A half dozen men occupied two tables, loudly demanding food and drink whenever they ran short. They had the look of soldiers, but wore no signia or uniform. One of them, a stocky man in his early twenties with a stubble of beard, had an incandescence about him that said he was gifted and leaking magic.

Han eyed him curiously. The soldier must have an amulet, perhaps hidden under his shirt, but he didn’t seem to know the trick of drawing magic off to dim his aura. A good thing for him that only other gifted could see it.

A veiled Malthusian sister sat alone at a table nearest the door. A half-empty plate sat before her, but she kept the barman coming and going, refilling her mug.

The maids of Malthus like their ale, Han thought, amused. He’d seen at least one in every tavern and common room since they’d reached the flatlands.

In contrast, the tall, skinny Malthusian priest huddling in the back corner picked at his supper, engrossed in a large, leather-bound book with onionskin pages. Several oversized golden keys hung from a cord around the priest’s waist, his only ornamentation save for elaborate jeweled spectacles dangling from a chain around his neck.

The priest looked up suddenly and caught Han staring at him. Scowling, he bent his head over the holy book on the table. Han guessed it was a holy book, anyway. It was hard to imagine this sour-faced pudding-sleeve reading a romance or an adventure story. Oddly, the priest didn’t use his spectacles for reading text.

Han finished his meal and sat back, relaxed and sociable.

“You ready to go up?” Dancer said, having finished long before Han. As usual, Dancer was eager to go upstairs to read and study charms, away from the crowd.

Han, however, had no desire to leave the common room and hide out in their tiny, windowless room in the attic. It would be stuffy and hot, and they’d have to sit in the dark or pay for candles, since there was no natural light. Plus, one of the pretty servers had winked at him, and he was waiting to see what developed.

“Let’s stay a little while,” Han said, slathering butter on soft tavern bread, so different from their hard waybiscuits.

Dancer shrugged and nodded, yawning to make his position clear.

The priest had raised his peculiar spectacles to his eyes and scanned the room. When his gaze swept across Han and Dancer, he stiffened and fixed on them, his eyes unnaturally large and owl-like through the lenses.

The priest lowered the spectacles and glared at them. “Sinners!” he said. “Idolators!”

Han and Dancer sat frozen for a long moment. “Does he mean us, do you suppose?” Dancer asked without moving his lips.

“How can he tell we’re sinners?” Han whispered, aiming for a look of polite confusion. Was that what the spectacles were for? Identifying sinners?