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.