Stamp-scrape-scream. Fie huffed under her mask. That was for their ugly palace.

Stamp-scrape-stamp. That was for drawing steel on them.

She trilled again, and the Crows stopped just shy of the threshold. A sick tension clung to the gallery, knuckles whitening on gemstones and silk.

The Crows snapped about and spun into a weaving, vicious pattern back to the cart. Nervous relief wound through the galleries, then wavered when the Crows didn’t immediately take up their ropes and torches again. Fie took her place at the cart’s front-right corner and waited until the nearest Peacock looked likely to piss himself.

Fie let out a murderous whistle. The Crows snatched up torch and rope, exploding down the hall and into the last courtyard like a hurricane, howling with the gods’ own wrath.

Courtiers scattered, tripping over satin trains and painted leather slippers. From the corner of her eye, Fie saw Hangdog had got his wish: at least three Peacocks had fainted.

That, she thought, is for trying to pay us with a damn cat.

Pa liked to call it the Money Dance. Fie just liked that it worked.

Their cart slowed near the gate, yet the dance carried on. The queen had not fled like the others of her court, her steward still quaking by her side. From ten paces off, Fie could see all too clear who they intended to shake down.

Queen Rhusana bristled beneath the arch, pale eyes glittering like two hard moons. Under the intricate whorls of white mourning paint, her face was a few shades lighter than Fie’s own terra-cotta, her brown complexion nearer to polished bronze. Everywhere Fie looked she saw wasted coin: a diamond-studded headdress wrought like a phoenix of white gold; ropes of pearls and diamonds dripping from her arms to drag on the ground; a white tiger pelt draped over her shoulders. The black-striped tail coiled about her arm, one hind paw fastened to clutch at her hip, and its stuffed head lolled on the tiles, eyes blank with more white gold. To Fie’s disgust, even the dead thing’s claws were crusted over with diamonds.

The silent demand of tradition had brought Rhusana to pay for her husband’s dead son. But it was clear as day that the queen had her own unspoken demand: every eye would stay nailed to her glory alone.

It had never been about the coin. But by every dead god, Fie hoped Pa would make it about coin now.

Then Pa gestured to Fie, jerking his head at the gate.

He wanted her to deal with Rhusana. To name the viatik price.

Fie froze. Sweat rolled down her backbone. Calling the Money Dance was one thing. Making demands of a queen was another. She wasn’t a chief, not yet—it wasn’t proper—what if she fouled it up and cost them all—

She didn’t even know what to ask for.