Nameless Queen

by Rebecca McLaughlin

  Devil sighs in disappointment as she moves past me and sits at her table. She pinches one of the candle flames into a wisp of smoke and bends over an iron ring, filing at the edge with a small, rough stone. I slip the coins back into my pocket.

  “I’ll keep watch for Hat,” Devil says. She lights up after a moment, and she leans on the table in my direction. “Or I can get you out of the city tonight, if you’d like to repurpose your payment. But you’d have to move fast. We’d have to leave now, if you’re prepared to go. There’s a ship leaving in…” She pulls an old leather case from her pocket, flips it open, checks the watch inside, and flips it closed again. “Twenty minutes. If you hurry.”

  I hesitate. I imagine the cool ocean breeze against my skin and the constant rush of water against the wooden body of the ship. I can almost taste the salt of the open air and the freedom from Seriden’s walls.

  Then I picture Hat showing up tonight or tomorrow here at Devil’s, bouncing and excited to join me on an adventure outside the city. I imagine the moment her face falls when she realizes I’m already gone, without her.

  I shake my head. “I have to wait for Hat. I don’t think I could leave without…I’ll wait.”

  “I’ve met a lot of people who have left their cities and abandoned the place they were born,” Devil says. “Maybe they’ve committed a crime, they’ve offended the wrong guard, they’re curious to see the world, or they’re not attached enough to the life they’re leaving behind.”

  I raise an eyebrow as if to ask, Which one am I?

  “You’re none of those, Your Highness,” Devil says with an amused grin. “You’re the kind who needs to leave but won’t. With that tattoo on your arm, either you’re dead as soon as they find you, or they’ll force you to name a new ruler and then they’ll kill you. Either way, that tattoo is a death sentence for you.”

  It’s a death sentence for anyone like me. The Nameless don’t win this game. The Nameless are killed. That’s the fate waiting for me.

  “But sure, you can stay,” Devil says cheerily, leaning into her chair and continuing to file at the edges of the ring. “You can be loyal and wait for your little friend.”

  “She’s not my—” I start, but I cut myself off before I finish. If she’s not my friend, then what am I still doing here?

  I curl deeper into the couch and try to force myself to consider my options.

  I wonder if I would leave Seriden if I had a place like this to sleep every night or if I was one of those Nameless with a family. Would I leave if Hat was with me right now?

  I try to understand why Hat’s possessions are so important to her, but I can’t. Maybe they are tokens of a former life. Maybe Hat was part of a Nameless family once. Maybe there’s something that ties her to that blanket and those trinkets in a way I never could understand.

  Hours pass, and I fall asleep thinking of Hat, of black ink tattoos, and of an impossible life outside these city walls.

  * * *

  When I wake, I immediately search for Hat, but she’s not here. It takes me a minute to recognize where I am. There are shelves filled with weapons and pieces of glass and other organized oddities that glint in the morning sunlight. I’m in Devil’s alley.

  “She never came,” Devil says.

  I sit up, alarmed. “Are you sure?”

  She glares at me from her station at the table as if she didn’t move all night. Of course she’s sure.

  What’s Marcher up to? Or what if she’s gone missing like the other Nameless?

  “Oh, gaiza, if she’s been…” I put my head in my hands.

  Devil gauges me. “If you want to leave the city, I can still get you out. There’s a ship heading north for Devra this afternoon. I can get you on board before the crew settles in.”

  “Now?” I try to consider it, but I’m already shaking my head. “I can’t. I can’t go without Hat. She’s…” I don’t finish.

  “I thought you might say that,” Devil says. “Which is why I also got a report from a street runner that Marcher is at East Market this morning. Funny that East Market leads right to the harbor. You may not make the ship heading north, but that’s where you’ll find your friend.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I hate fish.

  I hate the ocean.

  I hate all the slippery rocks.

  I even hate the big open sky that bends and darkens at the horizon.

  In essence, I hate East Market—everything about it.

  Plus, fishermen aren’t good marks. They don’t carry coins, rings, or anything valuable. They carry hooks, scaling knives, and fishing line. Not things I like finding in pockets. Fishermen are only useful because they smell like fish, and everyone hates the pungent smell of seaweed, sweat, and guts. As people dodge the smell, I step into their path and make quick work of their change purses.

  But I’m not here on business today, so I keep my arms crossed as I head for the entrance to the ship-repair house. That’s where Marcher sets up shop while his scoundrel children use the fishermen as decoys for running bump-grabs.

  A bell begins to toll, and people slowly come to a halt, and I stop as well so I don’t draw attention to myself. In truth, I feel rooted to the spot, as if the energy of the crowd is paralyzing me. A Royal announcer takes center stage. Behind him are three Royal guards, two of whom have black lapels and cuffs instead of white. Great. Guards in training—cadets, I’ve heard them called—are reckless, less likely to know all the laws, but more eager to dole out punishments. The two cadets are young, maybe my age. The girl has short brown hair swept behind her ears and a strong jaw. The guy has blond, short-cropped hair and keeps swallowing like he’s thirsty. Rookie. He probably forgot to fill his water flask before heading out. Maybe I’ll steal it from him.

  The third guard is older, with a strong face, serene eyes that scan the crowd attentively, and a truly excellent beard dashed with gray.

  Very few Royal guards actually guard the Royals. Most of them police the outer quadrants and markets. Some guards are more lenient than others, offering reprieve when others would offer an escort to the prison gallows.

  The announcer is clean-shaven except for a thin mustache balanced over his lip. His smile is a fake, public show of teeth, and it makes me twitch. He could use lessons from a grifter on how to con with a real smile.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Legals and Royals,” he says. “I am saddened to inform you that our beloved King Parson Rejoriak Fallow has passed away. Taken from us in his sleep, King Fallow whispered a name in his dying solitude.”

  I bristle, shifting with discomfort. Impossibly, the name he whispered was mine. I’m suddenly aware of the soreness of my arm. It feels like the tattoo is burning, that anyone, everyone, can see it. I don’t even know if I believe it’s real. What’s worse, if anyone else finds out and they don’t believe it’s real…Getting a black tattoo or any tattoo that even resembles the sovereign’s crown is illegal. Then it’s either fire or amputation to remove it, and I doubt they’d waste their fire on me.

  “None of the Royals from the five main families bear the tattoo, and neither do any of the Royals in the court,” the announcer says, and another murmur flows through the crowd. “So it seems”—his fake smile reappears—“a Legal residing in the outer quadrants has been crowned.”

  Another ebb and flow of whispers swirls around me. The Fallow family had the crown up until today. Everyone in Seriden, including me, expected his daughter to get the crown next. I’ve never seen her up close, but people have said she’s strong and would outstrip her father’s accomplishments in her first year.

  The announcer clears his throat. “We have searched the North and South Farms, West Market, and the Inner Ring that connects them all. East Market, dearest Legals and Royals, is the last public area to search. The next heir to Seriden’s throne is likely among you.”

 
My skin itches and burns, flushing with heat.

  He continues, “If you will join us in this ceremony, we will uncover our shoulders on this beautiful spring morning and see who among you has been crowned.”

  Royals and Legals disrobing in public. I think some of them might faint. People pull down the shoulders of their coats, their dresses, their sleeves and suspenders. A Legal woman drops her basket of flowers and shoves aside her lime-green sleeve, exposing her smooth brown skin. Like everyone else, she finds nothing. The whole crowd is energized—or maybe it’s me. My hands twitch at my side as I feel the rise and fall of expectations and disappointment.

  As people start shifting around, they check each other’s arms for any trace of ink, and I start moving again. I feel them all around me, like they’re breathing on my skin. Their energy becomes my energy, and I’m suddenly desperate to be alone.

  A small head of red hair bobs up and down, heading toward me. Hat. And Marcher is three steps behind, hot on her trail. Hat pushes through the pool of Legals and Royals.

  I don’t know why she’s running or why he’s chasing. Maybe he asked her to do something too dangerous. Maybe she told him she wanted to leave. Heat flares in my chest. Maybe he wanted her to pickpocket another Royal. Maybe he doesn’t want her to leave the crew. Maybe he’s just getting back at me. Either way, she’s running. Toward me. I see my name on her lips: Coin.

  She’s afraid and calling out to me.

  I rip off my own coat, exposing the Legal jacket beneath. I start toward Hat at a brisk pace, walking tall and hoping the beige fabric of the jacket will camouflage me.

  “Hat.” I’m six steps away as she bumps into a tall Royal with a monocle. The man, upset and off balance, grabs Hat’s shoulder to steady himself.

  Marcher eases off as we gather the attention of the nearby Royals and Legals. The Royal takes one look at Hat and his expression sours.

  “Nameless thief!” Monocle Royal snatches Hat’s wrist.

  He calls for a Royal guard, and the closest one is the young blond cadet. He grabs Hat by the collar, and the people nearby stir angrily.

  I race through the crowd, pushing. I’m still wearing the Legal jacket, so I only get rude glares instead of curse words.

  “Arrest her!”

  “Throw her in jail!”

  “Hang her!”

  Shouts ring louder and louder in my ears. The cadet should arrest her and put her in a holding cell overnight, but his eyes burn with a crowd-fostered fury as he unsheathes his sword.

  What a fool! Street executions are rare, but they’re supposed to be quick and clean at least. A blade means things will get messy—fast.

  I shove the Royal in front of me so hard that he falls to the ground. I pull off the Legal coat, drop it, and grab the shoulder of my long-sleeved green shirt and tear, ripping the sleeve off. I clear my throat and will my voice to be loud and clear.

  “In the name of the queen, I command you to stop!” I shout, and the cadet falters.

  I fight to keep calm as the cadet slowly lowers Hat, staring at my tattoo. My heart pounds.

  The lieutenant at the gazebo is the first to recover, and he starts toward the cadet. The announcer, however, beams at me from the edge of the gazebo. He speaks loudly, broadcasting to the entire market.

  “What is your appellation and designation?” It’s his fancy Royal way of asking my name and class.

  I could lie. Give a fake name, say I’m Legal. Even if they ask for citizenship papers, it’ll give me time to get away. My papers are at my home in the North Residences. Yet my body is stone.

  “She is Nameless!” The shout rings out in the silence. Marcher, that Nameless traitor. If everyone wasn’t watching me before, they certainly are now. The announcer falters. He looks at me, really looks. I imagine he doesn’t like what he sees: scrappy teenager, bony from hunger yet strong from fighting, shoddy clothes, dirty face. What he sees is me—one of the Nameless.

  The announcer’s voice booms. “Friends and strangers, Legals and Royals! I give you the impossible heir: the Nameless queen!”

  The crowd shifts to shock, and it’s like electricity tingling my skin. Everything loosens, the chill in the air evaporates, and I feel like I have control over my limbs again.

  I don’t know where the other guard comes from. He was behind me, and I missed him. I was so focused on Hat. I thought I could save her. Instead I watch as they place shackles on her wrists just before the same is done to me.

  I’m about to hook his ankle to knock him down when he grips my left shoulder with a gloved hand. As his fingers tighten around my arm, a piercing, deep pain strikes through my shoulder to my chest. The tattoo is like an open wound—sensitive to every pressure and touch.

  The guards haul Hat and me in opposite directions. Her westward and me south toward the holding cells and the Royal Court. All the while, she’s shouting my name—yelling it as she disappears.

  Coin, Coin, Coin.

  A swarm of a hundred bodies separates us, and I struggle to keep her in my sight—a glint of steel shackles, a wisp of red hair—and then she’s gone.

  CHAPTER 4

  We’re in the Royal Court when I realize they aren’t taking me to the holding cells. They march me to the front gates of the palace. The guard with the excellent beard—they call him Lieutenant Glenquartz—pats me down. I don’t object as he takes my favorite knife, a waxy candle stub, and a few stolen baubles and snacks from my pockets. I definitely don’t object when he fails to find the two iron rings in my boot or the lockpick sewn into my pant leg.

  As I enter the palace alongside Lieutenant Glenquartz, my fingers twitch at my sides, eager to refill my pockets. The corridors aren’t busy, but we pass by several groups of Royals. One Royal has a change purse tied at his waist. Another has a set of gold rings on her thumb: currency worn as jewelry.

  We pass a huge tapestry depicting the construction of Seriden that hangs from the ceiling to the floor. I’m hardly interested in a history lesson from something that really ought to be a blanket. But I can’t deny its beauty.

  We go down another corridor, passing statues and sculptures. Then one lined with oil portraits of people who all sport the crown tattoo around their arms. On them, it’s a proud symbol of sovereignty.

  I try not to be impressed. I try really, really hard.

  But there are chandeliers dripping with crystals, artworks framed by sparkling gold, everything clean and shining and soft. Each room we pass is more oddly decorated than the last. One of the rooms stirs with the green glow from emerald glass windows. Another is filled entirely with candles and mirrors, reflecting a sparkling infinity. And there are so many empty rooms, easy spaces just waiting to be filled. Here, space is a luxury instead of a territory to defend.

  I track every turn, mapping the palace in my head. I count the time it would take to run to the entrance, and I tally the rooms with windows big enough to fit through. We pass tables holding vases of thorny flowers and bowls of polished river rocks, the occasional bust of a probably dead person. How thoughtful of them to position makeshift weapons so conveniently.

  They may have searched me upon entry, but by the time they lead me into a quaint sitting room, my pockets are filled once again. My best take is a kitchen knife from an untended platter of half-eaten food. Granted, it’s difficult to make thefts when my hands are shackled, but I keep my hands moving and clinking so they don’t notice when I snatch something. It doesn’t even occur to them to search me again. Big mistake.

  At the end of the quaint room there’s a heavy stone door, which Glenquartz hauls open, and we descend steep stairs into what I quickly realize is the dungeon.

  The world gets darker and colder the farther down we go. We pass by some holding cells, which are similar to the waiting room upstairs: large, with cushioned chairs and doors that barely lock. I imagine Roy
als getting tossed in here for a night when they get too drunk at a party or complain too loudly about taxes.

  I move closer to Glenquartz so I’m sure he will hear me when I speak.

  “I’m assuming my cell doesn’t have pillows?” I say.

  Glenquartz’s shoulders tense, and he doesn’t answer.

  I shrug. “I mean, that’s all right. I’d prefer having some, and proper blankets wouldn’t hurt either—but I’m not going to complain when you’re being so hospitable and giving me a place to sleep tonight.”

  I see the flicker of an almost-smile on his face.

  “Let’s be honest. I’m not upset,” I continue, “but you seem to be neglecting your dungeon. Dust everywhere. And I don’t want to seem too forward, but I am excellent at redecorating drab places. In fact, you scooped me up before I could gather my things. I forgot to douse the stove and close the curtains in my alley.”

  The angry cadet at my side—with his round face, dark hair, and delightfully inattentive eyes—keeps a firm grip on my right shoulder. When he pulls me to a stop, I bump into him. I can’t steal anything as ostentatious as his rifle or pistol, but I quickly unsnap the metal ring of keys inside his jacket and twist sharply to the side and drop it in my boot, pretending that I’ve tripped.

  It’s over in an instant, and now I have my escape.

  Angry Cadet keeps his hold on my shirt as Glenquartz removes my cuffs, but he lets go when Glenquartz prompts me to enter the cell.

  I walk through the cell door as if I’m excited to enter my new home. I’m pleased to see Glenquartz use the same key to lock the door that he used to unlock my cuffs.

  I give Glenquartz a coy look. “No pillows? Really? Very rude to your future queen.”

  Angry Cadet openly scoffs. “As soon as we confirm that your tattoo is a forgery, I’ll escort you myself to the prison gallows, where you can join your little friend from the market.”