“Bayar?” Han’s heart stuttered. “But how would the artist know about the amulet if it was painted so long after the piece was destroyed?” The other students were staring at him, but he didn’t care.

Jemson shrugged. “It’s a common element in paintings of the Demon King. I’m assuming it was copied from an earlier work.”

Maybe, Han thought. Or maybe it was painted directly from the object itself.

“What was his name?” Han asked.

Jemson’s brow furrowed. “Whose name?”

“The Demon King. Did he have another name? From before.” Han persisted.

“Well, yes,” Jemson said, still looking puzzled. “His birth name was Alger Waterlow.”

For Han, Southbridge Temple was in every sense a sanctuary. It was a toehold in enemy territory, a refuge from the streets when he needed one. He couldn’t help feeling edgy as he left the safety of its walls and ventured into Southbridge, his first visit since the confrontation with the Southies in Brickmaker’s Alley.

Mari begged to come with him. Everything he did seemed to fascinate her, no matter if it was tedious or dangerous or on the hush. Before he left Mari at the library, he extracted a promise from her that she’d stay put. The last thing he needed was to be searching Southbridge for her.

He avoided Brickmaker’s Alley, just in case, and followed the river west from the bridge, wrinkling his nose against the stench. If the Southies came after him, he reasoned, he could jump into the Dyrnnewater. No one who wasn’t in fear for his life would follow him into that cesspool. The pristine river that emerged from the Eastern Spirits became an open sewer in Fellsmarch. It was a thorn in the side of the clans, who considered the river sacred.

The streets were strangely quiet, even for this time of day, and the Queen’s Guard was unusually visible. Han faded away from several bluejacket patrols and had to continually adjust his route to avoid clusters of soldiers on street corners. In Southbridge, guilty or not, you avoided the Guard. It was a tradition handed down through generations.

By the time he reached The Keg and Crown, it was nearly midday. It should’ve been prime for the lunch trade, but only about half the tables were occupied. Matieu stood at the bar, glumly carving plate-size slices off a leg of mutton.

“Hey, Matieu,” Han said. “I’ve come for the empties.”

Matieu froze, staring at Han as if he’d seen a demon. Sliding the knife into his apron pocket, he retrieved the bottles from behind the counter and set them on the bar, never taking his eyes off Han.

“What’s going on?” Han asked, sliding the bottles into his carry bag. “It’s strange outside. Nobody on the streets except for the Guard, and plenty of them.”

“You haven’t heard?” Matieu squinted at Han.

Han shook his head. “Heard what?”