Book Read Free

The Merciful Crow

Page 12

by Margaret Owen


  “What do you think you’re doing?” A fist shot over her shoulder, closed around the Hawk’s wrist, and gave it a vicious wrench. The guard let go with a yelp and reached for the sword strapped at his side.

  Somehow, in the last few days, Fie had forgotten how fast Tavin could move. It seemed all she did was blink and the market guard was already crushed up against the wall, Tavin’s elbow pushing into his windpipe.

  “Easy, cousin,” Tavin said tightly, more a threat than a reassurance. “Think nice and hard about what your next move is, because if you’re lucky, I’ll just settle for letting Aunt Loka strip your hide.”

  “Tavin?” the guard wheezed, incredulous. His gaze skipped over to Jasimir. “Is that the prin—”

  Tavin clapped a hand over his cousin’s mouth. “Are you a special kind of stupid?” he demanded under his breath. “What part of ‘think about your next move’ was unclear?” The guard scowled at him. Tavin didn’t budge. “I’m going to let you down, and then you’re going to do us both a favor and shut up so you can listen very, very carefully to what I want you to do.”

  The guard nodded, and Tavin stepped back. Fie checked over her shoulder for onlookers, but none of the shoppers nearby had so much as glanced their way.

  “I thought you’d come alone,” the guard mumbled. “Not with—him. Or your honey rag there. Since when do you suck Crow sugar—”

  And back up against the wall the Hawk guard went, face-first this time.

  Tavin’s voice turned to the razor-sharp calm that warned of thin ice. “I suppose ‘shut up and listen’ was a tall order, but do it for your country, all right? I want you to tell Sergeant Bernai that you saw Crows in the market—those exact words—at the end of your shift. And then I want you to forget we talked. And if you can’t do that, at least keep your miserable mouth shut. Now, what are you going to do for your country, cousin?”

  “Tell the sergeant I saw you—”

  Tavin cleared his throat.

  “—that I saw Crows in the market … And tell only the sergeant.”

  “That’s the patriot I know.” Tavin let him go again. “You should also tell your sergeant the fifth-gate guards won’t let travelers pass without bribes.”

  “And?” His cousin shrugged. “The third and fourth gates don’t, either.”

  “And that’s illegal.” Jasimir’s voice burst over Fie’s shoulder. “The law says citizens should come and go as they please. I’ve never been charged at the first gate. Nobody else should pay, either.”

  Tavin’s cousin eyed the prince, then saluted, face blank. “As you wish, Your—sir. I’ll tell my sergeant about the gates.”

  Fie traded a look with Tavin. Both of them knew plain what that meant: he’d tell the sergeant indeed, and the sergeant wouldn’t do a damned thing.

  “First tell him you saw Crows,” Tavin said, sounding too much like Pa. “Then keep your mouth shut. And stop embarrassing the Markahns.” He hiked his hood up. “Let’s get out of here.”

  No one spoke until they’d made the descent back to Third Market. At the base of the stairs, Tavin caught at Fie’s arm, drawing her back to an alcove.

  “That wasn’t the first time, was it?” he asked, face taut with anger. The prince tilted his head, but Fie got Tavin’s meaning clear enough.

  She met Tavin’s gaze, then pointedly looked to where his hand still curled around her forearm, just as his cousin’s had.

  He let go as if he’d been burned, cursing under his breath.

  “Oh.” Jasimir’s face dropped.

  “I keep clear of Hawks if I can help it,” she told them. “But it wouldn’t be the first time for Crows. What do you do when a Hawk takes what they want? Tell another Hawk?”

  “Yes.” Tavin ran his hands through his hair. “That’s what you—what you should be able to do.”

  “And how do you reckon that ends for people who aren’t Hawks or gentry?” she asked.

  He looked away, toward the stairs to Second Market. Somehow that made her angry.

  Fie grabbed a fistful of Tavin’s cloak and gave it a jerk. He blinked at her.

  “I reckon,” she said coldly, “we all know how it ends.”

  Then she let go and set off to cross Third Market.

  It was a long, silent, stifling walk back to the fifth tier. But as Fie led the way down the final set of grimy stairs, she caught on to how close the Hawk had kept to her, now warding her back each step of the way.

  Fie didn’t know how she felt about that.

  Almost over. In a few hours, this would all be over. The prince would be safe, Pa’s oath would be kept, and she’d never again need to fear riders in the night.

  A few hours, and then no more roads would end like her ma’s had.

  They’d just hit the muddy fifth-tier street when murmurs and cries swept down through its straggling crowd. A beggar pointed back behind them. Fie turned.

  “Here we go,” Tavin said.

  When, not if.

  Four city tiers above, a black string of smoke trailed from the Floating Fortress’s plague beacon.

  * * *

  They left the shrine near sundown, copper sunlight striping shadows down the street as Fie slung her mask about her neck.

  “Here.” Hangdog held out a fistful of fresh mint leaves. “Found some in Fourth Market.”

  “Thanks.” She shook long-withered leaves from her mask beak and stuffed the new ones in. “Run into any trouble?”

  An odd look crossed his face before it blanked. “Nary a bit. You?”

  She strapped on her mask, taking a deep whiff of mint as the world narrowed to what she could see through the eyeholes. “Naught worth mentioning.”

  Yet another half-truth. But she’d have plenty of time to mull it over once the lordlings were gone.

  They ran into no disputes with the water-lifts this time. The attendants’ ashen faces said the sooner the Crows took the sinners, the better. One tier after another they ascended, market crowds splitting before the Crows’ grim procession with a sober, furious hush.

  The final water-lift released them into a waiting line of Hawk guards on the tiled lane of the first tier. Walls of snowy marble and iridescent glassblack towered around them, plaited into green-roofed mansions and pavilions where the soft trickle of fountains whispered through stone and shadow. Vivid painted tiles bordered each household’s foundations, layer upon layer detailing generations of Peacock-caste achievements.

  The Hawks fell into step at their flanks as they marched up the tight coil of the first tier and past gentry mansions, each more absurdly ornate than the last, until at last the great round black eye of the open reservoir drew into sight. The Floating Fortress sat no more than a man’s height above the Fan, stilted on thick columns that jutted from the water’s surface.

  The Fan itself flowed direct under the fortress and into the massive well, and as Fie followed their wagon up a limestone slope, she saw no sign of the reservoir’s bottom. Rumor said it reached all the way down to the fifth tier. At the top it fed the canals, spilling out into the blue-tiled chutes that cut down the city’s tiers. Tavin had been right: the view was best from up here, a grand mosaic of jewel-toned roof tiles and lush gardens tumbling down the tiers.

  The dying sun sent odd whorls across the sea-green walls of the Floating Fortress as the wagon neared. Fie tilted her head, wondering if it was a trick of her glassblack, until a gold hue burst across one shimmer. The walls had been painted in enamel and gold dust.

  A hot lump rose in her throat as she thought of every time Pa had passed his dinner to her. Every time she’d made herself sick on moldered panbread or chewed a fistful of mint just to keep from thinking about the hunger, just to hold out until the next viatik.

  “There’s Governor Kuvimir,” Prince Jasimir whispered, relief flashing through his voice like gold dust.

  Sure enough, a man watched them approach from the balcony of a courtyard ahead, his neck and chest glinting with the necklace-plate bearing
the governor’s fantailed insignia. A peculiar wrench wrung Fie’s gut.

  Almost over.

  She found a stray thread to pick at. The wagon rolled on.

  The walkway curled upward, leading to a marble bridge that stretched betwixt earth and fortress, over the rushing water where river met reservoir. Jade statues of the dead Peacock gods lined the railings. Governor Kuvimir still waited above the courtyard at the other end, clutching the balustrade with both fists.

  Fie’s sandal-nails gave a particular horrid whine as she set foot onto the marble bridge. Wagon wheels rattled after her, the oxen lowing with unease as their hooves clicked and scraped without purchase. More scratching echoed across the water as Crow after Crow marched onto the stone.

  Someone tapped her shoulder.

  “Fie.” Tavin’s voice was almost too quiet to pick out. “Something’s wrong.”

  She cast a look about and found the lordlings to her right, still walking like they owned the fortress. “What?”

  “The lord-governor should walk out to greet us.”

  “You think he’d walk out for Crows?” Hangdog barked out a laugh.

  “I’m telling you—” Tavin’s voice rose.

  Fie turned to hush them both—

  And froze.

  Their Hawk escort had lined up across the bridge at their back, a bristling wall between the Crows and the only way out.

  Fie heard a scuffle and whipped around. Hangdog had shoved the lordlings out in front of the wagon, stripping off his mask and theirs.

  “They’re here!” he shouted as Pa cursed and yanked on the reins. “I did what you wanted—”

  An arrow sank, soft and immediate, into Hangdog’s eye. He crumpled to the ground.

  The world went silent. Fie stared at the impossible heap of black fabric and limbs that ought to have been Hangdog.

  Another arrow whistled past, carving a stripe of searing pain above her elbow before it clattered against marble. She cried out.

  A bellow echoed down the bridge like thunder: “The queen wants him alive!”

  “Get behind the wagon!” Pa shouted, scrambling out of the driver’s seat. Another arrow struck one of the oxen. It screamed and leapt forward, crashing into the other ox and sending the wagon skidding over the stone as Barf screeched inside.

  Someone seized Fie’s arm and hauled her behind the shuddering wagon. Another scream ripped through the air. This time it sounded like Wretch.

  Pa emerged, fist locked around his string of teeth.

  “This wasn’t—He must have gone over to Rhusana—” Tavin’s arm still wound round hers. The other kept Jasimir kneeling on the ground, where arrows couldn’t reach. “We have to get out—”

  Pa shook his head.

  “I’m a marked man,” he said, cutting his chief’s string loose with a chilling calm. “Those Vultures could follow my witch-sign through all twelve hells. There’s no ‘we’ here, Lord Hawk.”

  Pa threw the string over the wagon and closed his eyes.

  Two Phoenix teeth roared to life in Fie’s senses. There was a terrible crack and a blast of heat. A wall of fire swept around the bridge, circling the Crows.

  “There’s only you,” said Pa.

  When, not if.

  Fie finally, terribly understood.

  She found her voice. “Pa—no—”

  “You get out, get as far from here as you can.” He thrust the broken sword to her, and she hated it, hated the weight of it, hated the sudden flash of two deadly edges now in her hands. “Stay out of sight. Burn as many teeth as you have to.” His bag of teeth fell into her arms with a horrible thud.

  They were Pa’s teeth, they were his sword, he was the chief, this was all wrong—

  He gripped her shoulders. “You have to keep the oath, Fie.”

  “No—Pa, I’m no chief, I can’t!”

  “You have to keep the—”

  An arrow pierced the flames from behind, striking Pa in the shoulder. He dropped to a knee as the fire sputtered.

  Beyond the golden flames, Fie saw a towering shadow, crowned in a helmet ragged with notches.

  “Get them out,” Pa spat.

  Fie shook her head, frantic. “No, no—”

  Tavin dragged Jasimir to his feet, wrapped an arm around Fie’s waist, and said, “Yes, chief.”

  She’d forgotten how damned fast he moved.

  Fie saw walls of gilded fire. A break in the flames. A saw-edged Vulture helm. Pa’s face cracking into desperation.

  And then she saw naught but blood-soaked sunset as the prince, the Hawk, and the Merciful Crow tumbled over the side of the bridge, down to the black water below.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IN THIS LIFE OR THE NEXT

  Fie had never expected to die quiet.

  Young, maybe. On the end of a sword, also likely. And doing what she did best: picking a fight over something easier left alone.

  She did not expect to die swallowed whole. But the Fan River had done just that.

  The river churned with thrashing limbs and arrows like viper strikes, gurgling through the sides of her mask. Yet beyond her glassblack eyes lay naught but the bottomless dark of the reservoir sucking at her heels.

  Then Pa’s bag of teeth floated past.

  Something snapped. She fought to catch at the leather—but Pa’s sword slipped free—she couldn’t lose it, she had to get them back to Pa, back to the chief—

  The blade bit into her palms and fingers, and red bloomed in the water. She didn’t care. She’d return Pa’s sword or die sinking to the bottom of this damned well.

  Someone yanked at her hood, dragging her up until she broke the surface. The silence of the river shattered into howling alarm horns and a roar of falling water.

  “Hang on!” someone shouted before a wave slopped over Fie. The river wouldn’t give her up easy, stuffing watery fingers through the mask and into her teeth, into her nose, drowning her in wet mint leaves. The current twisted her round and round until one hip slammed into a rough stone edge.

  And there the river changed its mind, flinging her away, down into a slick blur of blue tile and reeling red sky. Some ironclad panic kept her bloody arms locked around the tooth bag and the broken sword, not caring that one wrong twist could gut her like a fish. She couldn’t lose Pa’s teeth, she couldn’t lose the chief’s blade, she couldn’t, she couldn’t—

  Fie tumbled into one of the boys’ backs with a solid, wet smack.

  Tavin swore and yanked her to her feet on startling steady ground. She gulped for air but only choked on more water trapped in her mask’s beak, doubling over. Hands pushed her hood back and worked about her hair until the mask fell loose.

  The world spun tipsy around her as she fought for breath and bearings alike: bright tile, bewildered faces, bare skin. Bathing steps. The current had pushed them into one of the reservoir’s drainage chutes, down to a plateau where the chutes broke across bathing steps. A mosaic of a dead Swan god frowned elegantly down at her from his perch on a mother-of-pearl moon.

  Another chorus of alarm horns shrieked to life somewhere above.

  “Here.” Tavin tossed her mask aside and reached for the blade and the bag. She jerked back, blood threading her fingers. He winced. “You’re hurting yourself—”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Please, Fie.” He glanced over his shoulder, and if it weren’t wholly impossible, she’d think he sounded something near desperate. “You don’t have to let go, just let me help you tie them down. It’ll be a lot harder to help your father without fingers.”

  Help Pa. She had to help Pa. She managed a stiff nod and let him pull the cloak from her shaking shoulders, then handed the sword and bag over, blood dripping down her wrists.

  “I’ll heal you once we’re in the clear,” he muttered, tearing off a strip of crowsilk and wrapping it around the blade, then knotting it at her belt along with the tooth bag. “If we’re lucky, you won’t pick up an infection … and here’s company. Go.”


  Shouts and the stamp of Hawk boots rattled the air as Tavin pushed her and Jasimir into the next water chute. Fie plummeted down tile and stone worn smooth beneath years of water, rooftops and brick walls flashing by, alarm horns droning above the crash of water.

  The chute spat her out into open air. For a tripe-twisting moment, tile and sea and upturned faces reeled below—then she plunged into the waters of Third Market’s canal. Her head missed the edge of a cargo barge by a finger-span; her breath erupted from her all at once in a bubbled wheeze. One bloody hand grabbed the edge of the barge. It rocked and veered more than it ought to. She broke the surface and squinted up.

  Tavin had landed on the barge’s crates. The Gull sailor swung his barge pole up, yelling about bone thieves on his goods. In turn the Hawk tossed his sodden cloak in the Gull’s face, grabbed the other end of the pole, neatly pushed the man into the canal, and slid down to the barge’s deck.

  “Where is he?” Tavin asked as he pulled Fie up. He didn’t mean the sailor.

  “Here.” Jasimir climbed aboard at the barge’s other end and darted to put the crates between himself and Third Market. “We can’t stay on—”

  “I know.” Tavin took Fie’s hands in his own and closed his eyes. A dreadful sharp itch rolled through every gash. She gasped, shuddering, and Tavin let go. “I’m sorry, I can’t do more than stop the bleeding right now. Jas, cloak.” Tavin tore the crowsilk into yet more strips and wound them around Fie’s hands as alarm horns split the air anew. He twisted to look around, frowning. “On my signal, we jump to the street and—”

  An arrow cut off the end of his plan, thudding into the crate by his ear.

  He stared. “Consider that my signal.”

  They scrambled off the barge and into Third Market, Fie’s wet sandals crunching against uneven brick. Alarm horns wailed through the tents. Shoppers halted in place, peering about for the cause. One man found it when Tavin shoved him out of their way and into a plantain stand. Curses and shouts trailed in their wake.

 

‹ Prev