At the front of the room, long tables glittered with plates and cups and silver—more of each than seemed needful, when there wasn’t even any food set out.

Great banners hung from the cavernous ceilings—wizard house emblems, including the familiar Stooping Falcons of the Bayars.

What would his banner be, if he had one, Han wondered.

Although everyone wore the requisite red robes, most were decorated—with stoles bearing the signia of their wizard houses, and with the badges and embroideries denoting their academic ranks. Many wore jewelry beyond their amulets—gaudy rings on their fingers, heavy gold chains and wrist-cuffs. Even in his red plumage, Han felt underdressed, like the plainest of sparrows.

Han located the Bayars amid a cluster of students on the far side of the room. As he watched, Micah glanced at Han, then said something that set the others to snickering. Fiona was facing Han also, and she looked up and caught his eye. She held his gaze for a long moment, her face as hard and cold as marble, then turned toward Wil.

Han felt the familiar prickle of danger between his shoulder blades. Straying onto blueblood turf was like walking the streets of Southbridge without a gang mark or a reputation to protect you.

Touching his amulet for reassurance, he put his street face on.

Drinks were on offer at a bar in one corner, so he and Dancer headed that way, sliding past clusters of students and faculty.

As they passed, conversation washed over them. Han caught snatches of it—the words “Ragmarket” and “slumlord” and “copperhead” struck his ears like sour notes.

Han scanned the array of glittering bottles, casks, and barrels at the bar. Not just ale and cider, but brandy, wine, and whiskey, too. Han thought of Lucius Frowsley, back home on Hanalea, and wondered if his distillery was still in business, and who carried product for him now.

Han and Dancer both ordered cider. This dinner would be tricky enough to navigate with a clear head.

Adam Gryphon entered the room in his wheeled chair, maneuvering expertly through the crowd toward the bar.

Too bad he can’t use that chair all the time, Han thought. But the academy was riddled with steps, curbs, cobblestones, and other hazards.

Someone tugged at Han’s sleeve, and he spun around, nearly spilling his cider.

He faced a girlie with extremely pale skin and short-cropped, spiky black hair streaked with wizard red. She wore a red robe sewn over with proficient trim. Her hands were loaded with rings, and much of her visible skin was covered in bright, metallic tattoos, like painted-on jewelry. The design seemed to ripple and move on its own.

“They’re talismans and wards,” the girlie explained, brushing her fingers over a symbol on the back of her hand. “To protect against hex magic.”

“Ah,” Han said, trying to think of the right thing to say. “Is someone trying to hex you?”