The third man was the Malthusian priest who’d confronted them in the common room. He came and stood, looking down at Han and Dancer as if they were evil and dangerous—fascinating but helpless predators. He reminded Han of some at the market that paid a copper to see a ratty old bear chained to a stump.

Up close, the priest stank of old sweat and fanaticism.

The blueblood pulled off his expensive gloves and slapped them against his palm as he looked down at Han and Dancer, his handsome face pinched with contempt.

“This is them?” The blueblood nudged Han with his booted foot. “These are the northern mages you told me about?”

“Mages!” Karn shouted at Han and Dancer in Common, like a barker hoping his menagerie would make a better show. “Bow before Gerard Montaigne, King of Arden.”

Han obediently bent his neck while his mind raced furiously. The king of Arden? Han didn’t know much about the nobility, but he had to think the king of Arden didn’t sleep in a falling-down farmhouse.

“Are you certain no one knows about this?” Montaigne said to Karn. He spoke the southern tongue, but it was close enough to Common that Han could make it out. “What about your men? Soldiers cannot keep their mouths shut.”

“They think these two are northern spies,” Karn said. “I said I wanted to question ’em in private. They’re out on patrol, so they won’t have seen you come in.”

“I still don’t like this,” Montaigne said, his voice brittle and cold. “I told you I wanted nothing to do with sorcery.” He shifted his gaze to the priest. “I’m surprised you would be involved in this, Father, given the church’s position on magic users.”

Father Fossnaught fingered the keys at his waist. “I have made a study of mages and their ways. They are evil, disgusting creatures, yes, but I believe that, properly restrained, they can be put to use.”

“We give ’em a choice,” Karn put in. “They can repent and use their sorcery for the greater glory of Saint Malthus. Or burn.”

Han’s skin prickled as if flames were already licking at his flesh.

“The principia doesn’t share that view,” Montaigne said.

Fossnaught twitched. “True, there is a diversity of opinion on whether sorcerers can be saved through any means but the flame. I happen to believe Father Broussard’s view is rather…shortsighted.” He paused, then rolled his eyes heavenward. “Then again, His Holiness also believes Prince Geoff should be crowned at Ardenscourt, as the eldest surviving son of our late king. The principia is committed to succession by birth order. I, however, happen to believe that the Maker’s hand is in this war. Should you win, and I believe you will, then it must be the Maker’s will that you be crowned king.”