“Wherever there’s room, I guess,” Han said. Far from the Bayars and the dean, he thought to himself. And maybe Mordra, too. She might be the only one willing to talk to him, but her chatter was wearing him out.

“You’re assigned a seat—didn’t you know? I’m at the dean’s table,” Mordra said.

“How do you know where you’re sitting?” Han asked. It always seemed like he was missing information that everyone else knew.

“There are little cards at the places,” Mordra said. “You should walk around and find yours. It’s almost time to sit down.”

Han’s place turned out to be at the dean’s table, too. With both Bayars, Adam Gryphon, another proficient, and another master. So much for avoiding notice.

Dancer was seated at a nearby table with several of the Bayars’ crew. They squirmed and leaned away as if he smelled bad. Dancer sighed and put on his trader face.

It was as if the dean had decided to make everybody miserable on purpose.

Han was seated between Mordra and Fiona, with Micah across from them, next to Master Gryphon.

Fiona sat rigid, staring straight ahead, as if she could pretend Han wasn’t right next to her.

Fortunately, servers arrived in a hurry with soup, ladling it into bowls in front of each person.

It was a thin broth, with a bit of greens floating in it. Not much of a supper, Han thought, surprised. He’d expected a more lavish spread. Spooning some up, he blew on it to cool it off. It tasted smoky and salty, like dried mushrooms and onions.

I hope we get seconds, he thought. Or at least some bread to go with. He took a few more bites, then noticed that nobody else was eating.

Across the table, Micah gazed at him, fingers templed, one eyebrow raised. Mordra leaned over. “You’re supposed to wait until everyone is served and the dean has welcomed us,” she said in a whisper loud enough to be heard at nearby tables. A titter rolled around the room.

Han put his spoon down, feeling the blood rush to his face.

It turned out that soup wasn’t supper. It was what came before supper. Supper was roast quail and potatoes and carrots and little cakes and fruit soaked in brandy set aflame and three different wines and sweet spirits in tiny cups.

Nobody else brought their cider to the table.

Though he tried to follow along with what others were doing, every so often, Han would pick up the wrong fork or eat things in the wrong order, or use the wrong sauce on the wrong thing, and Mordra would correct him in her player’s whisper, sending the room into silent convulsions of laughter.

The only ones not laughing were Dean Abelard, Dancer, Mordra, and Fiona.

Fiona?