I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to comfort him. It’s different from comforting Hat. If I put my hand on his to comfort him, I’ll be rocketed into his memories—no doubt to the moment he learned of their deaths—and that wouldn’t help either of us. His aura alone is troubled like deep, dark waters.
I take the plate gently from his hands and begin drying it with a dishcloth.
He sniffs. “I don’t want you to think that the only reason I care about you and Hat is because of them. I think, maybe, it’s because of them that I can care. Does that make any sense at all?”
“I think so.” In truth, I don’t quite understand. But everything in me—maybe because of everything in him—wants to understand.
* * *
When Hat is finished with her bath, she wears an old dress of Flannery’s. Glenquartz makes Hat some more food, and in the warmth of midday, all of us are ready to sleep. Hat curls up on the sofa and rests her head on my lap, drifting off as Glenquartz and I talk.
“I think they’ll get suspicious if I don’t return to the palace,” Glenquartz says. “If I don’t report to the general, she may look for you here.”
I agree with him and I don’t like it. With Hat resting on me as she sleeps, I feel trapped.
“You need to go back,” I say.
He rubs a stiff shoulder. “I’ll keep my head down.”
“Don’t do that,” I say. “Grifter lessons: if you try to appear like you have nothing to hide, that’s when they’ll know you’re hiding something. What would you have done if you hadn’t caught up with me and Hat outside the city?”
He considers it. “I would have searched for you in the markets and the alleys. If I still hadn’t found you, I would have suspected they captured you, and I would have returned to the general. She’s my superior officer, but I couldn’t help being angry.”
“And if she hasn’t found us?” I say, motioning to the fact that Hat and I are safe on his couch.
Glenquartz clenches and unclenches his fists. “I’d yell, I’m sure. It’s my job to protect you, and I don’t know where you are! I’d demand that every spare guard be sent on the search for you. I’d demand to join them.”
I beam with pride. “So that’s what you do.”
Glenquartz blinks in surprise, glancing at his clenched fists. “That is…devious and clever. You’re very good. What if she knows I’m lying?”
“You tell yourself, convince yourself, that you didn’t find us,” I say. “You searched for hours. You’re tired, worried, feeling like you’ve failed us.”
He regards me as if he’s trying to see if I’m wearing a second skin or something. He moves to the front door, and I can tell he’s hesitant to actually leave.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says. “When I can.”
Glenquartz stands at the front door. For the first time, I’m asking him to leave me. I’ve sneaked away from him before, but this is different. I can sense it in his aura. It’s as if there are threads tied to his body preventing him from leaving. I imagine that those threads are connected to us. One rests in my hands, and another in Hat’s. Maybe another is held by the ghost of his daughter that he sees in Hat.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, in the same way I spoke to Hat earlier. “Everything will be okay.”
“I tell myself that leaving is what will protect you,” he says. “Keep them off your trail. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking I’m abandoning you here.”
“You’re not abandoning us,” I say. “You’re leaving us in the safety of your home.” Then I add gently, “Our home.”
His face lights up.
“Go,” I urge.
And he does, mustering up the strength to leave at a quick march. Devil comes in before the door can close behind him.
“What’s the plan? Where did the Beard go?” She jerks a thumb at the front door.
“We’re staying here tonight,” I explain. “Glenquartz is heading to the palace to play his part and pretend he doesn’t know where we are. Even so, we should leave tomorrow.”
“I see,” Devil says, casting a sour glance around the room.
“I thought it was you,” I say suddenly. “I thought it was you they were going to march out of that prison. Then I saw you in the crowd and I realized it was Hat, and I definitely lost control.”
“If it was me, you were going to let me hang?” she teases. “Gee, thanks. And I thought we were, what? Not quite friends? I’m hurt.”
“I didn’t do anything before then,” I explain, “because you said you had a plan for escape. I guess I was counting on that.”
“Too late,” she says airily. “I’ll never forgive you now.” She starts perusing Glenquartz’s shelves. She plucks up an item and slips it into her pocket.
I glare at her. “Really?”
She fishes out a small glass bowl. “I hardly think he’ll miss this. He doesn’t even use it for anything.” When I don’t let up, she grumbles as she returns it to its place.
I watch her for a little while before I work up the nerve to be honest.
“Thank you,” I say. The words seem so small compared to what I want them to mean. I want them to mean thank you for helping me distribute food to the Nameless, for fighting alongside me, for not brushing me off when I asked about friendship. Thank you for having my back, for showing up at the execution, and for helping us escape.
“You’re welcome,” she says. And maybe it’s only me, but her words feel just as weighted.
I clear my throat.
“You’re more than welcome to stay,” I say. “I’m sure Glenquartz wouldn’t mind.”
She doesn’t answer right away. For the first few seconds, I’m convinced she’ll say no. For a while longer, I’m convinced she didn’t hear me at all.
But she finally swings her rifle up across her shoulders and rests her arms over it casually.
“I’m taking a bath,” she says. “And then I’m sleeping in the largest bed here. I will do my best to refrain from stealing that mantelpiece clock when I leave, but I make no promises.”
She retreats upstairs, smiling in response to my glare. I imagine Glenquartz’s clock finding a home in Devil’s alley, and I can think of no better fate for it.
Hat is asleep, leaning against me. She’s heavy. After a while, she rolls over and I tuck her folded jacket underneath her head. Then I slump down, lean my head against the cushioned couch, and fall asleep.
At some point, I groggily become aware of a tickling sensation on my upper arm. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, but I know that the warmth of the sun is gone, and I don’t want to wake. The foreign touch is near the crown tattoo. I figure it’s a spider or ant. Too small to be a rat. I ignore it. If I woke up at every creepy-crawly, I’d never get a good night’s rest.
The pressure on my arm changes. It becomes a deliberate point of pressure tracing the tattoo.
It’s not a bug.
It’s a person.
My eyes fly open, and my right hand shoots out and grabs at the pale exposed throat. I grip the vocal cords, prepared to squeeze if the hand doesn’t move instantly.
It occurs to me that it could be Hat, up in the night after sleeping all day, trying to get my attention. Or Devil wanting to trade favors to get me out of the city.
Then I see the dark green eyes, and I dig my nails into the soft flesh.
Marcher.
A faint sheen of moonlight cascades through the front door, which has been edged open.
Marcher whispers, “Peace offering.” He leaves his fingers gently pressing on the tattoo. With his other hand, he holds up a small wooden container.
“What is it?” I demand quietly, more breath than word. At any moment I could reach for Hat, but something stops me. I don’t want her to know he’s here, if I can help it.
He delicately increases the pressure on the tattoo with his finger, and I respond by squeezing his throat tighter. He scoffs and pointedly removes his hand.
I rise to my feet, keeping my hand on his throat. “What is it?”
“I have a surprise for you,” Marcher says.
Hat is asleep on the couch. She hasn’t woken up yet.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m not threatening you. Not yet, anyway. Come on, let’s talk. Unless you prefer I stay.” He walks backward toward the door, freeing himself of my grip.
Hat lies motionless on the sofa, a thin frown on her lips. I rise to my feet, and as I leave the room, I check my coat pocket to make sure the serving knife from the palace’s dining hall is still there.
If I have to, I’ll use it.
And unlike when I tried to kill him four years ago, this time I won’t hesitate.
* * *
Marcher leads me outside Glenquartz’s home, to the dark patch of stone that provides a walkway from the door to the road. There’s a garden I didn’t notice before, and a small wall of bricks lining one side. He hops onto the brick wall as if he owns it. Really he wants to stand over me and be taller and stronger.
How hard would it be to pull this knife across his ankles and cut him down to size?
“How did you know I was here?” I demand. I scan the nighttime street, but there are no legions of guards or rioters storming toward us.
“I didn’t,” he says. “I thought you might be, and I was right. I saw the way the dear lieutenant chased after you. It took some asking around to find out what part of the Royal Court he lives in, and then it’s just a matter of doors, and you know better than most that locks are more like suggestions than barriers.”
“What do you want, Marcher?”
“Like I said,” Marcher says pleasantly, “to bring you a peace offering.” He flips open the box. It’s half filled with purple, grainy salve.
“It’s for Red,” he says. “For her wrists. Those prison shackles can be rough on the skin. I’m sure you saw them. This’ll help them heal.”
I advance angrily. “Her name isn’t Red. It’s Hat.”
“She can change her name as often as she likes, but she’ll always be Red to me. You kept the name I gave you—didn’t seem to bother you much. Wait…that’s not your name anymore, is it? Little Coin has a real name somewhere.” He stands on the very edge of the wall.
I don’t like hearing him say my name. It’s the name he gave me before I knew what names were. Even though I’ve been on my own for four years, I haven’t gotten away from that part of myself.
“Back off,” I say.
He rubs his neck. “You couldn’t kill me four years ago. Care to give it another go with that knife you’re fiddling with in your pocket, or do you want your present?”
“I don’t want your salve.”
Marcher flips the lid closed. “Shame. It’d be a pity if your pride let Hat get an infection.”
My face grows hot. Somehow, I feel three feet tall around him. I frown and snatch the wooden box.
“Why did you bring me this?” I open it up and survey the purple salve. It’s hardly used.
Marcher taps the side of the box. “I feel bad about almost getting Hat killed at East Market.”
“You feel bad?” Anger bubbles in my chest.
“A little.” Marcher shrugs. “I was acting from frustration. It was impulse. From what you did to me.” He gently strokes the faded bruise at his temple. “But you always did have a way of getting under my skin.”
“I’m supposed to believe that something has changed since then?” I snap the box lid closed.
“Something? Try everything.” He gives me a swooping bow.
My neck heats up and I change the topic. “In East Market, when you got me arrested, why were you chasing Hat?”
A twitching smile flickers on Marcher’s lips. He nods slowly. “She wanted to leave. Like you did. Do you think you saved Red—sorry, Hat—because she was in danger, or because she reminds you of yourself? Ready to take any risk and ready to risk everything.”
I shouldn’t answer him. It’ll feed him. Yet I can’t make myself walk away. “If you’ve forgotten why I tried to kill you”—I brandish the knife—“I’ll refresh your memory.”
“Oh, I remember,” Marcher says, rubbing at his throat reminiscently. “Don’t insult yourself. You couldn’t kill me then, and you certainly can’t now.” He spreads out his arms to show he has no weapon, as if, even unarmed, I couldn’t beat him. He spins on his heel and leaps off the wall, heading toward the road and leaving me fuming, but then he turns around as if remembering something.
He points at the wooden box. “That wasn’t the surprise. That was the peace offering.” He waits for me to ask what the surprise is.
I won’t do it. I won’t play his game. I’m stronger than that.
He turns away, and I can’t stand it.
“What is it?” I ask in a tight voice. So much for being stronger.
He turns back with victory plastered on his face. “It’s not that simple, Coin. The salve was a gift. This is not.”
I grind my teeth. “What will it cost?” Don’t turn down a deal without hearing the terms.
“You are in a position of power,” he says. “More or less. Mostly less. Oh, that lovely hexagon of a palace, it has a lot of answers and even more secrets. What kind, you ask? Your name, for starters. The long, glorious, bloody history of the Nameless vanishing from the streets. Running water for showers, I hear.”
I scoff and don’t answer.
“I know you’ve been gone from the streets for a while,” Marcher says, “but I’ve got a pretty good setup out here. Have you even thought about what happens if you manage to keep the throne? A Nameless girl leading the city? You could start an insurrection inside Seriden. Or, if the other cities refuse to trade with you, the peace treaties could crumble.”
I have thought about it. I can hardly stop thinking about it.
He continues, “What do I want from you? I want you to remember this moment. I want you to remember every moment. Every moment I saved your life or taught you a skill that helped you save yourself.” He glances at the towers of the palace in the southeast. “I want you to remember how I helped you and how I left. I want your protection for me and my crew if you survive the Assassins’ Festival. In exchange, I’ll give you a hint about your biggest puzzle: what has been happening to the Nameless.”
“You’re trying to tell me you know where they’ve been disappearing to?” I challenge.
“Of course,” he says. “That’s the surprise: I know. I can’t have anything threatening my crew or my plans, so of course I found out.”
It makes sense. I hate it, but it makes sense.
Marcher’s crews are typically kids up to the age of about twenty. Most of Marcher’s scams involve cons with “sick kids” and small hands that can brush through a mark’s pockets.
From the confident glimmer in his eyes, I can tell that Marcher knows what is happening. Or he thinks he knows. Or he wants me to think he knows.
“Mull it over,” he says. “Let me know if you’re willing to deal. Me and my crew get your Royal protection, and you get to finally understand what’s been happening to the missing Nameless.”
Before I can contemplate whether to accept the deal or spit at his feet, he departs with a swooping bow.
As soon as I’m inside, I lie down on the floor next to the couch where Hat is sleeping. I pull aside the long curtain and stare up at the night sky, tracking the patterns of constellat
ions.
So, Marcher is back. With a gift, a surprise, and a deal.
I want nothing more than to push away every word that comes from Marcher’s spetzing mouth, but I don’t have the luxury of ignoring the darkest parts of my past. Those memories helped forge me. They are the iron veins running through me.
Every time I see Marcher, it’s as if I never left and I’m still a kid, running wherever he points, sitting huddled with the other kids on old mattresses tucked in the corners of abandoned houses. At night, I would stare through the last unbroken window, barely able to distinguish starlight from the glowing air of Seriden.
Part of me will always be staring out that window, seeing the city but wishing for starlight.
I can’t see the stars the way Hat does. She feels their warmth like a barrel fire. They inspire her. They shine inside her eyes. To me, lights from a distance are cold. They are everything I cannot have. When I wish for starlight, I want the freedom to see it. To be somewhere far outside the city, where Seriden’s lights are faint shivering flickers against the horizon.
On the night of the riots, Devil asked me if I wanted to stay in the palace. She was offering me the same thing she had when I first came to her after I found the tattoo on my arm: a way out. But it’s hopeful and selfish to think that leaving Seriden will make anything better. Hat was nearly executed today just because General Belrosa wanted to prove a point. What happens to the rest of the Nameless if I leave? And abandoning Seriden will mean I’m walking away from the only chance I’ve ever had to find my name.
If King Fallow died and made me queen, then I must have a real name, given to me at birth. Whoever named me, father or mother, died and left me Nameless. Fallow somehow found it and spoke it before he died, giving me this tattoo. No matter what the crown means—that I’m meant to rule or to speak another name and die—my name is out there. An ache fills my chest as I imagine a whisper—barely a breath—passing through the king’s lips.
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