The Exiled Queen (20 page)

Han glanced over at Cat, who’d been stuffing herself with seconds. Though her bowl was still half full, she’d stopped eating to stare toward the door, fingering her curls the way she did when she was agitated.

Han followed her gaze. Three wizards had walked in together, their auras illuminating the gloomy taproom. They stood with their backs to Han, shaking the rain from their expensive cloaks and looking around.

“This is the best tavern in town?” the tallest one said, freeing a mane of black hair from his hood. “It’s going to be a long year.”

The cold, blueblood voice struck a chord in Han. His feeling of well-being evaporated.

The other two snickered. “Maybe the food is good,” the stockier one said hopefully. He pulled off his hood, revealing russet hair.

Han’s skin prickled. He squinted at the newcomers, fingering his amulet, wishing they’d turn around so he could see their faces.

“At least the help here is more attractive than at the Four Horses,” the tall one said, turning to ogle a server threading her way through the crowded room. He spoke with the precision of someone who knows he’s had too much to drink, and is accustomed to managing it. “I think the Four Horses was named for its barmaids.”

“Naw,” the more slender one said. “It’s named after what they put in the cooking pot.” His slurred speech suggested he was deep in his cups, too.

The pretty server swept past with a tray. The tall wizard seized her arm, nearly spilling the ale she carried. “You, there,” he said. “We need a table for three.”

She swung around to look at him, scowling. “Do you see a table for three anywhere?” she snapped.

“Clear someone off, then,” the wizard said. “We don’t mean to eat standing up.”

“You’ll have to wait your turn, like everybody else. Now let go my arm and keep your flaming wizard hands to yourself.” She struggled unsuccessfully to pull free.

The wizard half turned to Han, and the light from the lantern washed over his face, the hard planes and angles—familiar, graven into Han’s brain. Memory shuddered through him.

It was Micah Bayar and his cousins, the Mander brothers, Miphis and Arkeda. That was who’d set fire to the sacred mountain of Hanalea and launched a train of events that had ended with the deaths of Mari and Mam and the destruction of his old life.

Micah was the son of Gavan Bayar, the High Wizard of the Fells, who likely still hunted him. Micah was brother of Fiona Bayar, who’d chased him and Dancer across the border into Delphi. Han took hold of his amulet, gripping the intricately carved stone. It hissed against his damp palm.

“I’ll let you go when you find us a table,” Micah said, yanking the server toward him. The tray went down, ale splattering waist high and tankards rolling across the floor.

Magic flooded through Han, making his head spin. He shook his head, trying to clear it, then surged to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. Dancer said, “Hunts Alone! Wait!” in a low, urgent voice, but Han ignored him. Han pushed forward, and the crowd parted in front of him until he stood in front of Micah and the server.

“Let go of the girlie, Bayar,” he said.

Micah’s bleary black eyes swept over him with disinterest, then widened and focused. Startlement splashed over his face. He looked down at the knife Han clutched in his right hand. Then back up at Han.

“Alister,” he whispered. “But — it can’t be. You can’t — you’re not —”

“Bayar,” Han said. He did not smile. Anger blazed in his gut like brandy. He could hush Bayar, here and now. It would be easy. No one in this place would stop him. He’d be well away before they even reacted. The trick was to make eye contact with any would-be heroes, then walk away slow until you got outside, then—

“Blood of the Demon! You’re burning me! Let go!” the server said, ripping her arm free from Micah’s grip. She stood, blinking back tears, staring at the blistered handprint on her upper arm.

Micah seemed as surprised as she was. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean—”

“Just shut it,” Han said. “She don’t want to hear it. You Bayars like to go after them that can’t defend themselves. Like barmaids and ragpickers and lytlings.”

His words rang out loud in a sudden quiet, and the apology drained from Micah’s face. Micah’s cousins moved up on either side of him, though they stayed a step behind.

They won’t go down on the bricks for him, Han thought. Micah Bayar wouldn’t last long as a streetlord.

The crowd rippled as the server turned and fled, forcing her way to the door.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Micah said. His eyes strayed to the departing serving girl, then wrenched back to Han. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“Why don’t you try me instead?” Han said, waving his knife slowly back and forth in front of Micah’s face, a blademan’s trick. He kept his other hand wrapped around his flash as the patrons melted back.

“Hunts Alone,” Dancer said behind him, his voice soft and steady so as not to startle him. “Remember why we’re here. He’s not worth it.”

Han released his grip on the amulet, but kept the knife in play.

“Did you follow me here?” Micah demanded. “If you did, I’m warning you—”

“I go to school here, same as you,” Han said.

Micah blinked at Han stupidly, the drink slowing him down. “You? Do you even know how to read and write? They can’t have lowered the standards that much.”

“Well,” Han said, “they let you in.”

Anger wiped the sneer off Micah’s face. “You’re a thief,” he snarled, his black eyes glittering. “A thief and a murderer. We’ve been looking for you all over the Seven Realms.” His gaze dropped to Han’s amulet. “That amulet belongs to my family, and you stole it from me. Now give it over.”

Micah reached for Han’s amulet. Han made no move to stop him. As Micah’s hand closed on it, flame jetted from the jinxpiece, and Micah jerked his hand back, swearing and sucking his burnt fingers. Twice more he tried, and twice more the serpent amulet prevented him from taking hold of it.

The crowd tittered nervously.

“But — how did you — ?” Micah stared at the amulet, looking betrayed.

“Who’s the thief, Bayar?” Han said, again cradling the flashpiece in his hand. “Who does it belong to, really? How far back should we go? I’m a rank angler, next to you. You come from a whole family of thieves and murderers.”

His knife hand rippled with flame, and Han pressed his lips together, damming up the charm that threatened to pour out, unbidden. Not knowing what it might be.

“You’re not a wizard,” Micah said, still focused on the amulet. “How can you even touch it? What have you done to it?”

“Are you sure?” Han whispered. “Are you sure I’m not a wizard?” He wrenched his hand away from the amulet and extended both hands toward Micah. Power collected under his skin, shimmering through his fingers, illuminating Micah’s astonished face.

“When did you get to be a wizard?” Arkeda Mander wailed, as if Han had somehow talked his way into their blueblood club.

Staggering backward, Micah groped inside his collar for his flash, reaching his other hand toward Han.

Unwilling to chance the Waterlow amulet, Han grabbed a fistful of Micah’s cloak and pulled him forward, pressing the blade of his knife into Micah’s throat.

“Let go of your flash or I’ll cut your throat,” Han murmured.

Micah dropped his hands, his eyes nearly crossing as they fixed on the blade.

“Hunts Alone!” Dancer repeated. “No.”

“Better study up, Bayar,” Han said, his face inches from Micah’s. “I’m in Mystwerk House, too. Better study up in a hurry if you want to keep up with me.”

He said it knowing that issuing a magical challenge to Micah Bayar was probably one of the stupider ideas he’d had in a very bad year.

But it was that or cut his throat on the spot, in front of dozens of witnesses. His fury had ebbed. He’d not survived seventeen years on the streets by being stupid.

The front door banged open, and the server marched in, leading four provost guards in gray uniforms. “It’s them, Max,” she said, pointing at Han and Micah. “They’re the ones.”

Han stepped away from Micah, returning his knife to his sleeve. He and Micah shoved their hands into their pockets, the picture of innocence.

Max pulled out a small notebook bound in leather. “Anyone else hurt?” he asked, licking the end of his pencil and glaring around.

Nobody made eye contact or said a word.

Kind of different from the bluejackets, Han thought. Armed with a notebook instead of a club.

Max singled out one student slumped over a table in the middle of the room. “Hurd! What did you see?”

Hurd shrugged. “Didn’t see anything. Didn’t see any fighting.” He glanced at the server nervously, then away. “Not that I think Rutha was lying. I just didn’t see it. Must’ve been sleeping.” He yawned hugely and laid his head back down on the table.

Max looked at Han and Micah. “Names?” he said.

“No need for names, is there, sir?” Han said, shrugging. “Nothing really happened. Just a bit of loud talk and hand waving.”

Max snorted. “You say. Rutha, which one burnt you?”

“The dark-haired charmcaster there. The fair-headed one came to help me.”

Han’s eyes shifted from Max to Rutha. He couldn’t believe it. For once he wasn’t getting the blame.

Max glared at Micah. “Name?” When Micah didn’t reply, he added, “You don’t give your name, we’ll take you to the provost gaol for the night.”

“Micah Bayar,” Bayar said, grinding the words between his teeth.

“Where are you staying?” Max continued.

Micah rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Either he didn’t want to say where he lived, or it was a commentary on the accommodations. “Hampton Hall.”

Han and Dancer exchanged glances. Bayar was lodging in the same dormitory as them—the worst one on the quad. Which made sense, since he’d come late also. What had he been up to, that he was so late to school?

“You a first year or what?” Max asked.

“Yes,” Micah said. “I’m at Mystwerk House. I just arrived from the Fells this morning. If you’re taking names, you should know that my father is—”

“You should know that we don’t tolerate fighting here at the Ford,” Max said, plowing right over Micah’s words. “No matter who your father is. Newlings don’t know better, but they learn fast or they’re gone. You’ll need to learn to control your temper and keep your hands to yourself.”

Like a street player, Max paused and swept his gaze over his captive audience, then fixed it back on Micah. “I’m giving you fair warning. Any more trouble from you and you’ll go up before the rector. An’ the rector’s not afraid to expel you neither, if you’re too stupid to learn to mind your manners.”

Max leaned in toward Han and Micah. “Magical assaults is a different matter. Use your amulets to attack somebody, and there’s no hearing. You’re out. Understand?”

Han swallowed hard, glad he’d resisted the temptation to let fly with his amulet. Likely this was a speech Max had given many times before to upstart blueblood first years accustomed to getting away with bad behavior at home.

“I’m not the one who should be answering questions. He’s a thief!” Micah said, pointing at Han. “He stole my amulet.”

“Already?” Max asked, flipping to a new page in his notebook. “When did that happen? I thought you said you just got here.”

“It happened back at home,” Micah said. “My cousins saw the whole thing.”

The Mander brothers nodded in unison, like puppets lashed to the same strings.

“I was there too,” Dancer said, moving forward out of the shadows to stand on Han’s right side. “And I remember it differently.”

Bayar seemed even more startled to see Dancer. “You? What are you doing here?”

“Same as everyone else. I’m here for school,” Dancer said. He’d let go of his amulet, and now he too glittered with accumulating power.

“But you’re clanborn,” Bayar said, wetting his lips, seeming more unnerved by Dancer’s presence than by Han’s. “You’re not —” He stopped. He was probably going to say, You’re not gifted, when the evidence in front of him was plain as day. “But that’s impossible,” he said, disgust twisting his features. “Congress between copperheads and the gifted is forbidden.”

“For someone who just got here yourself, you sure got a lot of opinions, Micah Bayar,” Max said, stowing his notebook away. “We don’t have jurisdiction outside the Ford. I don’t care what happened back home. You got to leave it behind.”

By now, Micah had mastered himself. Whatever else you could say about him, he was a quick learner. He turned to Rutha, the server, who stood by watching. “I apologize for your injury and my rude behavior,” he said, inclining his head. “It was inexcusable. Please, see a healer and send the bill to me at Hampton Hall.”

Rutha nodded, sniffing. “Just watch yourself from now on.”

“You can depend on it,” Micah said. He turned to Max. “Sir,” he said, “I apologize for this incident. You won’t have any more trouble from me.”

“Good,” Max said, looking mollified. “See that I don’t. Now you two shake hands, and I’ll be about my business.”

Han looked Micah Bayar directly in the eyes and smiled, a street-lord challenge. He extended his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Micah gripped it. Power flamed between them, a magical duel that ended in an impasse.

Micah leaned in close to Han and said, “Better watch your back, Alister. Now I know where to find you, and I’ve got plenty of time.” He let go of Han’s hand, and took a step back.

Micah swung his cape about his shoulders, fastening it at the neck with an elaborate clasp. His gaze swept over Dancer and locked on Cat, still huddled at the corner table. Micah smiled—a long, slow smile—and bowed sardonically. She twitched and hunched her shoulders, scowling.

Now that Han thought about it, Cat had been surprisingly shut-mouthed during his face-off with Bayar. After what had happened to the Raggers, was she scared of wizards now?

Still smiling at some private joke, Micah nodded to Han. “Alister,” he said. “I wish you luck.” Gesturing to the Manders to follow, he walked out of the tavern.