silent.

The Crows shrieked again, Fie loudest of all, her pitch climbing at the end. The others took her signal and waited, stock-still. She counted out the quiet in her head: Four. Three. Two. One.

Another bloodcurdling cry tore through the hall from thirteen throats, its unmistakable anger echoing off distant archways. Another silence crashed in its wake.

On the third round of screams, the noble sneers were gone. All eyes hung on the motionless cart.

On the fifth round, half the gallery looked ready to cry.

Most fine lords and ladies had never been this close to Crows or plague-dead. To them, the plague was a poor man’s problem.

They didn’t understand that there were rules. That the plague cared naught for silks or jewels. That it left when the Crows said it could.

But by the thousand dead gods of Sabor, Fie wagered they were starting to catch on now.

She decided they’d stewed enough, and trilled the marching order.

Stamp. The thirteen Crows stepped forward as one, but the cart stayed in its place, its drag-ropes coiling on the marble like asps. Stamp. Hunting Castes, Splendid Castes, Common Castes—it didn’t matter. The Crows would teach every Saborian in this hall to remember. Stamp. Before, their threadbare black rags and long-beaked masks had made them look a superstitious joke. Stamp. Now she saw nightmares in the eyes trailing the corpse-cart. This was the fear they’d learned at their father’s knee.

Fie trilled again.

The footfalls picked up pace, ending in a sweep that carved hellish curls into the tiles. Another stamp. Another guttural scream. Another two paces away from the cart. The gallery recoiled.