The Merciful Crow

by Margaret Owen

  A prince and a guard. A Phoenix and his Hawk, then. Fie didn’t know if she wanted to scream or laugh. Perhaps this was all one garish nightmare. If they were lucky—

  “You’re certain we weren’t followed?”

  The quiet voice belonged to the boy the bodyguard had called “Jas.”

  Jasimir. Everyone knew the crown prince’s name. As the prince untangled himself, neither he nor his guard seemed to note how every mutter had died like birdsong before a storm. The Crows eyed the lordlings as if twin serpents had slipped from the shrouds. By torchlight the two blood-soaked boys were nigh identical in their wide, sharp-jawed faces, sleek black topknots, and loose linen shirts and trousers. Where his Hawk guard was all good-natured ease, though, the prince was as grim as if he were truly at his own funeral.

  But it took more than a crown and a frown to faze Pa. “Oh aye, we were followed.” He pried a tooth from his string and tossed it aside. Fie couldn’t believe he’d burned a whole Sparrow tooth without her catching on. “Pair of the queen’s trackers. They tailed us to the bridge and no farther.”

  “Cur.”

  The prince, the Hawk, and Pa all looked up. Wretch’s mask was off as well. Fie knew when she called Pa “Cur,” they were in for a spectacle.

  “I see you’re busy ministering to the needs of the royal louts here,” she cooed, voice rising, “but I don’t suppose if, perchance, when it suits your fancy, you might share with your kin what nonsense, suicidal, scum-brained scheme you’ve just dragged us into?”

  The Hawk bodyguard moved first, striding toward Wretch. “Of course, I apologize. We’ve been quite inconsiderate.” He tapped his right fist to his lips and held it out in greeting. Wretch, taken aback, did the same, and they clasped hands briefly. “My name is Tavin. I’m sure you’ve figured out who my friend is.”

  “We’ve a notion,” Hangdog drawled, leaning on the cart. There was a nasty edge in his voice, the kind he got when he hungered for a fight. “Got bored of your palace, cousins?”

  The prince’s face darkened at the slantways insult. Before he could bite back, his Hawk guard flicked his hand, dismissive. “I don’t typically commit wide-scale blasphemy out of boredom. Repeat assassination attempts tend to motivate a man, though.”

  Wretch scowled. “If someone doesn’t start talking sense, I’m getting as far clear of here as possible.”

  “Then I’ll rephrase,” the Hawk said. “Rhusana wants us dead.”

  “She wants me dead,” Prince Jasimir corrected. “She’s wanted it since she used Father to marry up into the Phoenixes, and she wants it even more now that she’s birthed a prince of her own. First it was just a hunting accident, then a viper in the bathhouse, then ground glass in the wine … and it won’t stop until she’s gone. Or I am.”

  Wretch flung her arm at the road. “Well done, then! You’ve given her square what she wants. So now that we’ve dragged you to freedom, we’ll be taking our leave, aye?”

  The Hawk—Tavin, he’d said he was Tavin—didn’t answer, instead holding out a hand to Fie. “I’m sorry for scaring you, by the way.”

  She let him pull her back to her feet before yanking free. “Well, I’m not sorry for punching you.”

  “That’s probably not the last time you’ll say that.” His teeth flashed in a grin. “Jas and I need to tag along with you for a few days.”

  Pa stiffened, crossing his arms. “That wasn’t our deal.”

  Tavin and the prince traded looks. Tavin’s mouth twisted. “It’s complicated,” he began.

  “It’s not. I kept my word. Our business is done.” Pa’s tone had turned a chill sort of civil. Fie snorted. Typical high castes, thinking they could twist the terms of a deal as they pleased. They’d picked the wrong Crow chief for that.

  “You don’t understand.” Prince Jasimir’s voice rose. “We’re—”

  “Out of Dumosa,” Pa answered, even and immovable. “And we have our viatik. That was the deal. No more, no less.”

  The Hawk guard scowled. “You have to hear us out.”

  Fie contemplated punching him again.

  “This isn’t your palace, lads.” Pa bent to pick up a drag-rope. “We don’t have to do aught.”

  “They’re going to try to kill you,” Prince Jasimir said, abrupt.

  A moment’s hush dropped, then ruptured in laughter. Madcap wheezed so hard, they had to lean on the cart. Both the prince and the Hawk looked taken aback.

  “Oh, they’ll try to kill us?” Wretch cackled. “That’s new. That’s bold. Oh, I like that.”

  Prince Jasimir’s brow furrowed. “How could you possibly find that amusing?”

  “They’ve been trying to kill us. There’s always some ‘they.’ Reckon they’ve been at it a few centuries now.” Fie swept him the same mocking bow she’d given Queen Rhusana. “My deepest of sorrows, Your Highness, but if you mean to frighten us into helping you, you’ll have to think bigger.”

  “Are the Oleander Gentry big enough?”

  Fie snapped up straight to stare at Tavin as the laughter died. The Oleander Gentry were more than a “they.” The Oleander Gentry were a fist to the windpipe of every Crow.

  “It’s a funny story, you see,” the Hawk guard continued, the sudden razor edge in his words suggesting it was anything but a jest. “Turns out the queen’s been making lots of new and horrible friends. Right now I’d give it a month before she tries to take the throne for herself. And when she does, she’ll owe most of her success to her greatest allies: the Oleander Gentry.”

  Part of Fie wanted to hit him again. Part of her wanted to run clear from Sabor.

  Every Crow carried scars from the Gentry. They were the reason Crows didn’t stop near many a village after sundown. That was when the Gentry would ride, bearing white oleanders on their breasts, faces hidden in pale paints and undyed cloth so they couldn’t be traced to kin or caste.

  Most of Sabor believed Crows to be dead sinners reborn, sentenced to repent through a hard life of containing the plague. Oleanders believed the part they liked—that the Covenant meant to punish Crows for their misdeeds—and claimed the Crows spread the plague themselves. Then they took it upon themselves to dole out that punishment. The Covenant was one more mask for them, and Fie kenned too well the monsters that rode beneath it.

  They were rich and poor, nameless and infamous, many and merciless. Their hunts were only called murder when they were caught. And since they only hunted Crows, the regional governors were in no great hurry to catch them.

  When the Gentry took Crows, only the lucky few walked away.

  Fie’s mother hadn’t been lucky.

  Fie thought of a road in the dark, one that stretched over a dozen years behind her, when she’d scarce reached Pa’s knee. Yet she still remembered the trail of fingers the Oleander Gentry had left to point the way.

  She caught up her robe’s loose thread again and twisted it hard.

  “I won’t demand your obedience in this.” Torchlight danced over Prince Jasimir’s bloody face. “But with Rhusana on the throne…”

  “… the Oleander Gentry will ride where they please, when they please,” Fie finished. Hangdog was gripping the cart so tight, his knuckles looked near to burst through the skin. She could only guess what he saw in his own terrible memory.

  Tavin nodded. “And they’ll get an armed Hawk escort to help.”

  Fie didn’t have to guess at her own memories: far away and long ago, a little girl picked up a crooked, fleshy caterpillar in the cold and dusty road, then found nine more in a red-tipped trail.

  Ma had hooked that finger through Fie’s small hands enough times for her to know every scrape, every callus, every bump of the scar down one joint. And when Fie had fumbled, and the broken stump of finger-bone scraped against her palm, she’d known the spark singing to her from that bone. She’d know Ma’s song anywhere.

  The road had caught Fie back then, in the peculiar way that only roads could. Chief—not Pa to her, not yet—had strod
e that bloody path, blade in a shaking fist, knowing he had mercy to deliver to one of his own. And Fie—not a chief-in-training, not yet—had stayed frozen in place, wanting to see her ma but knowing that every time that blade came out, Ma had covered Fie’s eyes.

  That cold road had trapped her there until Wretch bore her away, for even then, Fie had known her choices were to either walk down the chief’s way, or to run from it.

  And on this road now, in the torch-lit dark, Fie still could not say which way was worse.

  But if the queen gave Oleanders command of her Hawks—if not even daylight gave Crows refuge—Fie knew sore how all their roads would end.

  The lines in Wretch’s face seemed to carve a little deeper than they had a moment before. “If you boys are fixing to have us Crows storm the palace and fight off Her Majesty, I got hard news for you about how that will turn out.”

  “The Oleanders only have sway.” Prince Jasimir seemed steadier on political ground. “And the people still call Rhusana the Swan Queen for a reason. She can rule through her son’s claim to the throne, but she still needs support from the regional governors to keep the kingdom united. My cousin Kuvimir is the lord-governor of the Fan region. He’s sworn to take us in and rally the others behind me, which should force Rhusana to back down. If we move fast, we can reach his fortress in Cheparok before she deposes Father.”

  “So we smuggle you to your kin in Cheparok, they make a big, ugly show of liking you over the queen, and you remember us rosy on your throne someday.” Fie nodded to the wagon’s load of firewood. “Reckon you forgot how most of Sabor thinks you and your Hawk here are charcoal in a pyre right now.”

  The prince hesitated to answer; the Hawk pounced. Tavin’s teeth flashed wolfish as a gambler who knew how his loaded shells would land. “That’s my favorite part, actually. I’ll have to lie low for a while, but Jas … Let’s just say Queen Ambra set a precedent for Phoenixes miraculously returning from the dead.”

  Fie’s jaw dropped. Of all the things she had heard this night, what Tavin proposed was the most rattle-brained of all.

  In the entire history of Sabor, only one soul had ever burned bright enough to survive the Sinner’s Plague: the invincible Ambra, matriarch of the Phoenix caste, Queen of Day and Night. Legend said she rode tigers into battle, a spear in each hand; that she walked in wildfire unscathed; that the sun came at her beck and call, so greatly did it love her. Legend said that her rebirth in the Phoenix caste would herald another era of prosperity and peace.

  Legend hadn’t much to say about shamming her reincarnation for political gain, but somehow Fie couldn’t imagine it landed on the right side of the Covenant. Nor could she conjure a vision of the willowy prince before her riding aught more spirited than a poppy-addled pony.

  Tavin must have read the doubt on her face, for his hand flapped once more. “We can’t really sell Jas as the King of Day and Night. But bouncing back from the Sinner’s Plague is a good argument that Ambra’s bloodline is strong in him. That alone will win over half the country.”

  “The idiot half,” Wretch muttered.

  “If there were another way out, we’d take it.” Prince Jasimir’s gaze traveled from Crow to Crow. What he was searching for, Fie couldn’t say. “But Rhusana will give every one of you over to the Oleanders if she reaches the throne. I’m asking for your help to stop her. Otherwise none of us has a chance.”

  “If you’re speaking true…” Pa rolled a tooth strung at his neck. Fie would’ve gone for a Crane-caste tooth, one that could sift out lies from the lordlings. Instead Pa’s hand dropped. He looked at the rest of the Crows. “We’ve only got one rule. Strikes me we’d best follow it.”

  Look after your own. Fie had heard that rule near every day. As a chief, she’d need to live it soon. But even if she could keep her own band of Crows safe, the whole caste was scattered across Sabor.

  If the Oleanders could ride free, road after road would end like her ma’s had.

  Her jaw stiffened. It was a chafing thing: even filthy with pig blood, the lordlings still looked like they belonged in a palace.

  There was no real bargain here, just make-believe benevolence of offering the Crows a choice. It was written in the imperious tilt of the prince’s lips, in the jut of Tavin’s chin, the way they both drummed their fingers as they waited for an answer they were sure they’d get.

  Just like Rhusana, with her damned oleander bangle. Even if the lordlings were bluffing about her ambitions, the Oleander Gentry still had her favor. Of course the Crows had no choice.

  Of all the bodies Fie had ever dragged off to burn, she most surely hated these two the most. For all their talk, the lordlings treated with the Crows as if they were back in that miserable gilded hall, forcing them to dance for fair pay—

  An idea carved through her thoughts like her sandal-nail on marble, and left a trail like a bloody finger.

  “No,” Fie said. “I say no deal.”

  Surprise flashed over every face on the road. Hangdog’s snort followed. Prince Jasimir’s dark eyes narrowed. “We want to help—”

  “Oh, you want to help,” she mimicked. “Does His Highness have another servant to shovel up all the crap falling out of his mouth, or is that his job?” She jerked a thumb at Tavin. To his credit, the guard only raised his eyebrows, but that razor edge danced in his gaze again. “You faked your deaths. You tried to go back on your deal with Pa. And you just told us your whole plan is to lie to everyone in Sabor. Why would we trust you?”

  “Because your lives depend on it,” Prince Jasimir snapped, panic sparking in his voice. “Do you truly think the Oleander Gentry will treat with you?”

  Fie smothered a laugh. “Awful convenient how your heart only bleeds for Crows now that you need us. Spent your life weeping on the inside, did you?”

  “That’s not fair,” Tavin started.

  That same old rage whipped the words from her. “Fair? Fair? You want to tell me what’s fair, palace boy? You want us to choose betwixt letting the Oleanders run us down by day or making sure they still have to do it by dark so your castes can keep pretending you don’t see?” She spat at their feet. “Call that help if you want. Your Hawk’ll pick it up with the rest of your crap.”

  If any Crow thought Fie had overstepped, she’d hear their grumbles. Instead, the roadside was wired in taut silence, all eyes on her.

  They knew a Money Dance when they heard it.

  Tavin moved first, rubbing his hands together. Somehow the gesture still looked deadly. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted with a shrug. “At least, not about your options. It’d take another ten years in service of the palace for me to make it all the way to royal dung collector. I’d recommend you take our word on the Oleanders, though.”

  “What’s your word worth when you’re good as dead?” The rot in Hangdog’s voice said this was more than the Money Dance. “When we’re all good as dead?”

  “Fine.” Prince Jasimir pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gold? Jewels? Lands? What’s your price?”

  Fie mimicked Tavin’s dismissive hand flick. “Flash and trash. If the Oleanders don’t loot those from us, your other gentry will.”

  “Then what do you want?” Prince Jasimir asked.

  This time, Fie already had a chief’s price in mind.

  Look after your own. She had one foot already down this road, and every eye was on her. She couldn’t go back; she couldn’t give her ma mercy or keep Hangdog from screaming in his sleep. But she could keep any Crow from having to walk that way again.

  She took a deep breath and looked Prince Jasimir dead in the eye. “I never want to see the Oleander Gentry again. The Hawks that Rhusana promised the Gentry? They’ll guard us instead. I want your Covenant oath that with you as king, every caste will know we Crows are worth protecting. That’s my price.”

  The prince’s face turned as gray as the steward’s had.

  Pa, on the other hand, had the tiny wrinkles under his eyes that only showed when he wa
s beating down a smile. Fie took that as a good sign.

  “Crows,” Pa called out before either lordling could speak. “Do we favor those terms?”

  Another twist of her dance. There was a chorus of ayes. Another twist of the knife. Tavin’s glare could have cut through stone.

  “You know what you’re asking?” Prince Jasimir asked. “No caste has ever had special protection like this before.”

  Swain coughed. “Suppose your palace Hawks are just highly trained, well-armed houseguests, then?” One more whirl and stamp, one more scratch in the floor.

  The prince opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking. “It’s different,” he said slowly. “Royalty are prime targets for coordinated attacks and internal violence—”

  “Aye, and we actually die from those.” Fie folded her arms. “You said you wanted to help. Rhusana seems to think she’s got Hawks to spare. We’ve named the terms, prince. Cut your oath or leave us be.”

  Fie’s favorite thing about the Money Dance was that it always, always worked.

  Tavin ran a hand over his dark hair. “She’s got a point, Jas. Several, in fact. Enough points that I’m starting to think she’s mostly thorns.”

  “Some bone in there, too,” Pa added, his grin little more than lacquer over an unspoken threat. “Y’know. For structure.”

  Prince Jasimir scowled, eyes darting from Fie to Tavin. After a long moment, his shoulders drooped. “Fine. You have my word.”

  Fie caught her breath. A ripple shifted through the Crows; it might as well have echoed down the road, all across Sabor.

  The prince had just sworn to tell his country that Crows were worth protecting.

  But they only had his word. Fie knew how flimsy a Phoenix’s promise was. “I said a Covenant oath.”

  The prince shrank back. Hangdog laughed cruelly. “Oh, the wee princeling’s afraid of cutting an oath, then?”

  Pa shot Hangdog a dark look. “No harm in it, lad. I’m the chief. You’ll bind it with me.” When Jasimir didn’t move, Pa slowly drew out a jagged stump of a sword from under his robes. Some long-past battle had sheared the blade in half, leaving a length of steel no longer than Pa’s forearm, but its broken point still gleamed wickedly as Pa jabbed it into his palm.