Second, he was deeply insecure, boasting of his expensive Dovecraft robes, his unmatched vineyards, how often the regional governor invited him to dine in his grand fortress in Zarodei.
And third: judging from the way he couldn’t stop staring at Fie, he was terrified of her.
Not that she was doing much to soothe his nerves, staring right back at him, jaw clenched, as he dithered, “We’ll all just be so relieved when this … unpleasantness blows over.”
Fie was weighing how much longer she could abide the company of the Peacock lord. Draga had promised she wouldn’t even need to say aught, just enjoy a fine dinner with Tavin, and like a fool, Fie had believed her. Instead she’d had to leave her swords and teeth in Tavin’s tent, don a laughably large tunic of Draga’s, and pretend she didn’t want to drown Geramir in the soup course.
“I’m sure His Highness will remember your hospitality,” Draga said crisply, not even blinking as a serving boy set a plate of fine greens and plum-drenched beef before her. The master-general had apparently insisted Lord Geramir come to them if he wanted the prince’s ear, and he had not arrived empty-handed, bringing a host of his own Sparrow servants and platter after gleaming platter of Hassuran delicacies.
Now those same servants swarmed thick as bees about the tent, which had been set up just for this dinner as far as Fie could tell. It wasn’t near big enough for all the attendants darting about with trays, bowls, platters, pitchers, and more; it was made all the worse as they tried to give Fie a wide berth, turning her corner of the table into an oasis in a storm. Fie had been sure to scrub herself even cleaner than the prince, but the servants had apparently caught word that a Crow would be in attendance.
“Lord Geramir,” Jas said, “are you aware some towns are attempting to burn their own plague-dead?”
The Peacock lord coughed into his wine goblet. A plate landed before Fie with a thud. The server scuttled away near as abrupt as they’d appeared.
Lord Geramir dabbed at his mouth with a fine silk hand towel, then flicked it away for a server to pluck from the ground. “I’m sure they’re just following the queen’s example.”
Fie snuck a look at Draga to see how she’d gone about managing the slab of beef. It seemed to involve the delicate forked tongs beside her plate. She didn’t miss Geramir’s uneasy glance when she picked up a silver knife.
“I would appreciate it if you made it clear to your arbiters that the Crows must handle any outbreaks.” Jasimir’s own knife scraped against the plate as he sliced through the beef. “It’s not safe for anyone else to dispose of the bodies.”
Lord Geramir bobbed his head. “This will all pass soon enough.”
“Geramir.” Draga set her forked tongs down. “The words you’re looking for are ‘Yes, Your Highness.’”
He squirmed, tugging at his collar. “It would be unseemly to directly contradict Her Majesty … There are those who would think I am showing favoritism to, er, to the…” Geramir’s gaze skimmed over Fie and Tavin a moment before darting back to his plate. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” Tavin asked, artificially pleasant. The lamplight gleamed off the circlet sitting in his short-cropped hair as he tilted his head.
Draga cleared her throat, but Prince Jasimir blinked at the governor, slow and deliberate. “I’m afraid we don’t know what you mean, Lord Geramir.” He let the Peacock fidget a moment. “If you’re saying your only two options are to let the Crows continue to keep the Sinner’s Plague in check as they’ve done for centuries, or to let your land rot because this week’s queen told you to, the choice seems fairly obvious to me.”
“No, of course…” Geramir looked about for another hand towel, then settled for dabbing his brow with a sleeve. “I’m just saying, you can issue your own orders after you’re crowned a week from now, and it makes no sense for me to burn bridges when we could just wait it out—”
“‘Wait it out’?”
The tent fell silent as everyone looked at Fie. She was staring at the Peacock lord, cheeks burning.
“I’m not particularly concerned,” Geramir said, waving a hand. “The arbiters know what’s best for their towns, and—”
“The arbiter of Karostei was the one turning away Crows,” Fie snapped, anger spiking up her gut. “He died wearing the Sinner’s Brand, along with a quarter of Karostei. We left