Han readied his own weapons, then tucked stray bits of fair hair under his hat. He should have taken the time to color it dark again, so he’d be less recognizable. Survival hadn’t seemed especially important until now. Han slid his hand inside his shirt, touching his amulet. He wished for the thousandth time he knew more about how to use it. A little charmcasting might do them some good in a tight spot.

No, maybe not. Better if nobody knew that Cuffs Alister, street thief and accused murderer, was suddenly a wizard.

Excruciatingly slowly, they worked their way toward the border. It seemed the guard was doing a thorough job.

When they reached the front of the line, two guards stepped out and gripped the bridles of their horses, halting them. A mounted guard with a sergeant’s scarf angled his mount in front of them. He studied their faces, scowling. “Names?”

“Fire Dancer and Hunts Alone,” Dancer said in Common. “We’re clan traders from Marisa Pines, traveling to Ardenscourt.”

“Traders? Or spies?” the guardsman spat.

“Not spies,” Dancer said. He steadied his pony, who tossed its head and rolled its eyes at the guardsman’s tone. “Traders don’t get into politics. It’s bad for business.”

“You’ve been profiting from the war, an’ everybody knows it,” the bluejacket growled, displaying the usual Vale attitude toward the clan. “What’re you carrying?”

“Soap, scents, silks, leatherwork, and medicines,” Dancer said, resting a proprietary hand on his saddlebags.

That much was true. They planned to deliver those goods to a buyer in Ardenscourt to help pay for their schooling and keep.

“Lessee.” The guardsman unstrapped the panniers on the first pony and pawed through the goods inside. The scent of sandalwood and pine wafted up.

“What about weapons or amulets?” he demanded. “Any magical pieces?”

Dancer lifted an eyebrow. “There’s no market for magical goods in Arden,” he said. “The Church of Malthus forbids it. And we don’t deal in weapons. Too risky.”

The sergeant gazed at their faces, his brow puckered with puzzlement. Han kept his eyes fixed on the ground. “I dunno,” the guardsman said. “You both got blue eyes. You don’t look much like clan to me.”

“We’re of mixed blood,” Dancer said. “Adopted into the camps as babies.”

“You was stole, more like,” the sergeant said. “Just like the princess heir. The Maker have mercy on her.”

“What about the princess heir?” Dancer said. “We haven’t heard.”

“She’s disappeared,” the sergeant said. He seemed to be one of those people who loved sharing bad news. “Some say she run off. Me, I say there’s no way she would’ve left on her own.”

So that’s it, Han thought, happying up a little. This extra care at the border had nothing at all to do with them.