Later that night, lying in bed, she couldn’t sleep, even though she was bone-weary. She’d tucked the piper carving under the clothing in her deepest drawer.

She thought of Han Alister, on the other side of a thin door. Wondered if he was lying awake, too.

She trusted Amon Byrne, but she couldn’t trust him to know the truth—that she’d recognized the symbols painted on the bodies. She’d seen it before—on the talismans that Han’s Ragmarket crew wore.

She’d recognized the piper carving immediately. The last time she’d seen it, it hung around Han Alister’s neck, next to his amulets.

Perhaps Raisa was as much a fool as Hanalea had been, when she’d trusted the Demon King.

She was in love with Han Alister, and it just might cost her her life.

C H A P T E R  F I F T E E N

STREET RULES

Han slid his hand into the niche under the market clock and pulled out a crumpled note. She’s coming. Darkman’s hour. It was unsigned.

He looked up at the clock. If he didn’t hustle, he’d be late. Only, being late to this meeting wasn’t all bad.

He threaded his way through familiar streets, taking his time, comfortable in his shabby glamour. He detoured into Pinbury, had a word with two of his eyes and ears, name of Gimp and Scuttle. They were as deferential as streetrats can be, calling him Lord Alister and peering at him out of the corners of their eyes. No, my Lord Alister. Nothing new to report.

He descended into the Bottoms, headed for the meeting place, mentally pounding himself for his actions two nights before.

Han knew street rules. Never run from a bluejacket unless you know you can get clean away. Running looks guilty. Running draws attention when you want to be overlooked.

He shouldn’t have run at all.

His eyes and ears had alerted him to the bodies in the alley. He’d been examining the two dead wizards, looking for vestiges of magic, trying to sort out what might have happened. One thing he knew—the flash-and-staff mark said that whoever had hushed the wizards was someone who knew what Han’s gang sign was—and was trying to blame it on him.

Then the bluejacket patrol surprised him. Instinct took over, despite a lifetime of street training, and he’d run.

Han would have gotten clean away if he hadn’t had the bad luck to run into Hallie and Mick—two bluejackets who would recognize him if they got a good look.

He hoped they hadn’t. He hoped they’d followed after him just because he looked suspicious. He’d had his cap on, pulled down over his hair, and they wouldn’t expect to see him there.