He’s like every other rich, powerful person, Han thought. He does whatever he likes, makes his own rules, breaks the law whenever it suits him, and never spends a day in gaol. Shiv was dead because of him, and the eight Southies, and no doubt countless others. Shiv had been Han’s enemy, but still. He should count for more than that.

And now, danger was heading straight for Mam and Mari. He had to get away.

His knife was still in his hand. He shuffled forward, head down, the picture of surrender. As he passed by Bayar, he turned and plunged the blade into the wizard’s side just beneath the rib cage, ripping up and forward, metal scraping along bone.

Warm blood welled over his knuckles. Bayar screamed and spun away, wrenching the knife from Han’s hand.

Han threw himself toward the door. Behind him, Bayar gasped out a charm. Flame coalesced around Han’s shoulders, flowing down both arms, heating the cuffs on his wrists to scorching before dissipating. Once again, the cuffs had seemingly sucked up wizard magic.

Outside, Han practically collided with a black carriage emblazoned with the emblem of a stooping falcon. Matched black horses snorted and tossed their heads, rolling their eyes.

Han pounded his way through the market, twisting and turning around stalls and tents, leaping over smaller obstacles, pushing through crowds of people, running for the bridge.

Southbridge and Ragmarket had never seemed farther apart. It was like one of those dreams when your feet are stuck in mud and you’re trying to run from a monster. Only in this case, there were monsters ahead and behind.

When he crossed the bridge, he had to dodge around clots of soldiers. Some sort of search seemed to be going on, but they weren’t looking for him, because he was obviously on the run and no one stopped him.

He was still a mile from Cobble Street when he saw the glow through the darkness ahead, the smudge of orange painting the lowering clouds. He sniffed the air. Something was burning, something big, shooting flames into the air.

When he reached the end of Cobble Street he saw it—the stable was ablaze, completely engulfed by now. An inferno. The heat had driven the residents to the end of the street, where they stood in unhappy clumps, staring helplessly at the burning building.

A ring of bluejackets surrounded the stable, keeping potential heroes away. Not that they could have got near it anyway. The heat from the flames scorched Han’s face from where he stood.

Some of the bystanders had assembled a bucket brigade, pumping water from the Cobble Street well, a remarkable show of organization for that neighborhood. But all they could do was wet down the surrounding buildings to keep the flames from spreading.

Han grabbed the arm of a gawker. “What happened?”