Torchlight glinted off steel as Hawks shifted at the wall, a sign their indulgence ran thin. A paper threat with plague bodies heaped in the cart, but a threat all the same. Enough to make a few Crows flinch. Enough to strike lightning through Fie’s gut.

Only a paper threat, yet they made it because they could. Because they liked seeing Crows jump.

Fie’s anger was a curious thing, sometimes tempered and unwavering as cut steel, sometimes raw and unstoppable as a cut vein. Now an old, sharp kind of rage climbed up her spine, forged of every blade pointed at her for a jest.

And it was that old, sharp rage that told Fie her price.

The screams and footfalls of the Money Dance rose in fury as she stepped forth.

Rhusana had deliberately daubed her face over with boredom, clicking her own diamond-cluttered claws a breath faster than the beats of the dance. Fie knew the signs of impatience: the queen still didn’t think she’d answer for this insult. The steward, however, had gone near as gray as the tabby in his arms.

The cat was offered tremulously. Fie didn’t take it. She had a chief’s price in mind.

She wanted to look the Splendid Castes in the eye without fear. She wanted to make the Hunting Castes think twice before flashing their steel for laughs. She wanted her ma back.

But since the queen couldn’t give her any of that, she’d take the next best thing.

“I’ll have the teeth,” Fie said.

Rhusana glared at the steward. He looked ready to vomit, eyes locked on the bloody shrouds in the cart. “Chief, I cannot—it is not your place to ask—”

“The teeth,” Fie repeated, stone-cold. She squashed down the odd little jolt in her chest at being called “chief.” Not yet.

Behind her, the Crows wheeled and roared. Both she and Rhusana knew they could keep terrorizing the court for hours while the dead sinners steeped the palace in plague. The Swan Queen might wear the royal crest, but here and now, Fie ruled the courtyard.

Rhusana did not answer.

Nor did Fie budge. The longer this went, the worse the queen looked for letting Crows drag her about.

Sweat beaded the steward’s face. A pity that Fie needed the queen to crack, not him.

“You have a count of a hundred,” said Fie, turning her beaked mask square on Rhusana and mustering every scrap of old fury. “Then we leave the boys at your gate and come to your city nevermore.”

“But—” the steward sputtered, “the king—”

“One,” said Fie.

“Please—”

“Two,” said Fie.

“Enough,” Rhusana snapped.

Fie waited. A passing breeze plucked at her robe, then settled.

“Fifty naka.” Rhusana’s lip curled, her diamond talons clicking faster. “And we will overlook your insolence.”

The steward wheezed a sigh of deliverance. “Thank you for your immeasurable generosity, Your Ma—”

“Three,” said Fie.