“We don’t host that kind of trade,” the boy said. “You might try Dogbottom’s, down the high street.”

Han shook his head. “I’m looking for a particular girlie,” he said, wishing he had an image of Rebecca to show. “She’s small, with green eyes and black hair, maybe chin-length.” He stuck out his hand, indicating her height. “A mixed-blood. Pretty.”

The server’s head came up, and he glared at Han, his cheeks smudged pink. Then he turned away and resumed scrubbing like he meant to take the finish right off. “Don’t remember nobody like that,” he said.

Han stared at his broad back, made temporarily speechless by the server’s reaction. “Ah. Are you sure? She might have been with two charmcasters, tall ones, a girlie and a boy, about our age.”

“Nope.” The boy flung down his rag and moved to the hearth. Snatching up the iron poker, he thrust it into the flames. “If you’re not here for food and drink, you’d best move on.”

Han threaded his way between the tables, moving in closer. “Could have been a few weeks ago,” he persisted. “Are you sure you haven’t—?”

With a roar, the boy wheeled around and charged at Han, wielding the heated poker.

Han danced aside, hooking his foot around the boy’s ankle so he sprawled forward onto the stone floor, the poker pinwheeling across the room and clattering against the wall.

Han guessed this tavern boy hadn’t been in many street fights.

In a heartbeat, Han had planted his knee above the server’s tailbone and twisted his arm behind him until the boy cried out in pain.

“Twitch, and I’ll break your arm,” Han said through gritted teeth.

The boy said nothing, but he didn’t move, either.

“Now, then,” Han said softly. “Let’s have the truth. Start with your name.”

The server turned his head so Han could see one round eye. “S-Simon,” he said. “It’s Simon.”

“All right, Simon,” Han said. “Don’t waste my time. What do you know? When was she here, and who with?”

Simon shook his head carefully. “Do what you want, but I’m not telling you nothing,” he mumbled. “I’m not talking to any cutthroat, thieving highwayman.”

Han took a deep breath, his pulse accelerating. Keeping pressure on the arm, he put his free hand on Simon’s shoulder, allowing unchanneled flash to trickle into the tavern boy.

Simon twitched. “Hey! What do you think you—?”

“Simon,” Han said, lacing his speech with persuasion. “I don’t want to hurt her. I only want to find her and keep her safe.”

“You’re—you’re—you’re…” And then he seemed to forget what he was about to say. Simon’s visible eye was going droopy-lidded. “I don’t know anything about any girlie. I don’t trust you.”