with the image of great Phoenixes of the past: Bright Hamarian, Suro the Conqueror, and of course, Ambra. Fires in every column blazed without mercy, even in the heat of midsummer, and the air hung just as thick with perfume oils and incense as the night Fie had pulled two dead princes from the palace’s guts.
The stream of gentry was beginning to congeal into a glittering crowd, mingling to the strains of musicians in the two galleries lining the upper levels of the hall. Sparrow servants wound round the multitudes, offering trays of pale wines and delicate pastries, brandishing palm fans to keep the gentry cool, and swiftly snatching away any empty goblets or plates. As Fie watched, a Peacock noblewoman in an emerald-choked headdress popped a thumbnail-size stuffed crab into her mouth, chewed once, wrinkled her nose, and motioned for a servant. The nearest Sparrow held his hand below her mouth, face stiff, as the Peacock daintily spat wet crab into his palm.
Fie winced, sick to her stomach. Back in Gen-Mara’s shrine, Pa was counting out rations and stretching every grain, every drop, every crumb, to last until the end of the moon.
All the more reason to end Rhusana swift. Fie ducked behind a tapestry in a secluded corner to let her Sparrow witch-tooth go before it burned too low. A Peacock witch-tooth wove Niemi’s face over her own once more; Fie borrowed the glimmering gown of another aristocrat, the elegantly dressed hair of a nearby countess, the swinging jewelry of a young woman she’d passed in line. When she was done, the teeth she’d strung at her wrist had turned to bangles, the swords at her hips hidden beneath a flowing skirt.
More importantly, everything was fine enough to blend in, but not so fine as to draw attention. She could barely manage speaking like a servant on her own; talking to any of these gentry would mean consulting another of Niemi’s teeth for aid, and Fie reckoned she’d rather let someone spit crab on her.
Fie slipped out from the tapestry and drifted onward, careful to look purposeful enough that no one interrupted her. Wherever she ended up, she needed to have a clear view of the ceremony. But the highest of nobility had already packed the front of the hall, and she doubted they’d move for her. She squinted, trying to spy a way to squeeze in—
And the crowd shifted briefly, just long enough for her to catch sight of Tavin in the heart of the throng.
Her heart seized. From a distance, it didn’t matter that he wore a glamour of Jasimir’s face; it was close enough to his own to hurt. He was laughing. He looked happy. He looked—
Straight at her.
She tried not to flinch away as they locked eyes. Niemi wasn’t there to tell her to be charming, but Khoda’s reminder still was: Let’s see what else you can catch.
Academically speaking, the expression Fie gave Tavin could have been called a smile. It also could have been called a death threat.
She hurried off before she made good on it, only to run into a Sparrow servant who’d slid into her path.
Fie stiffened. Not even a minute and she’d already been found out. She didn’t even have her Phoenix teeth to burn a way out anymore, just the one from Tavin—
The servant gave a deep bow, and Fie tried not to let her relief show. Even after he straightened, his head stayed bent, his eyes cast to the ground. “Lady Sakar, a thousand apologies for the interruption of this unworthy one.”
He paused, waiting for her. Fie gulped. It was a good day when a Sparrow didn’t spit in her wake, normally. She’d at least find that less disconcerting. “Go on,” she said, trying to sound aloof instead of unsteady.
Only then did she spot the crest sewn into his golden sash: two hands cradling a sun. The royal emblem. That meant he was a personal attendant, either of the prince or of the queen. “His Highness wishes to offer Your Ladyship a more favorable place to observe the coronation, should you so desire it.”
She’d certainly caught something of Tavin’s, then, and it was sore useful and sore repulsive. Fie hated it the way she hated viatik sometimes, when the goods were dear but the givers dreadful. And she knew better than to trust anything given freely.
“Very well,” Fie said in her best highborn snob voice. “Where … is it?”
A flicker of curiosity darted through his face. “I will