But the bluejacket wasn’t done with them. He looked around as if to make sure he had backup, then said, “Some say she was took by your people. By the copperheads.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dancer said. “The Princess Raisa’s of clan blood herself by her father, and she fostered at Demonai Camp for three years.”

The bluejacket snorted. “Well, she’s not in the capital, they know that,” he said. “She might come this way; that’s why we’re checking everybody who comes through. The queen is offering a big reward for anyone that finds her.”

“What does she look like?” Dancer asked, like he was sniffing at that big reward.

“She’s a mix-blood too,” the bluejacket said, “but I hear she’s pretty, just the same. She’s small, with long dark hair and green eyes.”

Han was ambushed by a memory of green-eyed Rebecca Morley, who’d walked into Southbridge Guardhouse and wrested three members of the Ragger street gang from Mac Gillen’s hands. That description would fit Rebecca. And a thousand other girlies.

Since his life had fallen apart, Han hadn’t thought of Rebecca. Much.

The sergeant finally decided he’d held them up long enough. “All right, then, go on. Better watch yourselves south of Delphi. The fighting’s fierce down there.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Dancer was saying, when a new voice cut into the conversation, sharp and cold as a knife blade.

“What’s this all about, Sergeant? What’s the delay?”

Han looked up to see a girlie about his own age, bulling her horse through the crowd of foot travelers around the gate like she didn’t care if she trampled a few.

He couldn’t help staring. She looked like no girlie he’d ever seen before. Her mane of platinum hair was caught into a single long braid that extended to her waist, accented by a streak of red that ran the entire length. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were the color of cottonwood fluff, and her eyes a pale, porcelain blue, like a rain-washed sky. She was surrounded by a nimbus of light—evidence of unchanneled power.

She rode a gray flatlander stallion as blueblooded as she was, sitting tall in the saddle as if to extend her already considerable height. Her angular features looked familiar. It wasn’t a beautiful face, but you wouldn’t soon forget it. Especially when she had a scowl planted on it. Like now.

Her short jacket and divided riding skirts were made of fine goods, trimmed in leather. The wizard stoles draped over her shoulders bore the stooping falcon insignia, a falcon with a songbird in its talons, and a glowing amulet hung from a heavy gold chain around her neck.

Han shuddered, his body reacting before his slow-cranking mind. The stooping falcon. But that signia belonged to…