“He…” She didn’t know why it felt so sour to say. “King Surimir wasn’t there.”
Jasimir stopped tearing at his panbread.
“The thrones were empty,” Fie said. “Rhusana paid us at the gate.”
Jasimir went still. Then he stood, dropped his panbread in the fire, and stalked off after Tavin without another word.
“Hmph.” Besom raised her eyebrows. “Waste of good bread.”
Fie supposed she ought to feel sorry for the prince. She might have if the king’s throne hadn’t been good as empty for every Crow, long as she could remember.
And she had other matters on her head. Apart from her, Pa, and Besom, only Swain lingered, tallying inventory by the cart.
She could talk plain. “Hangdog gets a string?”
“So do you.” Besom wiggled her string-netted fingers.
“I’m no chief.” For that matter, neither was Hangdog, but Fie kept that to herself.
“It’s time you carry your own. Things are a-shift.” Pa prodded another wheel of panbread with a pair of tongs, testing whether the puff of dough was ready to flip. “We’re rolling fortune-bones, Fie. They land right? We’re rid of the Oleanders, and by my ken, that more than earns you a chief’s string. But if the bones land wrong…” He paused to pry the panbread off the hot iron. It was still too raw in the middle, splitting in twain. One half landed in the coals as Pa cursed.
“That’ll be us,” he grumbled, turning the remaining half. “Either way, I want you wearing a string.”
Fie watched the burnt half shrivel, thinking. Most chiefs-in-training had to wait until the ceremonies in Crow Moon to take up a chief’s string. Carrying one was an honor, naught she needed a bribe for.
Unless—
She stared at Pa, aghast. “I’m to inherit the oath.”
Besom cackled as her fingers danced around thread and tooth. “Clever, clever. Told you she’d sniff it out.”
“No call for a fuss,” Pa said, firm, but his eyes were fixed on the fire, not her. “It’s only if the deal goes bad. You’ve got the steadiest head of any of us. If something happens and I can’t keep the oath … well, I won’t be looking to Hangdog to finish it for me.”
Fie’s pulse rattled in her ears. It shouldn’t have shaken her so; she trusted Pa. And though they’d never spoken of it, she and Pa both knew who would lead their band when his time came. But if aught happened to him now … the prince, the oath, the weight of every Crow alive—they’d fall to her alone.
Fie checked over her shoulder, then asked, “Did Hangdog get Phoenix teeth?”
Besom shook her head. “Sparrow, Owl, Pigeon, a few Crane.”
Refuge, memory, fortune, and honesty. Birthrights that couldn’t hurt anyone. That wasn’t happenstance. “You think he’d try to jump the lordlings?”
“I think he’d jump the king himself if he had a chance,” Pa said, grim. “We need this deal.” He plucked the puff of panbread from the griddle. “That’s why I’m trusting you to see it through if need be.”
Fie’s belly knotted up like the string in Besom’s hands. Pa was right. No matter how the prince called her a bone thief, no matter how his pet Hawk rattled his steel, they needed the oath. They’d needed the oath for generations.
Fie’s ma had needed the oath.
Fie’d just never thought she’d be the chief to barter it. And there was no running from the chief’s bloody road for her now. Not anymore.
“Done.” Besom passed the string to Fie. It was heavier than she expected. Teeth of all twelve castes dangled in dull clusters, more than Fie could count. Familiar sparks flickered in each one, a promise and a burden.
Once she tied it on, she’d be duty-bound to bear a chief’s string until the day her road ended.
She’d asked for this, back at the palace. Demanded it. And she had danced Pa into this mess. By every measure, by every dead god, she was bound to help him make it out.
* * *
True to Pa’s word, he whistled the marching order to send them to the roads before the hour was up. Madcap launched into a loud and lewd walking song once they reached the flatway, a wider, busier road that the kingdom’s Pigeon and Sparrow laborers kept smooth and even. Barf resumed her post inside the cart, though Fie reckoned that would last only as long as they stayed to the flatway. Besom had claimed she’d miss the cat more than the lot of them combined.
Then, halfway to the next league marker, the demands of the Covenant called.