“Why did you cut me off? I thought my approach was solid,” Hat grumbles as we move to the edge of the crowd.
I show her the three coins, scratched and worn but still shining. Then I point over her shoulder at Marcher. When she sees him, her face pales and she moves closer to me.
“You know he’ll still try to take it,” Hat says. Marcher stands on the corner, glaring at us.
“Run along, Hat,” I say. “I’ve got an argument to get to.”
She scampers behind me, moving closer to the alley, but she doesn’t quite leave. Marcher storms up to me.
“That’s my grab,” Marcher says.
I pinch the gold coins between my fingers, fuming. “No. She was going to pick the pocket of a sprightly Legal, and I decided to pickpocket a Royal. This is mine. You know it is. She couldn’t have grabbed anything from a Royal.”
“You did when you were her age,” Marcher says slyly. “You always had a gift for improvisation.”
“That makes you stupid and a bastard,” I say. Even though I’m taller than him now, he’s still looking down on me.
“Even so,” he says, and he leans forward and snatches the coins from me. As he strolls away, a brazen tilt in his steps, heat rises in my chest. The heavy presence of the market crowd flattens into the background.
I stomp after him, and I know I shouldn’t make a scene.
I kick the back of his knee, sending him down. I definitely shouldn’t make a scene.
I pretend to reach down to help him up, but I push him hard onto the ground instead. A flare of dark satisfaction burns through my chest, but it freezes when I see the coiling smirk still on his lips. I slam my knuckles against his left eye. So much for subtle.
The market has created a bubble of space around us, with most people passing by and ignoring what they think is a Legal beating on a Nameless, and a few of them idling with mild interest. If it gets too far, they’ll start placing bets. If it goes even further, they’ll call the Royal guards.
Hat catches up to us, and she pulls me by the hand as if she’s leading a child, guiding me down the nearest alley. Marcher knows better than to bring any more attention to us, but he throws a withering glare from his good eye. At least he’s not smiling anymore.
“I know, I know,” I mutter. “Not good.” Hat hands me my dark, ratty coat, which she rescued from the barrel I left it on, and I pull it on over the beige coat. I don’t want to ditch something nice just because wearing it could get me killed.
Hat tries and fails to hide an approving grin. “You guys were getting along so well, too.”
Marcher and I have a solid history of mutual hatred. I throw his dock stash in the harbor; he raids my winter stocks. He foils my long con with a wealthy Legal; I send a couple of Royal guards to his latest hideout. He sees me as a competitor. He always has, even when I was a child. I see him—as I always have—as a spetzing bastard.
I can handle the Legals and Royals, their condescending snarls and the pitiless angle of their chins. I can suffer their ignorance, their disrespect, and their blatant disgust. It’s normal from them. But I won’t take it from the Nameless. I can’t. Especially not from Marcher.
“So, the Royal shared an interesting rumor,” I say, and Hat’s frown makes a spectacular recovery. “King Fallow died, and none of the Royals have the tattoo.”
“No one’s stepped forward? What Legal wouldn’t want to be king?” She leans close enough for me to see the uneven, patchy weave of the hat on her head. “Seriden hasn’t had an empty throne before. Not in our lifetime, anyway. You know how people get when there’s no one to tell them no. They always want something or someone to be angry at.” She gestures between the two of us.
She’s right. Most Royals and Legals hate us. Not only are we thieves and grifters, but we hate them right back. With gusto. It isn’t illegal to kill us, but it also isn’t illegal for us to commit crimes. Except that if we’re caught, it’s a toss-up whether we’re imprisoned or executed. There is no petitioning of the judiciary for us.
“That’s just what we need.” A pang of something like fear tightens in my stomach. “But here’s the thing. That Royal I talked to. I think he did something to me—I think he has the crown tattoo, maybe? Because when he touched my hand, he showed me his memory. I think.”
“Do you want to track him down and find out?”
I shake my head. I want to be as far away from Royalty as possible right now.
“We still have time before the morning rush ends,” Hat says. “Let’s go to East Market.”
“East Market,” I mumble unhappily. “It always smells like fish.” I take a deep sniff of the cinnamon and pepper clinging to the Legal coat.
“Well, fish happens when you make a scene.” She laughs and playfully nudges my left shoulder.
Pain shoots from my shoulder to my arm, down to the pads of my fingers, and I cry out, grimacing and curling over.
“Are you all right?” Hat immediately retreats, as if she’s accidentally kicked a puppy.
“Yeah.” I pull down the two layers of coats and my long-sleeved green shirt. It feels like a wasp sting, but it’s too early in the season for that. “Slept wrong last night. Must’ve bruised my shoulder. I did just sort of get in a fight, too.”
Hat laughs. “Better you than me. I’m not old enough to kick him down like that yet. But give it time.” She’s about to say something else, when her eyes widen. From her face, I think it must be a nasty bruise. I twist to get a good look, but there’s no bruise. Instead, a black ink tattoo surrounds my upper arm like jewelry.
We both know what it is, but neither of us can speak. The bustle of the market rises to fill the silence, and I’m suddenly very aware of the throngs of people not too far away.
But it’s unmistakable: the sloping angles of the design, the crisp edges, the sharp points.
It’s a crown.
Impossible. The king couldn’t speak my name, because it doesn’t exist. I am not a Legal. I am not a Royal. I am Nameless. Yet the crown on my arm means that King Fallow named me his heir. It is impossible, yet somehow true.
I am Nameless.
I am queen.
CHAPTER 2
I laugh, thinking it’s a joke. I pull my thumb over the ink, expecting it to rub off, but pain flares from my arm to my chest. It takes a second to catch my breath as the pain eases.
“What? How?” Hat scrutinizes the black design, almost metallic.