The Exiled Queen

  Abelard heaved an exasperated sigh. “The Bayar twins,” she said.

  “That’s a deal breaker,” Han said, putting up his hands. “Thanks just the same.”

  Abelard shook her head. “Hear me out. Politics among wizards is complicated. We have some common goals—to defeat the clans and protect ourselves from the fanatics in the south. Thus we need a well-trained gifted army. But we are not of one mind when it comes to other issues, such as who should be High Wizard, who runs the council, and who controls the queen.”

  “Like I said, I’m not really interested in politics,” Han said.

  “You should know that the High Wizard and I are not allies. We are rivals, in fact. The Bayars have wielded too much power for too long. I intend to bring them down.”

  Han’s head came up, and he stared at her. A turf war within the wizard aristocracy?

  The dean smiled thinly. “Don’t look so astonished. You’ll report directly to me. I am not without influence. If our arrangement works out, I can offer you some protection when we return to the Fells. You would like to go back home, wouldn’t you?”

  “Why would you teach special classes to Micah and Fiona if you’re at odds with their father?” Han asked.

  “The simple answer is that the High Wizard insisted. They are likely here to keep an eye on me.” The dean’s mouth twisted. “The more complicated answer is that we need large numbers of well-trained wizards to meet the external threats from the clans and from Arden. So I might do something contrary to my own interests in the short run for the greater good.”

  “For the greater good of wizards, you mean,” Han said.

  “Of which you are one, I believe,” Abelard said dryly. “In the long run, I need someone without an agenda of his own who can dispose of gifted adversaries if need be.”

  Han pushed up from his chair, feeling a little sick. “No thanks.”

  Abelard leaned her head back and looked down her nose at him. “Did you think you were being given a choice?” she said softly.

  Han was already turning toward the door, but he swung back around to face her. “There’s always a choice.”

  “You can cooperate with me, learn everything you can, and act on my orders. Or be expelled from Mystwerk House and sent back to the Fells for hanging.”

  “Expelled?” Han blurted, his mouth going dry as ashes. “For what?”

  “Had we known we were harboring a wanted criminal, we would not have admitted you in the first place.”

  Well. It was a choice—between two nasty options.

  “Why are you so interested in me?” Han asked. “Why would you drag someone kicking and screaming into your crew?”

  “Because it’s unlikely you work for Gavan Bayar,” Abelard said. “Or ever will. He will never forgive you for trying to kill him. Ever. You’d better hope that I win.”

  Just because you’re the enemy of my enemy don’t mean you’re my friend, Han thought. But he kept shut on that.

  “Despite your upbringing, your language, your history, there’s also something almost aristocratic about you,” the dean said. “Maybe it’s only arrogance, but I think you could learn to maneuver at court, with a little training. I don’t need a street thug. I need someone who can move in those circles.”

  She also wants a tool, Han thought. Someone who will never be accepted by her blueblood friends, someone who has to depend on her handouts for survival.

  He eyed Abelard, thinking fast. He’d never been one to make long-term plans, and lately his life had been all about buying time. He needed time at Oden’s Ford to build his skills in wizardry, and protection from his many enemies.

  The extra classes couldn’t hurt, either. Abelard could provide that, at least until she found out he’d been playing her. When that happened, he’d still be better off with more weapons.

  How many times can I pledge my services before my gang lords catch on?

  “All right,” he said, shrugging. “I’m in.”

  Dean Abelard smiled. “I knew you were a smart boy,” she said.

  “On one condition.”

  Abelard lifted her plucked eyebrows, registering amazement. “Which is?”

  Han meant to make his point with the Bayars. He needed to prevent retaliation after.

  “The Bayar twins and their cousins have been dogging me because of what I did to their father,” Han said. He touched his swollen cheekbone. “They tried to kill me this afternoon—for the second time. I an’t the most patient person. I need you to put a stop to it. Unless you want me to hush them right now, which I will do if need be.”

  Abelard raised both hands. “No. Absolutely not. There’s no way I can bring you back to court if their killings are linked to you.”

  Well, you’re a cold one, Han thought.

  “I will let them know in no uncertain terms that you are under my protection,” she said. “They won’t cross you again.”

  “Good.” Han rubbed the back of his neck. “But wait until they come to you about me, all right?”

  She scowled. “What possible reason could there be to—”

  “I need to teach them a lesson first,” he said. When Abelard opened her mouth to protest, he added, “Don’t worry. They’ll survive. And I won’t do aught that can be tied back to me.” Lacing her fingers across her torso, the dean gave him a good look-over. “Just don’t get caught. If you do, you’re on your own.”

  Han smiled. “No worries.” He stood. “Is there anything else?”

  “I meet with my group on Wednesday evenings, here in my office,” Abelard said. “Be here at seven.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  IN MYSTWERK

  TOWER

  When Han arrived back at Hampton, Dancer met him at the top of the stairs. “Bad news. While we were out, somebody made a mess of—what happened to you?” he demanded when he got a better look at Han’s face. “Did she hit you or what?”

  Han blinked at him out of one eye, uncomprehending. “Did who hit me?”

  “Dean Abelard. That’s where you’ve been, right?”

  Han nodded. “I just came from there. She didn’t hit me, though. I took a tumble down the stairs. Had to go to see Leontus.”

  “What? How did you—?”

  Han extended the length of rope toward Dancer. “Them that scowered up my room left this tied across the staircase.”

  Dancer’s face went hard as amber. “Master Blevins, does he know about this?”

  “He knows I fell down the stairs. They were trying to lift my amulet when he come running. Else I might be dead.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Micah and his cousins. They left in a hurry when Blevins came.” Han swayed, taking hold of the newel post to stay upright. The walk back had nearly done him in.

  Dancer stuck out a hand to steady him. “Come on and sit down before you fall down the stairs a second time.”

  Han followed Dancer down the hallway to his room. The bed was stripped, the linens piled in the corridor, and the broken bits swept up.

  “Thought I’d start on it, anyway.” Dancer gestured to a chair. “Sit.”

  Han felt bad allowing Dancer to do all the work, but he was just too busted to argue. “This an’t going to happen again,” he said. “Just so you know.”

  “Mmm,” Dancer said skeptically, carrying an armload of Han’s slimed clothing out to the hall. “Are you thinking Blevins might—”

  “Blevins won’t do anything. He doesn’t run the whole campus, anyway.” The college town he’d thought was so safe now seemed perilous. “It’s got to be me.”

  “Us, you mean.” When Han said nothing, Dancer said, “What are you planning to do? Your protection charms didn’t work, and we can’t stay here all day and all night.”

  “I’m going to meet with Crow in Aediion. Tomorrow night. See what he’s got.”

  “I think that fall must have jostled your brain loose,” Dancer said, tossing clean sheets over a fresh straw mattress.

  “I
don’t have a choice. I won’t roll over for Bayar. He needs a good basting, and I’m going to give it to him.”

  “You’re not in Ragmarket anymore,” Dancer said. “This isn’t a gang war.”

  “That’s what you think.” Han worked the fingers of his captive arm.

  “Remember what happened last time you went to Aediion? At least if you fall down the stairs, there’s someone around to help.”

  “No one can help if I’m dead.” Han fingered his swollen eye.

  “If you go after them with magic,” Dancer countered, “you’ll get expelled.”

  “It has to be me, and it has to be magic, because that’s where he thinks he has the advantage.”

  “That’s where he does have the advantage.” Dancer dipped a brush in soapy water and began scrubbing down the walls.

  “I mean to change that.” Han watched Dancer for a few minutes. “I’ll clean your room for a month,” he offered. “Soon as I’m out of this sling.”

  Dancer wrinkled his nose. “You owe me a year after this,” he said. “And if you insist on going to Aediion, then I’m coming with you.”

  Han shook his head. “He said to come alone.”

  “You need someone to watch your back,” Dancer said.

  “He may not even show,” Han said. “It’s been a month.”

  “I hope he doesn’t,” Dancer said.

  Han stayed in his room all the next day, resting and replenishing his amulet, building it up for his meeting with Crow. After that, and some of Dancer’s willow bark, Han felt well enough to walk downtown with Dancer after classes to buy some new clothes to replace those that had been ruined. That took some time. For one thing, Han wasn’t used to buying new. There were too many decisions—fabric, cut, color, style.

  For another, the tailor took her time. She was a curvy Tamron girlie with kohl-lined eyes and lips the color of crushed strawberries. At first she goggled at Han’s pounded appearance, but soon she was taking measurements of every possible part of his body and gushing over what a made man he’d be when she was done with him.

  Her hands lingered on his shoulders and hips and thighs somewhat longer than necessary. She compared the blue of the velvets to the blue in his eyes. As she draped fabric over his torso, she leaned in and whispered, “Come back alone for your fitting.”

  She was pretty enough, and it was an offer he might have welcomed in the past. Now the girlie’s pursuit of him just made him feel weary and besieged.

  You are beaten down, Alister, he thought. You need a tonic.

  By then it was too late to eat in the dining hall, so he and Dancer walked to Bridge Street. They went back to arguing about Aediion over dinner. Dancer was as stubborn as any rock, and the debate continued as they walked to the Bayar Library.

  “All right!” Han said, exasperated. “We’re meeting in Aediion, in Mystwerk Tower. I’ve never been there, so we’ll have to go there for real in order to find it in the dream world. We’ll leave about eleven fifteen. That gives us time to get in and get settled. You stand watch while I cross over. If I don’t come back, you come after me.”

  Dancer reluctantly agreed.

  Han beat back the worry that he wouldn’t be able to return to Aediion. And that Crow wouldn’t be there if he did.

  Bayar Library was an ornate stone building on the riverbank, linked to Mystwerk Hall by arched stone galleries that sheltered students from the weather. The library reminded Han of the family that built it—intentionally intimidating.

  It resembled a palace of learning, with its elaborately carved stairway railings and thick granite windowsills, its massive hearths ablaze late into the night. There were five main floors, meant for first-, second-, and third-level students, plus two with reading and conference rooms for masters and deans. Even higher were the stacks, reachable only by pull-down staircases and reserved for dedicated scholars.

  Han ducked self-consciously under the Stooping Falcon signia engraved over the door, as if at any moment he might feel those extended talons sink into the skin on the back of his neck, and the razor-sharp beak tear into his flesh.

  In the first-year reading room, the newlings shared access to magical texts so rare that even wealthy heirs of the wizard houses couldn’t afford their own. When Han and Dancer walked in, Han saw that Micah Bayar, Wil Mathis, and the Mander brothers had already claimed the prime turf next to the fire, their books and papers spread over a large round table.

  A proficient sat by the door, ready to answer questions, issue passes, and make sure that those who used the reading rooms didn’t distract others from their work.

  Micah was bent over his books as if he were studying hard. He slowly turned the pages, occasionally writing notes in an elegant leather-bound journal.

  Miphis Mander stared into space, chewing on his pen. When he saw Han, his jaw dropped and his pen fell to the floor. His mouth opened and closed like a beached fish.

  Just then, Fiona walked in from the adjacent room, carrying a large book, her finger marking a place in it. She wore a bored expression that transitioned to puzzlement as she ran her eyes over Han, taking in his bruised face and arm sling. She looked at Micah, then back at Han, and frowned.

  She wasn’t in on it, Han realized. I thought they shared everything, but she didn’t know about this plan. I wonder why.

  Miphis elbowed Micah. Micah lifted his head, looking annoyed, like he was about to bark at his cousin. It was almost—almost—worth yesterday’s humiliations and injuries to see the astonishment on Micah Bayar’s face when he laid eyes on Han. Astonishment that he quickly wiped away.

  Their eyes met, locked together. “Blood and bones, Alister, what happened to you?” Micah said, touching his own cheekbone with his forefinger. “Fighting again?”

  Miphis tittered, his eyes shifting from Han to Micah.

  “Fell down the stairs,” Han said. “Nearly broke my neck, in fact.”

  “Perhaps you should watch your step next time,” Micah said, stretching lazily.

  Fiona’s puzzlement turned to fury. She cocked back her arm and pegged the book at her brother’s head. He just managed to duck in time. It whizzed past him and smacked into the wall with tremendous force.

  The proficient looked up, glaring, but decided not to intervene when he saw who it was. Wil Mathis fetched the book and handed it back to Fiona. She sat down next to Wil and opened it, spots of color on her pale cheeks.

  Fiona had a rum arm. Han made a mental note to remember that.

  He also wondered what could be going on between the two Bayars.

  Han and Dancer took a table in a corner. They each chose a book, taking notes on the assigned chapters, then recopying them for the other.

  Several times, Han looked up to find Fiona watching him fixedly, her pale blue eyes going nearly purple in the flickering candlelight, her hands clenching the book on the table in front of her.

  Well, have an eyeful, girlie, Han said to himself, massaging his aching head. I can’t help how I look. This is your brother’s doing.

  That was the thing. In the blueblood world, your enemy dined and danced with you, talking pretty to your face while reaching around to stab you in the back.

  At ten, Han put his other work aside and pulled out Kinley to reread the chapter about Aediion. He’d never planned on going back; now he had to study up quick.

  At eleven o’clock, Micah swept up his books and papers and stowed them in his book bag. Pulling on his cloak, he slung the bag over his shoulder and stopped by the proficient’s desk for a walking pass, since it was past the ten o’clock curfew.

  It seemed Micah was done for the night.

  Struggling to concentrate, wondering where Micah had gone, Han read and scribbled until the bells in Mystwerk Tower bonged quarter past eleven. Catching Dancer’s eyes, Han slid his papers into his carry bag, laying Kinley on top. Dancer collected his books and papers also.

  Han stood, stretched painfully, and fumbled one-handed into his wool cloak, draping it
over his carry bag.

  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.