Most of the foot traffic is Legals, who linger between stalls, with a few Royals mixed in, identifiable by their bright, colorful coats of blue, gold, and violet. Legals wear softer, pale colors, mostly grays and pastels. The Legals are the loudest, shouting discounts and goods for sale, while the Royals strut calmly among the stalls with the silence of those who don’t need to haggle over prices. The Nameless are on the outskirts, dressed in castaway clothing scavenged from the trash.
That’s the easiest way to find the Nameless. We live on the streets, and we look it.
“Got your eye on a mark yet?” Hat asks, casting her light brown eyes around the stalls.
On a typical day, it’s my job to pick the mark and decide whether we’ll con them or pickpocket them. It’s all about finding people with enough coins and rings to make the grab worthwhile, but not someone so rich that they’ll have us executed immediately if we’re caught.
I send her after a Legal who is browsing a jewelry stall. The man is debating between a brooch with a quartz frame and one with gold, so I know he—unlike most Legals—has decent money in his pockets. As Hat moves through the crowd, a dark cap hiding her bright hair, my instincts prickle. I scan farther down the street, and that’s when I see him. Marcher. Black hair hangs past his chin, gray stubble shadows his face, and pale skin crinkles around his emotionless green eyes.
He’s the worst of the street runners, with a crew of Nameless orphans trained to pickpocket Legals and pull small-time cons. He knows how to keep them safe, but when a big-enough score comes along, he doesn’t care if they get caught or killed. Like Hat said, I used to be one of them. And, technically, Hat still works for him. I tell her to only volunteer for small jobs. Nothing dangerous. But if he sees her pulling a grab, he’ll come after her for the rings and coins she gets. If he knows she’s doing it with me, he might go so far as to get her caught.
In a fluid motion, I rip off my dark maroon coat and start a quick pace out into the crowd. I snatch a beige coat from a Legal stall. As I move, I bump into a distracted Nameless man, causing him to topple a large bag of red beans.
“Nameless cur!” the vendor shouts at him, bending to recover the beans. “Look what you’ve done, alley trash! Gather them up before I call a Royal guard.”
No one notices as I pull on the Legal coat.
I move swiftly as I fasten the top few buttons—enough to cover my dirty green shirt. I roll my shoulders and straighten my posture, pulling my long dark brown hair behind my shoulders to hide the uneven, frayed edges.
Snatching a few segments of cinnamon bark from a spice stall, I take a few running steps to catch up. I cut in front of Hat, just in time to bump into a well-dressed Royal.
I plaster an apology on my face and speak in a fake sweet voice. “Oh, pardon me!”
The Royal stumbles and meets my eye as I hold his elbow to keep him from falling. He’s mostly bald, and the wispy hair clinging to the sides of his head is pulled back with an elastic band.
I force an even exhale. Wearing Legal clothes is enough to get me thrown in prison, or if the patrolling Royal guards are in a bad mood, I’ll get a quick trip to the gallows. Times like this, I’m glad for the hungry hollow of my cheeks and the strong tilt of my jaw. No food or parents to speak of, but they give me the appearance he would expect of a Legal girl.
“Quite all right,” the Royal says.
I brush invisible dirt off his bright violet waistcoat. With deft fingers, I probe the lining but don’t find his purse. I give him a second glance. This Royal smiled. Blushed, even. His gaze lingered. Time for a different tactic.
I steer him to a spices stall, where the vendor is off arguing with a neighboring seller.
“Please,” I say, gesturing at the array of fragrant flower petals, sliced herb roots, and pouches filled with ground spices. “Take anything you want. A token of my apology.” I angle myself around the corner so he can’t see the patched holes in my pants.
The Royal skims over the spices as I sort the cinnamon. When his gaze lands on me, a bit too far south from my face, I grab a spice pouch and offer it to him.
“Here.” I fix a guilty expression on my face. “A collection of our most expensive spices.”
He gives a coy smile, his head burning red. “I couldn’t possibly.” He reaches into his coat and fetches a soft blue velvet purse from a deep pocket. No wonder I couldn’t reach it. He pours out a few gold rings and silver coins, and before he can count them, I lean forward.
“I heard there’s bad news floating around today,” I say. His blush and curiosity feel like a real heat coming off him, and I take a moment to focus.
His fingers hover above the coins. His coy smile turns mischievous, as if he’s letting me in on a secret. “I suppose Legal whispers don’t travel as quickly as those of the Royals. My dear, our beloved King Fallow passed away last night. Dreadfully sad, I know.”
He is absolutely not sad. His face is alight with the drama of it all. He grins and adds, “The next heir could be anyone, whoever has the crown tattoo!” He winks at me, as if I could be that lucky Legal, and he leans close to savor my surprise.
Don’t scowl. Don’t scowl. I place the spice pouch over the gold coins, slipping all three from his hand. Despite the sweat glistening at his temples, his hand is cold like a shock, and suddenly, instead of staring out at the market and the bustling Legals, I’m staring down a long corridor with a narrow band of red carpet stretching out beneath my feet. I’m standing on my toes, peering into a room as a Royal guard shoos me away. I almost catch a glimpse of the dying king inside, but I bustle off down the corridor in disappointment. I run a dry hand through the white hair on the side of my head as my sharp black shoes pad quietly on the carpet.
I let go of the Royal’s hand, and my vision snaps to the market. The sounds of arguing vendors and customers return to my ears, and the Royal before me looks dazed.
“I saw him, you know,” the Royal says. “Caught a glimpse of him on his deathbed just last night. Quite tragic, in its own way.” The man shakes his head to clear his thoughts.
I regain my composure and realize I’m still holding the gold coins. I palm them and cross my arms in concern, dropping them into my pocket.
I struggle for words, trying—for the sake of the con—to ignore what just happened. “When do you think the heir will step forward?”
He shrugs and idly slides his coin purse into his jacket. He runs a sweaty thumb over the spice pouch. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
I give a gracious curtsy and thank him again. He rejoins the crowd as I duck out of the stall. Hat still stands where I cut her off, arms raised in a sustained shrug. As I approach her, she pulls the black hat from her head and replaces it with a blue one.