He blacked out momentarily. When he came to, the wind was totally knocked out of him and black spots swam before his eyes. His right arm was numb, his shoulder aflame with pain. Blood trickled into his eyes from a gash on his forehead.

Han heard footsteps approaching, but for the moment, he couldn’t move.

“Is he dead?” somebody asked, his voice trembling with fear and excitement. “He’s got to be. I never thought—he really landed hard.” Han recognized his voice. The thin Mander…Arkeda.

“Let’s hurry before somebody comes.” Someone bent over him, groping at his neckline. The plush Mander…Miphis.

“Don’t touch it,” a third person muttered in Fellspeech. “Roll him over and lift it by the chain.” Unmistakably Micah Bayar.

The spots cleared and Han saw a pair of fine blueblood boots next to his head. He grabbed the groper’s calf with his good hand and yanked. Miphis shrieked and went down, thudding down the last flight, landing hard on the stone floor at the bottom.

Han screamed like a mad tom, curling his body protectively around his amulet. He heard swearing, running feet, doors slamming, Blevins bellowing out questions that grew louder as he got closer until he was kneeling next to Han and screeching in his ear.

“Great hounds of the demon, boy, what happened to you?”

Han spit out blood from his bitten tongue, along with a fragment of tooth. Rolling onto his side, he sat up, cradling his right arm close to his body, supporting his elbow with his left hand.

The black spots returned as the weight of his arm pulled on his collarbone. Leaning back against the banister, Han said, through bloody lips, “Fell down the stairs.”

“I told you boys not to race up and down them steps,” Blevins said. “They got loose boards and they’re all different sizes. It’s lucky you didn’t break your fool neck.”

Yeah, Han thought. Lucky me. He looked up toward the third floor, down to the first, though moving his head was painful. The staircase was empty save for him and Blevins. Miphis had managed to get up, then, and leave on his own.

“Did you see anyone else on the stairs?”

Blevins shook his head. “No. Why?” The dorm master mopped at Han’s forehead with a filthy handkerchief.

“Someone made a mess of my room. I was…coming to tell you.”

Blevins’s face flushed pink-purple. “You boys got to learn that pranking just leads to misery, you hear me? You got to work these things out among yourselfs.”

The message was: don’t count on me to intervene. Not that Han expected or wanted it. He was used to fighting his own battles.

This is more than a prank, Han thought. And I’ll find a way to stop it myself. I have to if I’m going to survive.