He nodded at the proficient, who’d looked up from his book when Han and Dancer stood. “Guess we’ll head back to the dormitory,” Han said.

Dancer went to get their passes from the proficient. Miphis Mander leered at Han and whispered, “Careful on your way out. That first step is a bone-breaker.”

“Pardon me?” Han said. “Did you say something?” He stepped in close to Miphis and leaned down as if to hear better.

Miphis snickered, seemingly drawing courage from Han’s maimed state. “I said, careful out there. That…he—hey!” He sucked in his breath as Han’s knife sliced through his breeches from waist to ankle—quick and slick so nobody saw before the blade disappeared. Miphis clutched at his trousers with both hands in an attempt to keep decent.

“Lucky for you I’m a rum blademan leftie or right,” Han said under his breath. It was a bit of a brag, but not much. More loudly, he added, “You be careful out there. It’s a bit brisk to leave your arse hanging out like that.”

Those at nearby tables turned and stared. Fiona half rose from her seat, then settled back down.

Han guessed Miphis wouldn’t be reaching for his amulet, since he had both hands busy.

Dancer had their passes. Han picked up their lantern and carried it into the hallway. Instead of walking out the door, they climbed the wide staircase to the third floor and ducked into a side room. Han shuttered the lantern while Dancer threaded a rope through the carry handle. Unlatching the window shutters with his good hand, Han threw them open, feeling the chill night air in his face.

Sneaking in and out of places was a skill that Han had mastered at a young age. All his life, people had been trying to keep him inside places he didn’t want to be, or out of places he needed to get into.

Still, it wasn’t easy being a one-armed cracksman. He was glad Dancer was along.

Boosting himself onto the wide sill, Han poked his legs through and dropped the few feet onto the roof of the galleried walkway. When he landed, a tile broke loose and dropped to the stone walk below, shattering into a thousand pieces and sounding loud as a scream in the dead of night. He froze, but no one came running.

You’re out of practice, he thought. And his bound arm affected his balance.

Dancer followed with the darkened lantern. They light-footed it along the gallery roof, a story above any provost guard or nosy proficient patrolling down below. The roofed walkways made a network of secret pathways that could take him unseen to most anywhere he wanted to go.

No one else seemed to be out past curfew, save two cloaked sweethearts who had stowed themselves in the corner where the gallery met Mystwerk Hall. They folded into one another, holding hands and whispering.