Nameless Queen

by Rebecca McLaughlin

  I deadpan, “Okay, it’s an expensive blanket with sleeves.”

  Esther’s thick eyelashes flutter as she resists rolling her eyes at me. “You could at least try for a little decorum. You could even try for some grace and strength, if you liked.”

  Her words sound suspiciously like advice hidden inside an insult. I want to play this game like the grifter I am, but I can’t seem to hold my tongue around her. I don’t know if it’s because she’s exactly what I expected of all of the snooty Royals or because she’s so immediately judgmental of me.

  I give the dress a more careful inspection. Before today, the only thought I gave to clothing was whether it was warm, durable, and had enough pockets. Now, as I examine the fabric, I wonder for the first time what it would be like to feel beautiful. I suppose that, before now, I’ve never been brave enough to really try.

  The broad neckline slopes down around the shoulders, and small shimmering beads cover the bodice. It doesn’t have a single pocket. Esther adjusts the fabric around my waist, carefully avoiding touching my skin. I thought the Nameless had a healthy sense of immodesty, but Esther didn’t even blink as she banished Glenquartz from the room and hurried me out of my my bedclothes and into this dress.

  The streets. I’m surprised to find I miss them already. Back in the market, I pulled on a Legal coat to try to save Hat. As soon as the pale fabric covered my skin, I was different. Walking strong, standing tall, on equal ground with everyone I passed. Will it be as easy to put on this dress and become a Royal?

  I smooth the red fabric, turning to Esther. Her gaze starts on my hair with a slight frown. A smile tugs at her lips as she observes the dress, but when she gets to my ankles, she frowns again.

  “I guess there’s not much we can do about the shoes for now,” she says. “I’ll have to put a call out for a cobbler to visit you.”

  “These are boots, not shoes,” I say defensively. “There’s a difference. Maybe I could just make you hallucinate that I’m wearing fancy shoes. That’d work, right?”

  “As if you have enough focus and strength to maintain such an illusion,” Esther says with a drawn-out sigh. She spins me like a doll and tugs on the sleeves, which fall short above the tattoo. Then she pulls tight the tie around the waist, and suddenly the dress fits too well. “I wish the crimson was a bit brighter,” Esther says. “With your skin tone, you really are suited for bold colors.”

  I can tell she pities me. And while I want nothing more than to be prideful and turn down her help, I have a lot of experience weighing pride in my hands. Do I want pride, or do I want to eat? Do I want pride, or a safe place to sleep? Do I want pride, or do I want to escape the guards chasing me?

  Surprisingly, pride doesn’t win very often. That’s how I’ve ended up eating mold, being the monster in a small child’s closet, and half covered in fish guts—respectively, of course.

  Esther hands me a smaller bundle of clothes, and I pick through them, a faint blush rising to my cheeks when I realize what they are.

  “How many pairs of undergarments do I need?” I say.

  Esther stammers, “You…A lot.” I can tell she’s coming to the realization that this, too, is a luxury the Nameless are not afforded. “Every time you take a shower, you put on a whole new set of clean clothes. Every day is best.”

  I frown. “Are you saying I’m supposed to bathe more than once a season?”

  She squints. “You’re joking, right?”

  I break out in a sly grin. “You’re quick. Well, you’re clever at least. We can work on quickness later.” I push the clothing to the side.

  Esther is not as amused by my quips as Glenquartz is.

  “I’m sure this is more than sufficient,” Esther says. One last look over and she sighs. “That is the best we can do, I suppose.”

  Squaring my shoulders, I stand straight and tall. Be Royal, be confident. Esther opens the doors to the corridor to let Glenquartz back into the room. She turns around and does a double take when she sees my posture.

  I bet she wasn’t expecting me to act the part. I need to find a balance between independent and obedient. If I can’t trust my temper to stay in check, I need to decide when to use it to show strength. For now, I need to show her I can stand tall and walk gracefully. I clasp my hands delicately in front of me.

  Glenquartz reenters the room and has a delightful look of surprise when he sees the dress.

  “I’ll see you at dinner tonight.” Esther offers an imitation of a curtsy, and I suppose I have to give her credit for making a show of being respectful.

  “Did you learn anything?” I ask as she walks away.

  “Pardon?” she says, pausing in the doorway.

  I point to the clothes and dress. “Certainly this is something that would be managed by a servant of some kind. You wanted to come to size me up. Both literally and figuratively. So. Did you learn anything?”

  She glares at me. “You’re quick. And clever.” She disappears into the corridor, and even though her words were phrased like compliments, they linger in the air with the sharp sting of insults.

  I sigh dramatically and look forlornly at Glenquartz. “I don’t think Esther wants to be my friend.”

  He chuckles. “I think you’re probably right about that.”

  * * *

  In the hours until lunch, I do my best to create the illusion of dress shoes instead of my boots. Glenquartz commends me on them, but I can barely make it thirty minutes at a time before the illusion falters. Esther was right—sustaining an illusion requires constant focus, but it also requires mental energy. By the time we adjourn to the dining hall for dinner, my mind is weary. I pause outside the door to gather my thoughts, and I find a corkboard hanging beside it. On it there are four pieces of paper pinned up. They’re filled with different-sized scribbles and lines.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Ah, it’s the list of people who’ve signed up so far to duel you at the Assassins’ Festival,” Glenquartz says. “It’s more ceremonial than anything else. If you cede to Esther or Belrosa, you won’t have to worry about the remaining duels. Take a look, if you like. I see Belrosa’s name on it already—no surprise there. Doesn’t look like Esther has signed up yet, though.”

  I regard the list of names. There are at least twenty of them. I retreat to the table across the corridor to untie and retie my boots.

  “What, not interested?” he says, teasing, but he stops when he sees my annoyance. He puts an apologetic hand on my shoulder.

  Burned, I step away from his touch. “I can’t read.”

  “Oh.” His hand hovers for a moment before falling to his side.

  In his Royal world, I’m sure learning to read is as natural as studying which silverware to use and how to dance.

  “The Nameless aren’t taught to read,” Glenquartz says.

  My shoulders tense. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “No,” Glenquartz says, wincing. “What I meant is that it’s not your fault.”

  “I could have learned if I wanted to,” I admit, my shoulders slumping. “If it really mattered to me, I could have found someone to teach me.” What I don’t say weighs more heavily: that trying to learn to read was like deciphering planets from flickering stars. I gave up long ago.

  “You’re still so young,” Glenquartz consoles me. “You have time to learn if you want to. You’re only…” He trails off when he realizes he doesn’t remember how old I am.

  “Seventeen, if it’s up to me,” I say. “But in truth…I don’t know.” I cross my arms. It’s never really bothered me before that I don’t know these few and vital things about myself. I created truths as I needed them. But now these things matter, and I have to look at the facts and realize I’m a stranger in my own life.

  I approach the dining-hall door again and place a hand on it, running a finger
along the polished grain.

  “You know,” I say softly, “before now it didn’t bother me that I can’t read, that I don’t have good posture, or that I don’t know how to make a good first impression.”

  Glenquartz stands beside me, letting me speak.

  “I don’t have proper clothing, I’ve spent my life stealing, and I don’t know how to be around cruel people without punching them. I mean, I don’t know if those things bother me, but I’ve never had to worry about them before.” On the other side of the door, there is an entire room filled with people bustling, feasting, and socializing.

  “If I could walk through these doors and, I don’t know…just be one of them…” I curl my fingers into a fist, the smooth wood leaving traces of oily polish on my skin. I let my fist fall to my side. I relax.

  Glenquartz is staring at the door as pensively as I am.

  “I served King Fallow for nearly my entire life,” Glenquartz says, “and my family has served the sovereigns of Seriden for generations. I’m not going to say that learning how to interact with the Royals isn’t important, because I know it is. But King Fallow wouldn’t have named you queen without a reason. You’re concerned about being different from all of the people in that room. Don’t be. You’re not meant to be their friend or their equal. You’re meant to lead them.”

  I scoff. “I’m meant to keep my head down and not cause trouble for the next five and a half weeks. What do I know about leading people?”

  “From what I’ve seen so far,” Glenquartz says, “you’re pretty good at telling people what to do.”

  I pout playfully. “Are you calling me bossy, Glen-beard?”

  He puts a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Me? Would I say that, my lady?”

  Still, I hesitate, staring at the door as if I can see through it.

  “Of all the people in this city,” Glenquartz says, “I think there is at least one person who doesn’t care how tall you stand or how bad your manners are. Or how bossy you are. I’m guessing that’s the person you care about most?”

  Hat. My chin turns up with pride.

  “I’ll make sure the request for her release is sent as soon as possible,” he says.

  “Shall we?” I say, but even I can hear the reluctance—the fear—in my voice.

  Glenquartz opens the door for me, then stands to the side to let me go first.

  With fear and bravery in equal balance, I square my shoulders, and I enter.

  * * *

  No one tries to assassinate me during dinner, but that doesn’t mean they’re not thinking about it. On my path through the dining hall, several people touch me before I can sidestep them. If they hold on for more than a second or two, I feel a tidal surge of memories and images. From some people I see the last time they saw the king or the first time they saw me in a corridor. I see hands wrapped around my throat, poison-dipped food slipped onto my tray, and—most creative of all—a spring-loaded blade propped under my pillow. None of the images, though, are as hate-filled or horrible as the thoughts Belrosa pushed on me yesterday during the meeting with the council.

  Needless to say, when I take my seat at the high table, everyone’s watching me. It doesn’t help that the table has eight empty cushioned chairs and that the entire setup is on an elevated platform—quite literally a stage. After seeing several imaginings of my death, all I want to do is lock myself in a quiet room. I miss the dungeon. As the Legal servants bring out trays of food, all I can think about is what might be poisoned. Glenquartz takes a seat beside me as the food is brought out, and it doesn’t smell poisoned. It smells fantastic. Even though fresh fish is common in a coastal city, I’ve only had it a couple of times, and the breading and spices make my mouth water.

  But when dinner is placed before us, Glenquartz makes a point of slowly switching food with me over the course of the meal. It’s one excuse or another to trade with me: His is too spicy; green vegetables don’t agree with him; I just have to try the coffee cake. He thinks he’s being subtle, but I’m not fooled. I am impressed, though. Everyone in the room sees Glenquartz trying my food before me. If anyone wants to poison me, they have to go through him. My bodyguard indeed. And while people’s auras stiffen or sharpen in my presence, they are kind and soft in his.

  When the meal is done, I watch a group of Legal servants prepare silver trays of food for the Royals to take with them to their rooms in the palace or to their homes out in the court. I watch a boy—a couple of years younger than me, in a Legal servant’s uniform—sort through the dessert table, cleaning a splash of raspberry liquor, wiping crumbs from a tray of small cakes. When I see him swipe a piece of cake, wrap it in a cloth, and tuck it in his pocket, it piques my interest. When genuine kindness lingers in his smile after he meets someone’s gaze, I slip through the thinning crowd and join him at the table.

  “It must be difficult,” I say to him, “serving the Royals like this, working in this fancy world that you don’t quite belong in.”

  The boy assesses the red Royal dress I’m wearing. He must figure me for the daughter of a Royal family.

  “Could be,” he says in a polite tone, but he does a double take when he sees the crown tattoo on my arm. His aura spikes silver with fear.

  “Your Highness!” He does a clumsy bow and looks me up and down before adding, “You’re…Is it true that you’re Nameless?”

  I sigh serenely as if this is my favorite question to answer in the world.

  He hurries to regain ground. “If you’d like to take some food with you, I can prepare a tray, or I can leave word with the kitchen staff to have something sent to your room.” His whole body is angled to keep his stolen cake a secret. He is not a good thief. Not yet, anyway.

  I shake my head. “That’s not what I want. I want to do something while I’m here,” I say. “I’ve got…a little over five weeks? Until the Assassins’ Festival. I can’t solve every problem, but maybe I can help with just one. At least one.” I reach around him for a piece of fruit, but instead I pluck the cake from his pocket. I set it in front of him, and his cheeks turn scarlet.

  “It’s for my little brother,” he says. “My family can’t afford to…We don’t have cake like this out in the North Residences.” His shoulder is pinned up in a shrug, and he takes the cake when I nudge it toward him with a conspiratorial wink.

  “If I give you a place and a name, will you be able to divert some of the food being prepared out into the city? Not so much that it goes noticed, but something. Since you live in the Legal residences, it could very well be on your way. Queen-sanctioned theft, what do you say?”

  He chews his lip. “For who? To where?” He doesn’t say no.

  “For people who are starving. The Nameless.”

  He stares at the food for a while. “Yeah.” Then, excited: “Yeah! Where do you want it taken? How do we do this?”

  “First you have to get a lot better at stealing,” I say.

  It doesn’t take long to talk him through the basics, and I make a show of picking at a tray of skewered vegetables while we talk so that no one finds our discussion suspicious. I describe the part of the Inner Ring that Devil frequents, and when I give him her name, he scrunches his nose in confusion. I reassure him that, yes, Devil is the right name. Yes, she’s a woman. Yes, I’m sure.

  If I had a silver ring for every time a Legal or Royal looked at me funny upon hearing one of the strange names of the Nameless, I’d have enough to buy a house in the North Residences.

  The Legal writes down the details on a pad of paper from his apron pocket. He keeps agreeing enthusiastically.

  “This is good. Confusing, but good,” he says.

  “If you think Devil is a confusing name, there’s a man who lives near the docks called Narms. It’s because he has no arms and a habit of slurring his words.”

  “No, I meant confusing in
a good way. It’s good to have a sovereign who cares about people outside the Royal class, about both the Legals and the Nameless. We’ve never really had that in a sovereign before.” He adjusts the straps of his apron. “I mean, I’ve heard that in the past, if a Legal got the crown, things would get better for a little while—lower taxes, fairer laws—but you. You’re something different.”

  “Check with me tomorrow morning,” I say. “I want to know they got it safely.”

  “I’ll bring you some breakfast,” he says, delighted. “Any special requests?”

  I shrug, not wanting to feel as if I’m taking advantage of his goodwill. “Something with a lot of protein, but be careful not to tell anyone you’re preparing my meal. I’m sure I have no shortage of enemies here.”

  “You can count me among your allies,” he says. “And once the other Legal servants hear of this, you can count them among your allies too.”

  “If you can keep this between us,” I say, “the fewer people who know, the better. I don’t think the council would take too kindly to our actions.”

  “Well,” he says, “I take kindly to it, and so will your friends out there.” He stows his pad in his apron and hurries off with a tray of leftover food.

  I watch him go, wondering what he must think of me. He assumes they’re my friends, the Nameless out on the streets. I trust Devil with this, but I wouldn’t quite call us friends. She may keep some of the better food for herself and sell it to those who can afford it, and she plays at being a hardened smuggler and fence, but she’s as soft as the pillows I left in the dungeon. She’ll get it in the hands of those who need it most.

  I return to the guest quarters for the rest of the evening. I’m sapped of energy, and it’s all I can do to sit still when the tailor visits with his measuring tape. I threaten his fingers when he comes too close to my boots, but he manages to take my measurements anyway. The next morning, the Legal servant brings a meal of strips of beef alongside slices of gravy-soaked bread, and I’m in heaven.