Han raised his mug, but couldn’t help looking about to see who might have overheard. No one seemed to be paying attention to their little party.

Though most of the other patrons were no older than Han, they had the blueblood look, with finely tailored cloaks, soft leather boots, and too much fur for the weather.

The rich handle money differently than the poor. They use it carelessly, slapping it down as though it came from an unlimited supply. They kept the server on the run, fetching pitchers of ale.

Han glanced over at Cat, who surveyed the scene over the rim of her cider mug. There’d be easy money to be made here for a street runner with skills.

But this was a chance for Cat to be something different. Han knew from experience how hard it was to leave the game. When he’d given it up, he’d been threatened by his enemies. They either didn’t believe he’d changed, or hoped to take advantage of it. He’d been tempted by his friends, made edgy-jumpy by his rejection of the Life and the void he’d left behind him.

The serious drinkers soon arrived from dinner in the dining halls, the rain driving them off the porch and inside. They churned through the throngs by the door, bellying up to the bar. As the tavern grew more jammed, there were no more tables to be had. Newcomers leaned against the walls, juggling mugs of ale and plates of stew and roast beef.

Han ordered another round of drinks and a cinnamon cake for them all to share.

He felt at ease in taverns—they’d been his second home growing up, a place to get away from whatever squalid place he was living in. There was always action in taverns—warm marks and natty lads, streetlords and fancies who worked the trade.

Han would have to develop new habits if he was going to succeed here. He’d have to learn to sit in the library come darkman’s hour. So his seventeenth name day felt like an ending as well as a beginning.

Han glanced over at Cat, who’d been stuffing herself with seconds. Though her bowl was still half full, she’d stopped eating to stare toward the door, fingering her curls the way she did when she was agitated.

Han followed her gaze. Three wizards had walked in together, their auras illuminating the gloomy taproom. They stood with their backs to Han, shaking the rain from their expensive cloaks and looking around.

“This is the best tavern in town?” the tallest one said, freeing a mane of black hair from his hood. “It’s going to be a long year.”

The cold, blueblood voice struck a chord in Han. His feeling of well-being evaporated.

The other two snickered. “Maybe the food is good,” the stockier one said hopefully. He pulled off his hood, revealing russet hair.