The crowd tittered nervously.

“But…how did you…?” Micah stared at the amulet, looking betrayed.

“Who’s the thief, Bayar?” Han said, again cradling the flashpiece in his hand. “Who does it belong to, really? How far back should we go? I’m a rank angler, next to you. You come from a whole family of thieves and murderers.”

His knife hand rippled with flame, and Han pressed his lips together, damming up the charm that threatened to pour out, unbidden. Not knowing what it might be.

“You’re not a wizard,” Micah said, still focused on the amulet. “How can you even touch it? What have you done to it?”

“Are you sure?” Han whispered. “Are you sure I’m not a wizard?” He wrenched his hand away from the amulet and extended both hands toward Micah. Power collected under his skin, shimmering through his fingers, illuminating Micah’s astonished face.

“When did you get to be a wizard?” Arkeda Mander wailed, as if Han had somehow talked his way into their blueblood club.

Staggering backward, Micah groped inside his collar for his flash, reaching his other hand toward Han.

Unwilling to chance the Waterlow amulet, Han grabbed a fistful of Micah’s cloak and pulled him forward, pressing the blade of his knife into Micah’s throat.

“Let go of your flash or I’ll cut your throat,” Han murmured.

Micah dropped his hands, his eyes nearly crossing as they fixed on the blade.

“Hunts Alone!” Dancer repeated. “No.”

“Better study up, Bayar,” Han said, his face inches from Micah’s. “I’m in Mystwerk House, too. Better study up in a hurry if you want to keep up with me.”

He said it knowing that issuing a magical challenge to Micah Bayar was probably one of the stupider ideas he’d had in a very bad year.

But it was that or cut his throat on the spot, in front of dozens of witnesses. His fury had ebbed. He’d not survived seventeen years on the streets by being stupid.

The front door banged open, and the server marched in, leading four provost guards in gray uniforms. “It’s them, Max,” she said, pointing at Han and Micah. “They’re the ones.”

Han stepped away from Micah, returning his knife to his sleeve. He and Micah shoved their hands into their pockets, the picture of innocence.

Max pulled out a small notebook bound in leather. “Anyone else hurt?” he asked, licking the end of his pencil and glaring around.

Nobody made eye contact or said a word.

Kind of different from the bluejackets, Han thought. Armed with a notebook instead of a club.

Max singled out one student slumped over a table in the middle of the room. “Hurd! What did you see?”