his offending hand under his other arm.
“Demons!” someone shouted in the Common speech. “Sorcerors! Blasphemers!” Han looked up in surprise to see the black- robed priest charging down the steps, swinging the broom over his head like a weapon, his face contorted with rage.
Ragger skittered sideways, rolling his eyes and showing his teeth to the irate priest. Han dug in his heels, and the pony lunged forward, carrying him out of danger. Dancer ducked his head and wrenched Wicked to one side as the broom whistled past.
The priest screamed after them, “Abominations! Harlots of evil! Begone, you wicked tools of the Breaker!” He shook the broom at them, seeming to think he’d driven them off.
“Shaddap, ya nasty crow of Malthus, or I’ll break you!” a bulky, bearded miner shouted at the priest, to general laughter. The priest retreated back inside, driven by a chorus of catcalls and threats.
“What was that all about?” Han said, when they were a safe distance away. “I’ve been called a lot of names, but never a harlot of evil before.”
“Meet the Church of Malthus,” Dancer said, grinning. “The state church of Arden. They have a foothold in Delphi, but I guess they’re not especially popular up here.”
Speaker Jemson had talked about the Church of Malthus at the Southbridge Temple School. After the disaster of the Breaking, the ancient empire of the Seven Realms had fractured. In the Fells, the old faith had continued, anchored by the temples where speakers taught about the duality of the Maker and the Breaker, and the Spirit Mountains, where dwelt the dead and sainted queens.
In Arden, after the Breaking, there arose an influential speaker who had pruned and shaped the ancient faith in a new direction. Saint Malthus attributed the Breaking to the Maker’s displeasure with the charmcasters that had caused it. Magic, he’d taught, was not a gift but the tool of the Breaker, and wizards were demons in his employ. Seduced by wizards, the queens of the Fells were equally to blame. Queen Hanalea in particular was seen as a kind of beautiful witch— a wanton totally without scruples.
Ever since, Church of Malthus had thrived as the state church in Arden.
“Do you think this is the kind of welcome we’ll get in Arden?” Han mused.
Dancer grinned wryly. “I think the less jinxflinging we do in Arden, the better.”
This was new to Han— the notion that magic was somehow sinful. The clans despised wizards, but it was more an issue of history and abuse of power. The clans, after all, had their own magic.
It was only the Demon King— Alger Waterlow, Han’s ancestor— who was thought to be unequivocally evil.
“This place looks good,” Han said, pointing out a two- story building with a broad front porch crowded with locals and soldiers. The tavern was called The Mug and Mutton, and the wooden sign out front bore a grinning sheep hoisting a mug of ale.
Han had an eye for taverns and inns. They’d been a second home for him since he was small— where food, drink, and easy pickings came together. He could tell which places were worth a visit by the smells spilling from them and the custom on hand.
He and Dancer dismounted. Dancer stayed with the horses while Han fought his way through the crowd onto the porch and into the noisy interior.
The clientele inside mirrored those on the porch, except for several families seated around tables. Some had come straight from the mines, their clothes black with soot, and their eyes shining against their grimy faces. Soldiers leaned against the walls, clad in a motley of uniforms— the sober dun colors of Delphi, the scarlet of Arden, unemployed mercenaries who showed no colors, and a few Highlanders and stripers.
Otherwise there were students, tradespeople, and fancies.
Han parted with a few of his precious girlies, booking a room and spending a couple of extra coppers on a chance at a bath. Delphi was pricy, all right.
Han and Dancer led their horses down a narrow alley to the stable behind the inn, ordered extra grain rations for the ponies, and entered the tavern by the back door.
Dinner came with the room and consisted of pork stew (not mutton), a hunk of brown bread, and a tankard of ale.
Han claimed a table in the corner with his back to the wall but close to the back door. That way he could see all the comings and goings without being obvious about it.
The serving girl hovered, flirting. At first Han put it down to personal charm until he realized with some surprise that, despite their days on the road, he and Dancer were as prosperous-looking as anyone in the room.
Han had been booted from plenty of taverns in Ragmarket and Southbridge on suspicion of slide- hand and cheating at cards. That and his chronic inability to pay. He found he rather liked sitting at a table to eat until his stomach was full, chatting up pretty girls without fear of being chased off.
“What’s the news of the war in the south?” Han asked the plush, apple- cheeked server. He touched her arm. “Who’s winning?”
She leaned close to Han. “There was a big battle outside the capital last month, sir. Prince Geoff ’s armies won, so he holds Ardenscourt. He’s declared himself king.”
“What about the other brothers? Have they given up?” Han asked, wondering if the war would soon be over, and what that would mean for his future.
The girlie shrugged. “All I know is what I hear in the tap-room. I believe Prince Gerard and Prince Godfrey are also still alive, and as far as I know, they’ve not given up.”
“There aren’t any princesses?” Han asked.
She squinted at him. “Aye, there’s one princess. Lisette. But princesses in Arden are just for show. And marrying off.”
Han glanced at Dancer, who shrugged. How would you even tell if a king’s blooded heirs were really his? Flatlanders were peculiar, for sure.
Han watched as the server walked away, wondering when she’d be off work.
He continued his study of the other patrons. It didn’t take long to figure out who was armed and who wasn’t, what weapons they carried, and who toted a heavy purse. A while longer, and he knew who was skilled at cards, who at nicks and bones, and who was cheating at both.
This was courtesy of Han’s brief stint as a card hustler. That kind of thievery was harder to prove, if you were any good at it. The bluejackets weren’t so likely to toss you in gaol for picking pockets at cards.
But he’d learned it was easy to get cornered in a taproom full of sore losers. Also that angry gamblers aren’t above smashing your head in, whether they know how you’re cheating or not. Especially when you’re only thirteen, and haven’t got your growth.
Dancer was edgy and restless all through the meal, flinching at sudden noises— the clatter of pots and pans on the hearth or two drunks shouting at each other. Despite his knowledge of Delphi and Delphian ways, he didn’t care for cities in general and crowds in particular. As soon as he finished eating, he stood. “I’m going up,” he said.
“I booked a bath,” Han said generously. “You go first.”
Dancer eyed him suspiciously. “Stay out of trouble, will you?” he said.
“Yes, Dancer Cennestre.” Yes, Mother. Han grinned at Dancer’s back when he turned away. Han motioned to the server and ordered cider. He meant to keep his wits sharp and his hand off his amulet.
Han idly surveyed the next table, where a foursome played royals and commons, a Fellsian card game Han knew well. The man facing Han was cheating— a needle point for sure. An over-plush man in Ardenine flatlander garb, his round face was cratered from some ancient bout with the pox. Though it was cool in the common room, he mopped at his sweating face with a large handkerchief. Coppers and girlies and notes of promise were stacked in front of him, evidence of his success.
It didn’t take