Then I picture Hat showing up tonight or tomorrow here at Devil’s, bouncing and excited to join me on an adventure outside the city. I imagine the moment her face falls when she realizes I’m already gone, without her.
I shake my head. “I have to wait for Hat. I don’t think I could leave without…I’ll wait.”
“I’ve met a lot of people who have left their cities and abandoned the place they were born,” Devil says. “Maybe they’ve committed a crime, they’ve offended the wrong guard, they’re curious to see the world, or they’re not attached enough to the life they’re leaving behind.”
I raise an eyebrow as if to ask, Which one am I?
“You’re none of those, Your Highness,” Devil says with an amused grin. “You’re the kind who needs to leave but won’t. With that tattoo on your arm, either you’re dead as soon as they find you, or they’ll force you to name a new ruler and then they’ll kill you. Either way, that tattoo is a death sentence for you.”
It’s a death sentence for anyone like me. The Nameless don’t win this game. The Nameless are killed. That’s the fate waiting for me.
“But sure, you can stay,” Devil says cheerily, leaning into her chair and continuing to file at the edges of the ring. “You can be loyal and wait for your little friend.”
“She’s not my—” I start, but I cut myself off before I finish. If she’s not my friend, then what am I still doing here?
I curl deeper into the couch and try to force myself to consider my options.
I wonder if I would leave Seriden if I had a place like this to sleep every night or if I was one of those Nameless with a family. Would I leave if Hat was with me right now?
I try to understand why Hat’s possessions are so important to her, but I can’t. Maybe they are tokens of a former life. Maybe Hat was part of a Nameless family once. Maybe there’s something that ties her to that blanket and those trinkets in a way I never could understand.
Hours pass, and I fall asleep thinking of Hat, of black ink tattoos, and of an impossible life outside these city walls.
* * *
When I wake, I immediately search for Hat, but she’s not here. It takes me a minute to recognize where I am. There are shelves filled with weapons and pieces of glass and other organized oddities that glint in the morning sunlight. I’m in Devil’s alley.
“She never came,” Devil says.
I sit up, alarmed. “Are you sure?”
She glares at me from her station at the table as if she didn’t move all night. Of course she’s sure.
What’s Marcher up to? Or what if she’s gone missing like the other Nameless?
“Oh, gaiza, if she’s been…” I put my head in my hands.
Devil gauges me. “If you want to leave the city, I can still get you out. There’s a ship heading north for Devra this afternoon. I can get you on board before the crew settles in.”
“Now?” I try to consider it, but I’m already shaking my head. “I can’t. I can’t go without Hat. She’s…” I don’t finish.
“I thought you might say that,” Devil says. “Which is why I also got a report from a street runner that Marcher is at East Market this morning. Funny that East Market leads right to the harbor. You may not make the ship heading north, but that’s where you’ll find your friend.”
CHAPTER 3
I hate fish.
I hate the ocean.
I hate all the slippery rocks.
I even hate the big open sky that bends and darkens at the horizon.
In essence, I hate East Market—everything about it.
Plus, fishermen aren’t good marks. They don’t carry coins, rings, or anything valuable. They carry hooks, scaling knives, and fishing line. Not things I like finding in pockets. Fishermen are only useful because they smell like fish, and everyone hates the pungent smell of seaweed, sweat, and guts. As people dodge the smell, I step into their path and make quick work of their change purses.
But I’m not here on business today, so I keep my arms crossed as I head for the entrance to the ship-repair house. That’s where Marcher sets up shop while his scoundrel children use the fishermen as decoys for running bump-grabs.
A bell begins to toll, and people slowly come to a halt, and I stop as well so I don’t draw attention to myself. In truth, I feel rooted to the spot, as if the energy of the crowd is paralyzing me. A Royal announcer takes center stage. Behind him are three Royal guards, two of whom have black lapels and cuffs instead of white. Great. Guards in training—cadets, I’ve heard them called—are reckless, less likely to know all the laws, but more eager to dole out punishments. The two cadets are young, maybe my age. The girl has short brown hair swept behind her ears and a strong jaw. The guy has blond, short-cropped hair and keeps swallowing like he’s thirsty. Rookie. He probably forgot to fill his water flask before heading out. Maybe I’ll steal it from him.
The third guard is older, with a strong face, serene eyes that scan the crowd attentively, and a truly excellent beard dashed with gray.
Very few Royal guards actually guard the Royals. Most of them police the outer quadrants and markets. Some guards are more lenient than others, offering reprieve when others would offer an escort to the prison gallows.
The announcer is clean-shaven except for a thin mustache balanced over his lip. His smile is a fake, public show of teeth, and it makes me twitch. He could use lessons from a grifter on how to con with a real smile.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Legals and Royals,” he says. “I am saddened to inform you that our beloved King Parson Rejoriak Fallow has passed away. Taken from us in his sleep, King Fallow whispered a name in his dying solitude.”
I bristle, shifting with discomfort. Impossibly, the name he whispered was mine. I’m suddenly aware of the soreness of my arm. It feels like the tattoo is burning, that anyone, everyone, can see it. I don’t even know if I believe it’s real. What’s worse, if anyone else finds out and they don’t believe it’s real…Getting a black tattoo or any tattoo that even resembles the sovereign’s crown is illegal. Then it’s either fire or amputation to remove it, and I doubt they’d waste their fire on me.
“None of the Royals from the five main families bear the tattoo, and neither do any of the Royals in the court,” the announcer says, and another murmur flows through the crowd. “So it seems”—his fake smile reappears—“a Legal residing in the outer quadrants has been crowned.”
Another ebb and flow of whispers swirls around me. The Fallow family had the crown up until today. Everyone in Seriden, including me, expected his daughter to get the crown next. I’ve never seen her up close, but people have said she’s strong and would outstrip her father’s accomplishments in her first year.