The Exiled Queen. Cinda Williams Chima

lad. Have to ask. No harm meant.”

      “You and your comrades,” Dancer said. “Are you king’s men?” Likely, Dancer wondered if Karn was inquiring after magical pieces in any official capacity.

      “Us?” Karn shrugged noncommittally. “We’re sell- swords, between assignments, I guess you’d say. We’re waiting to see how it all comes out.”

      Dancer yawned again, resting his chin on his fist, looking even more droopy- eyed than before. He’d downed his cider quickly, probably hoping they could go on upstairs.

      Han took another long swallow of cider, draining it nearly to the bottom. There it was again, that bitter taste against the cloying sweetness. His mind seemed fuzzy and unfocused.

      He looked over at Dancer, who now lay sprawled over the table, head down, his breathing deep and even.

      “Guess your friend’s had enough,” Karn said. “He drank it up kind of fast.”

      Dancer had, but cider didn’t have the kick that . . .

      Turtleweed. Han blinked at Karn, clubbed by the realization. It was turtleweed, and lots of it, mixed into the cider. Turtleweed would knock you out in no time.

      Gripping the hilt of his knife, Han yanked it free. He tried to rise, but his body no longer responded to his commands. He was overpowered by fatigue, his eyes drooping, shut of their own accord.

      “There, now,” Karn said, wresting his knife from him. “Guess that cider was stronger than you thought. We’d better help you two home.”

      “Leave go. We’re staying here,” Han mumbled in protest. His lips felt numb.

      Karn thrust his meaty hand under Han’s shirt and grasped the serpent amulet.

      “Aaaaagh!” he shrieked, letting go of it and slapping his hand against his thigh.

      Han curled protectively around the flashpiece. “Leave it be, you angling lully prigger, or I’ll . . .” He trailed off, unable to remember what he meant to do.

      Karn made no further attempt on the amulet. Instead, he and one of the other soldiers hauled Han to his feet. Two other soldiers dragged Dancer out the door.

      What is this? Han thought, clutching his amulet and ineffectually scuffing his feet against the floor. What do they want from us?

      And then he didn’t think anything anymore.

      * * *

      Han awoke to a crashing turtleweed headache and a sick stomach. Sign of poor- quality product. He’d never dealt in that kind of stuff.

      He lay on a straw pallet on a stone floor, covered with a filthy wool blanket. Once his head stopped spinning, he gingerly sat up. It wasn’t easy— his hands were bound tightly together behind his back, his ankles bound also. He tested the knots, trying to slide his hands free or rub the cords loose on the stone floor. He got nowhere, ending with bruised and skinned wrists. His wrists were wrapped so tightly his fingers felt like fat, clumsy sausages. He was all dressed up like a warm mark on Temple Day.

      Dancer lay facedown a few feet away, similarly bound, still sound asleep. They lay in a dark room, faintly illuminated by the moonlight that sieved through the tightly shuttered windows and under the door. Cool night air leaked through imperfections in the wall and ran along the floor, chilling Han. There was no stink of the city in the air. The rattle of branches overhead and chirp of crickets said they were out in the country.