The men and women are nothing like the students and teachers at the Academy, except for their propensity for black clothing. These Strategia are relaxed and loud and slam their pints onto the tables so hard that liquid sloshes everywhere. The patrons slouch over tables and lean against the bar, shaking their hands and pounding their fists on their knees as they talk. Maybe it’s just because they’re drunk, but there is none of the Strategia precision and rigidness that I’m used to. Laughter and arguments fill the windowless room and I can’t help but be a little awed by the scene.

Ash looks around, and I follow his gaze. I don’t know how to identify the crew that took a hit from Jag, but I’m hoping Ash does. Three long seconds tick by before his gaze settles on a table of men and women near the fire. I can tell by the way he lifts his head slightly that he’s spotted someone of interest.

“We just might need to be a little faster than I originally thought,” he says close to my ear, and I’m not sure if he’s reacting to something in particular or if he just realizes, like I do, that there is only one door and no visible windows, making it nearly impossible to get out of here if there’s a problem.

Ash and I make our way across the room toward the table near the fireplace, and when we arrive a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard looks straight at us. “Might as well sit,” he says, taking a gulp of beer, “unless you and the missus plan on eyeing us from afar all night. Not that I can say I blame ya, on account of my irresistible beauty and grace, that is.” He uses both his hands to fluff his beard. The guy laughs, and even though his tone is lighthearted, I know better. His humor is all calculated.

I scan the room briefly, but no one appears to be paying much attention to us, which I know by now means the opposite—they’ve all noticed that we’re here.

“I don’t know anyone who could resist that invitation,” I say with a grin before Ash can respond. The man guffaws. I might not be well versed in making Strategia deals, but my gut tells me that keeping up the banter won’t do us any harm.

“Now that’s the spirit,” the bearded man says, and slides over, making room. He pats the bench next to him.