Ever since, Church of Malthus had thrived as the state church in Arden.

“Do you think this is the kind of welcome we’ll get in Arden?” Han mused.

Dancer grinned wryly. “I think the less jinxflinging we do in Arden, the better.”

This was new to Han—the notion that magic was somehow sinful. The clans despised wizards, but it was more an issue of history and abuse of power. The clans, after all, had their own magic.

It was only the Demon King—Alger Waterlow, Han’s ancestor—who was thought to be unequivocally evil.

“This place looks good,” Han said, pointing out a two-story building with a broad front porch crowded with locals and soldiers. The tavern was called The Mug and Mutton, and the wooden sign out front bore a grinning sheep hoisting a mug of ale.

Han had an eye for taverns and inns. They’d been a second home for him since he was small—where food, drink, and easy pickings came together. He could tell which places were worth a visit by the smells spilling from them and the custom on hand.

He and Dancer dismounted. Dancer stayed with the horses while Han fought his way through the crowd onto the porch and into the noisy interior.

The clientele inside mirrored those on the porch, except for several families seated around tables. Some had come straight from the mines, their clothes black with soot, and their eyes shining against their grimy faces. Soldiers leaned against the walls, clad in a motley of uniforms—the sober dun colors of Delphi, the scarlet of Arden, unemployed mercenaries who showed no colors, and a few Highlanders and stripers.

Otherwise there were students, tradespeople, and fancies.

Han parted with a few of his precious girlies, booking a room and spending a couple of extra coppers on a chance at a bath. Delphi was pricy, all right.

Han and Dancer led their horses down a narrow alley to the stable behind the inn, ordered extra grain rations for the ponies, and entered the tavern by the back door.

Dinner came with the room and consisted of pork stew (not mutton), a hunk of brown bread, and a tankard of ale.

Han claimed a table in the corner with his back to the wall but close to the back door. That way he could see all the comings and goings without being obvious about it.

The serving girl hovered, flirting. At first Han put it down to personal charm until he realized with some surprise that, despite their days on the road, he and Dancer were as prosperous-looking as anyone in the room.

Han had been booted from plenty of taverns in Ragmarket and Southbridge on suspicion of slide-hand and cheating at cards. That and his chronic inability to pay. He found he rather liked sitting at a table to eat until his stomach was full, chatting up pretty girls without fear of being chased off.