Nameless Queen

by Rebecca McLaughlin

  I try to reach out to sense the person’s aura, but I can’t. I backtrack and enter the room.

  When I see the orange cloth, I push the Royal up against the wall, arm against his throat, saying quietly, “You think I can’t spot when someone’s following me?”

  The slick black hair tickles my arm on his throat. I would know the cold green eyes anywhere.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  It’s Marcher.

  CHAPTER 9

  “What the hell are you doing here, Marcher?” I demand.

  “Tut, tut,” Marcher says, waggling a finger as I press my arm against his throat. “Language, Highness. We’re of a better class here.”

  Not only is he wearing Royal clothes, but they fit him perfectly. The orange dress shirt is tucked into a pair of dark blue trousers. Either he happened to steal a set of perfectly tailored clothes, or he has posed as a Royal before. His hair is combed neatly, most of it tied back, revealing a couple of graying streaks. No dirt smudges, no fish oil, no lingering spices from the markets.

  “What is this?” I press him harder against the wall. Is Marcher really a Royal? No. I can’t sense his aura, so that must mean he’s Nameless.

  “Let me guess. You demand to know what I want or else blah blah some kind of threat,” Marcher says. “First, I want your gracious gift of freedom.” He grips my right arm like a prison bar. He glances down at the crown tattoo. I doubt he knows that the tattoo is still sensitive to the touch, a built-in vulnerability displayed on my arm, but I don’t want to take the chance.

  He carefully slides along the wall, and I let him.

  Of all the things I have to worry about in the palace—execution, Royal injustice, being poisoned, losing Hat—this is the one thing I hoped to leave behind.

  I back up to a safe distance. “I don’t want to make a deal with you, if that’s what you’re after.”

  He grins. “The only thing I want from you is for you to honor the deals you do make. For instance: I could have led the Royal Guard to you on the night that you were discovered as queen.” In response to my skepticism, he adds, “You were at Devil’s. You spent the whole night there. In exchange for not selling you out, all I ask is that you let me walk out of here today. Unless you were planning on killing me. What do you say?”

  He may be dressed up in Royal garb, but he’s still the same bastard.

  “So go,” I say, answering his question without saying yes. “Leave.” He also kept Hat and risked her life, nearly getting her killed. But I can barely stand to be in the same room with him anymore.

  He straightens his collar. “Don’t you want to know what I can offer? I can tell you who to trust.” He sidles closer.

  I push him firmly away in disgust. “I’m sure you’d be on that list.”

  “Of course not. You know me better than that,” Marcher says, adjusting his sleeves. “Look at me, Coin. Clearly I’ve been here before. I know the ins and outs of this world better than you ever will. When the time comes, you’ll need to know who to trust. I have information on the Assassins’ Festival.”

  I cross my arms, refusing to accept anything he says at face value. Anything he has to offer, I don’t want.

  He smirks. “So contrary. But I’ve known you your entire life, since the day you were abandoned on the streets. No matter how selfish you think you are, or how fiercely alone…there are always people you care about. Think. I can tell you who to trust. More importantly, I can tell you who not to trust.”

  That’s a list I’m more inclined to believe.

  “Why?” I demand.

  Marcher tries to speak kindly. “Would you believe me if I told you it was because I care about you?” He draws close.

  “No.” I hold my ground.

  He smirks, easing off. “Too right. It’s because, unlike the other players in this game, I’m not underestimating you. I understand how intoxicating it can be to stand above all the Royals who spend their lives crushing the fingers of the starving Nameless. I see all the moving pieces, Coin, and I see where it’ll fall apart.”

  “Anything you want to share out of the kindness of your heart?” I ask.

  “That would be playing fair.” The gleam in his eyes tells me that he knows something. “You never want to play fair—not if you want to win. I am not without ambition here. It’s in my best interest if you remain an active participant in this game. Let’s go with a piece of advice, then, shall we? You might want to check on Devil tomorrow. I hear the streets are getting dangerous, and you need to understand what’s been going on since you left.” He strolls to the door. “Have a lovely day, Your Grace.” He bows. Then he’s gone.

  “Wait,” I order, following him.

  Glenquartz takes his place in the doorway, blocking my path. “Everything all right, Coin?”

  Marcher disappears down the corridor. Glenquartz has already seen the frustration etched on my face. I can’t pretend nothing happened.

  No, I want to say. Nothing is all right. The man I hate is offering me his help, and I may never see Hat again.

  “Absolutely,” I say, smiling. “I met a Royal, and I didn’t catch his name, but he was in a hurry.”

  Glenquartz frowns. “I didn’t see his face, sorry.”

  Throughout the rest of the day, I’m consumed with what Marcher said. I remind myself: Never say no to a deal until you hear the terms, and never ignore advice—but always be willing to turn down both.

  By evening, the events of the day—nearly being poisoned, running into Marcher, not to mention sensing everyone’s auras of stress, fear, indignation, and anger—have made me feel as if I’ve spent hours buried deep underground. The minute I’m in my sleeping quarters for the evening, I close the door, embrace the silence, and take a shower to rinse away the day.

  As water pours through my long hair, runs down my body, and collects around my feet, I let it drag away the sweat and the dirt. But it can’t carry everything away.

  I thought my biggest worry would be avoiding execution and rescuing Hat from prison. But the auras press all around me, and a single touch can propel me into someone’s darkest thoughts, like Belrosa’s cruel imaginings of Nameless slaughter. The memory of sweet poison still lingers on my tongue. And Marcher is here, walking confidently among the Royals.

  A bead of water tracks along my shoulder and down my arm, and I’m struck with a memory: a finger trailing from my shoulder to my wrist, staking a claim to me. Kind and caring, and more terrible because of that.

  I slap away the itching bead of water and duck into the warm stream from the showerhead. Immerse myself in it. Drown in it.

  I can hardly breathe.

  Marcher would put a gentle hand on my shoulder when he asked me to do something dangerous. Steal charts from a ship, or run a one-woman con on a Royal guard while he broke into a shop. Every request coupled with that warm hand on my shoulder, the hand trailing down my arm when I walked away. Saying yes wasn’t a question of force. My answer was always yes.

  Worst of all: that same hand on the shoulders of the other kids, the only people I ever considered calling family. All of them. They said yes. Always.

  I slam the heel of my hand into the water spout. It wrenches to the side, the mounting bracket snapping, and pain shoots up my arm. Water sprays everywhere, and I quickly turn the valve and let the water ease to a drip. I stand in the inch of draining water, which smells faintly of peppermint, copper, and dirt.

  I said no. Finally, I said no. I walked away. Then I think of all the ways and times I should have said no to Marcher, and of the others who didn’t say no, who couldn’t, because they didn’t know how. All the almost-family who said yes and walked off to their deaths.

  I still feel the coil of rope itching in my hands, though it was four years ago. I still feel the breakneck race of my heart, the stiffness of my clenched
jaw, the cold chill of midnight and fear. Knowing that no one else would have to say yes…as long as I could find the strength to ruin what was left of my good heart. Live the rest of my life with blood on my hands, or live my life watching Marcher exploit others with that same kind touch.

  I tried to kill him, and I failed.

  I don’t live with my mistakes—I survive them. Barely.

  I fumble with the broken bracket, rig it in place with a hand towel. I’m as damaged as the things I break, and there’s nothing that can put me together again.

  I turn the water back on, and even though it’s warm, a certain numbness overtakes me, and it sinks into me like fear. Fear that four more years won’t be enough to distance myself from the pain of saying yes.

  Fear because I said no and it still hurts.

  * * *

  When I’m out of the shower, the lantern flame struggles to cast a feeble glow in the sleeping quarters. It sends dim shadows dancing between the beds, but they do little for the shiver that settles on my skin. Marcher suggested I check in with Devil tomorrow, but I see no reason to wait. I’m going tonight. Besides, if anyone has a way in and out of the prison, it’ll be her. Hopefully, I’ll have garnered enough of her goodwill by having food sent to her.

  I don’t want to wear Royal clothing if I’m going out into the city. In the wardrobe, I dig out the clothes I wore when I first arrived. The sleeve is still torn off, so I pull on a long tan Lindragore coat over my outfit. In the dark of night, it’ll seem gray.

  By the time I’m dressed, I’m itching to get out of the palace, not only to check in with Devil but also just to spend some time on my own.

  I like Glenquartz, and I want to trust him. I almost do. But I don’t think trust matters unless it’s wholly given. Or maybe there are different versions of trust, like how I trust a Royal to overreact to being pickpocketed and a cadet to overreact in a crowd. I trust Hat to meet me every morning at the corner. I trust Marcher to be self-serving. And I want to trust Glenquartz to have my back. But I’m not there yet.

  I move the wardrobe underneath the skylight, climb on top, and push it open. I heave myself up and onto the roof. I follow the slanting patterns of the mostly flat roof until I get to a gutter system, where I climb down to ground level. It isn’t until I’m scaling walls and ducking down the streets of the Royal Court that this begins to feel like a mistake.

  I hoped that dressing as one of the dark-clad Nameless would be like slipping into my old skin, but I’m annoyed to find that the clothes are more uncomfortable than I remember. I’d always thought the Royals looked pinned together and their outfits would be uncomfortable, but their clothes are warmer and smoother, and they fit better.

  At this late hour, the gates out of the court are closed, and a guard paces the length of the front gate. I watch him, timing his path. It’s a fifteen-step trek each way, which takes him about ten seconds to walk. But sometimes he walks more slowly or quickly, putting his time anywhere from eight seconds to twenty-three.

  On the streets, all I have are steps and time to measure my cons and thefts. I can always walk away when the numbers don’t add up. I don’t have that luxury here.

  I take a breath and focus.

  Empty space. Empty space. And then…an aura pulses beyond this wall like a column of dust hanging in the air, shifting on a breeze, trembling with a heartbeat. Another aura is closer by, low and calm.

  A faint smile shadows my lips. High above, a night of shielding clouds protects me from the faint sheen of distant starlight, no moon to be seen. Perfect for a night of sneaking through the shadows, slinking to the alleys.

  The second guard sits in a chair beside the gate, but his aura is calmer, like the drooping fronds of limp beach grass. As I draw near, I realize he’s asleep, head slumped forward.

  The pacing aura moves away, and I walk quickly to the gate itself. When the aura slows down, I focus all my energy on being invisible. I remain motionless as he walks by again. Then I push open the gate and slip out as soon as he’s past. I rush down the road until I’m out of their sight.

  Now that I’m in the Inner Ring, I’m beginning to feel like my old self again. No one is watching me or measuring my movements. No one is waiting for me to make a mistake or assassinate me.

  It’s freeing.

  It doesn’t take long to get to Devil’s. I’m as discreet as I can be outside her alley, but pulling on the string doesn’t do anything this time.

  I call for her over the wall, and she tosses over the rope ladder. A quick climb, and I’m descending the stairs into her alley.

  “Coin!” Devil says. “What in the vittin hell are you doing here?”

  I’m struck with a sudden desire to hug her, and the image in my head is so startling, I stumble down the last step. Devil’s here, and she looks almost exactly the way I left her. Not much has changed, except that there are more half-burned candle stubs across her table.

  “Have you been getting the food deliveries?” I ask.

  “They were good for a while,” she says, “but the last couple have made people sick. I was going to send a message to you through the Legal boy. Things have been getting more violent out here since then.”

  I start to correct her with the Legal servant’s real name, but I’m shocked to realize I don’t know it.

  Instead, I ask the question that brought me here, Marcher’s question: “What’s been happening on the streets since I’ve been gone?”

  Devil’s eyes darken, and her fingers curl into bold, angry fists. “Ask a different question.”

  “Things aren’t good, then.”

  “No.” She flexes her fingers and rolls her neck. “The Nameless are getting killed in the streets. Bodies are turning up every day now.”

  “What about the ones who’ve disappeared over the past months? Have you heard anything new about them?” I hate the almost-hope that edges my voice, as if a mysterious disappearance is better than certain death.

  Devil shrugs. “The answer is the same as when you asked the first time. I don’t know. Why are you so interested? We have bigger problems out here than a Nameless vanishing every few weeks.”

  “We don’t know exactly when or why they disappear,” I stress. “Maybe they’ve been arrested?”

  Devil sighs. “Chances are, you’re not going to find out. They could be anywhere. Shipped to another city that still deals in forced labor or simply killed and dumped in the ocean. Are you sure you want me looking? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’ll do it if you ask…and if you pay me.” She flashes a bright set of smiling teeth at me.

  “Yes. I tried to ask at the palace, but either they don’t understand or they don’t care. I just…I haven’t wanted to care in a long time. It hurts, you know? To care about things I can’t change. It’s easier to ignore them, because then I can say nothing I’d do would make a difference…but I’m not so sure anymore. After the Assassins’ Festival, I could just go back to being me. While I have this tattoo…shouldn’t I do something?”

  Devil scans my face. “You’re good, Coin. I didn’t think you’d con yourself into thinking you could make a difference, but I suppose if anyone could…it would be you.”

  “If anyone could con themselves, or if anyone could make a difference?” I ask.

  She gazes serenely into the empty orbital sockets of a wolf skull on her shelves. “I’ll do what you ask. I’ll look into it.”

  “As long as you get paid?” I grin.

  “As long as I get paid.”

  “Let me guess, just the rings?”

  “Of course. But also find me something interesting from the palace. I love a good trinket.” She strokes her bookcase delicately.

  Before I can think of a smooth way to say goodbye, I feel a strange wispy sensation on my arm as if the wind is changing direction, and I sense three people round
ing the corner near the alley.

  “There are three Legals nearby…but there’s something wrong.” I shake my head, a sense of dread rising up inside me.

  Devil sees my panic and checks her flip-book watch. “Gaiza!” She immediately goes to the opposite wall and presses on one of the bricks.

  “Gear,” she says, and her nostrils flare.

  She pushes on the brick wall, and it opens up into the millinery next door. That explains how the sawn-in-half couch got into the walled-off alley.

  “What?” I shout, chasing after her.

  She rushes through the store, knocking over a rack of hats.

  “Gear! He was supposed to return five minutes ago,” she says. “And he’s never late!”

  There’s panic more than fear in her voice, and I can do nothing but follow.

  When we barrel out into the street, the three Legals have rounded the corner and are almost close enough to see us in the shadows. They drag beside them a young man. I don’t recognize his face, beaten as it is, but he’s one of Devil’s runners, who help her move goods around the cities. He’s young but not reckless. Kind but not soft.

  “What in the vittin hell is this?” Devil says, starting toward the Legals.

  I put a hand on her shoulder, and her eyes flash like lightning.

  “Groups of Legals like that,” she says to me, pointing at them, “have been killing Nameless on every street from here to the western gates.”

  Two of the three Legals have muskets on their shoulders, but I stay close to Devil. She pulls the rifle from her shoulder and heads toward them. By the time the Legals notice us, Devil has them in her sights.

  “Drop him,” Devil commands, and her arms are steady with the rifle.

  Devil’s shirt rises up above her hips as she faces down the Legals, and I see the silver handle of a single-shot pistol. I tap her arm so she won’t be startled as I take the weapon. Then I’m standing beside her, and now both of us hold guns on the three Legal men, with Gear still at their side.