He’s so nervous that he actually points the wrong way for the kitchen, and I stop myself from correcting him.
“Your friend, Hat,” Glenquartz starts. “I was able to track her down, finally.”
“Where?” I almost pull to a stop.
“She’s in the prison outside the city.” Glenquartz twists his hands together in knots.
“Why would they take her there and not to one of the temporary holding cells inside the city?” I’ve been in my share of holding cells. It’s where guards throw us when they want us off the streets for the night or under control but they’re not willing to cart us to the prison for a permanent stay.
At first Glenquartz doesn’t answer. Finally, he says, “I don’t know, but the people in this room have the most power in the city—second to you, technically.” He slows down as we approach a double set of wooden doors. “This is it. Now, if things end up going poorly, I’ll be the one to escort you. That way, if their decision is to…um…I can help you…”
My heart pinches. If they sentence me to execution, he’s willing to do what? Help me escape? Give me a head start before the chase begins? Give me a quick end?
I put my hand on the shoulder of his uniform, and his aura is like a bell on the edge of tolling. He fidgets.
I gesture at the door. “Shall we?”
He doesn’t make a move to enter quite yet. “As long as they focus on the simplest solution, everything should be fine.”
“What’s the simplest solution?” I ask.
“That you aren’t really Nameless,” Glenquartz says almost eagerly. “That you were lost and forgotten, but you still have a name.”
I wonder if it’s true, or if I even want it to be true.
He continues, “Their biggest concern will be that you’ll want to change the legal status of the Nameless.” He fixes me with an expectant gaze.
Let’s say the Nameless start working jobs and learning skilled trades. Let’s say they get small houses on the outer edges of the residential quadrants. Would that be so terrible?
But I’ve spent my life listening to the Legals complain that the Nameless would take away jobs that the Legals struggle to keep. The Nameless would swindle their way through the markets and trade would collapse. The Royals maintain a delicate hold over the city, established by peace treaties and sustained by prejudice. The names that unite them just give them a reason to hate the Nameless.
“As of right now,” I say slowly, “my concern is staying alive and finding out what happened to Hat. And I want to stop people like her from vanishing from the alleys. I mean, gaiza, there’s a lot of craziness out there that no one here knows about.”
Glenquartz nods as if he understands, but he doesn’t. He’s never had to choose between robbing a Legal woman on her way home from East Market and tiptoeing between the tails of vicious sleeping dogs to get at the butcher’s latest cuts. He’s never had to pretend to hate the Nameless in order to run a long con on a shipman, or stare down the endless barrel of a Royal’s musket and hope to escape before the trigger is pulled.
I sigh angrily. “The dead king. Could he see the illusions he created? Could he sense his own aura?”
“Yes,” Glenquartz says.
“Then here’s the real problem. I am Nameless. I can’t see my own illusions. The simple solution they want is a lie.”
Glenquartz considers this. “Simple solutions often are.” He grips the handle of the door now, and I feel his aura pulsating. He’s torn between two worlds: one in which he opens the door and one in which the door stays closed.
The truth is heavy inside my chest. I am Nameless. Really and truly Nameless. But then how did King Fallow name me queen?
“Allow me to give you some advice,” Glenquartz says. “For you. And for Hat.”
“I love advice,” I say. I even sometimes pay attention to it.
“They know about your talent for sensing auras and creating illusions. You can use that to your advantage. Give them the proof and comfort that they seek, but keep in mind that even though they’re willing to hear you out, they can choose to kill you today.”
A weight presses down on my shoulders. Suddenly I’m supposed to understand the inner workings of the Royal world. It’s as if someone has handed me a watch and, instead of asking me the time, is asking me to understand how all the gears fit together.
He waits expectantly.
“The Nameless have been going missing. For months. Years, really. But more and more frequently. You’re part of the Royal Guard here in the palace. Are the Royals deporting the Nameless? Killing them? Using them as slave labor? Selling them to other cities? If these people are a part of that, I need to know.”
Glenquartz is troubled. “I don’t know. I’m sure that the Nameless vanish all the time, but…” He shakes his head when he sees my sharp glare, and he winces in apology. He starts to pull the door open. “Just, please, make me a promise?”
I appraise him warily. “What?”
“Promise me that while we’re in this room,” he says, “you’ll do your best to present yourself like a lady. Let them know that you can lead them. Don’t let them disregard you.”
“I’ll behave as best I can,” I say. “I promise.”
With that the door opens, and we enter a room that is sharp and imposing. The ceiling is severe, with steep support arches that look as if they’re designed more to fall and decapitate us than to support the heavy stone ceiling. At the center of the room sits a glossy wooden table. Twelve chairs surround the table, nine of them already filled. As the council members rise from their seats, a sour scent of body odor wafts and then lingers, which tells me they’ve spent a lot of time here over the last three days, no doubt discussing what to do with me.
As I move toward one of the empty seats, everyone watches me with the attention of alley rats following the scent of discarded food scraps. I come to a stop behind one of the unoccupied seats, and there’s a long moment when no one speaks. I stand awkwardly, wondering if they’re waiting for a secret signal or handshake that will commence the meeting. After a minute, I realize everyone is waiting for me to take my seat.
I clear my throat and sit, trying to sense their auras. Sometimes an aura jumps out at me like an unpleasant smell or a bright light, but most of the time I have to reach for it. It doesn’t take my newfound ability to sense their displeasure. Only one person is excited to be here: a man with scruffy white hair and a beard that thins to a point at his chest. I recognize one face aside from Glenquartz’s: Esther Merelda Fallow sits at the far end of the table.