The announcer clears his throat. “We have searched the North and South Farms, West Market, and the Inner Ring that connects them all. East Market, dearest Legals and Royals, is the last public area to search. The next heir to Seriden’s throne is likely among you.”
My skin itches and burns, flushing with heat.
He continues, “If you will join us in this ceremony, we will uncover our shoulders on this beautiful spring morning and see who among you has been crowned.”
Royals and Legals disrobing in public. I think some of them might faint. People pull down the shoulders of their coats, their dresses, their sleeves and suspenders. A Legal woman drops her basket of flowers and shoves aside her lime-green sleeve, exposing her smooth brown skin. Like everyone else, she finds nothing. The whole crowd is energized—or maybe it’s me. My hands twitch at my side as I feel the rise and fall of expectations and disappointment.
As people start shifting around, they check each other’s arms for any trace of ink, and I start moving again. I feel them all around me, like they’re breathing on my skin. Their energy becomes my energy, and I’m suddenly desperate to be alone.
A small head of red hair bobs up and down, heading toward me. Hat. And Marcher is three steps behind, hot on her trail. Hat pushes through the pool of Legals and Royals.
I don’t know why she’s running or why he’s chasing. Maybe he asked her to do something too dangerous. Maybe she told him she wanted to leave. Heat flares in my chest. Maybe he wanted her to pickpocket another Royal. Maybe he doesn’t want her to leave the crew. Maybe he’s just getting back at me. Either way, she’s running. Toward me. I see my name on her lips: Coin.
She’s afraid and calling out to me.
I rip off my own coat, exposing the Legal jacket beneath. I start toward Hat at a brisk pace, walking tall and hoping the beige fabric of the jacket will camouflage me.
“Hat.” I’m six steps away as she bumps into a tall Royal with a monocle. The man, upset and off balance, grabs Hat’s shoulder to steady himself.
Marcher eases off as we gather the attention of the nearby Royals and Legals. The Royal takes one look at Hat and his expression sours.
“Nameless thief!” Monocle Royal snatches Hat’s wrist.
He calls for a Royal guard, and the closest one is the young blond cadet. He grabs Hat by the collar, and the people nearby stir angrily.
I race through the crowd, pushing. I’m still wearing the Legal jacket, so I only get rude glares instead of curse words.
“Arrest her!”
“Throw her in jail!”
“Hang her!”
Shouts ring louder and louder in my ears. The cadet should arrest her and put her in a holding cell overnight, but his eyes burn with a crowd-fostered fury as he unsheathes his sword.
What a fool! Street executions are rare, but they’re supposed to be quick and clean at least. A blade means things will get messy—fast.
I shove the Royal in front of me so hard that he falls to the ground. I pull off the Legal coat, drop it, and grab the shoulder of my long-sleeved green shirt and tear, ripping the sleeve off. I clear my throat and will my voice to be loud and clear.
“In the name of the queen, I command you to stop!” I shout, and the cadet falters.
I fight to keep calm as the cadet slowly lowers Hat, staring at my tattoo. My heart pounds.
The lieutenant at the gazebo is the first to recover, and he starts toward the cadet. The announcer, however, beams at me from the edge of the gazebo. He speaks loudly, broadcasting to the entire market.
“What is your appellation and designation?” It’s his fancy Royal way of asking my name and class.
I could lie. Give a fake name, say I’m Legal. Even if they ask for citizenship papers, it’ll give me time to get away. My papers are at my home in the North Residences. Yet my body is stone.
“She is Nameless!” The shout rings out in the silence. Marcher, that Nameless traitor. If everyone wasn’t watching me before, they certainly are now. The announcer falters. He looks at me, really looks. I imagine he doesn’t like what he sees: scrappy teenager, bony from hunger yet strong from fighting, shoddy clothes, dirty face. What he sees is me—one of the Nameless.
The announcer’s voice booms. “Friends and strangers, Legals and Royals! I give you the impossible heir: the Nameless queen!”
The crowd shifts to shock, and it’s like electricity tingling my skin. Everything loosens, the chill in the air evaporates, and I feel like I have control over my limbs again.
I don’t know where the other guard comes from. He was behind me, and I missed him. I was so focused on Hat. I thought I could save her. Instead I watch as they place shackles on her wrists just before the same is done to me.
I’m about to hook his ankle to knock him down when he grips my left shoulder with a gloved hand. As his fingers tighten around my arm, a piercing, deep pain strikes through my shoulder to my chest. The tattoo is like an open wound—sensitive to every pressure and touch.
The guards haul Hat and me in opposite directions. Her westward and me south toward the holding cells and the Royal Court. All the while, she’s shouting my name—yelling it as she disappears.
Coin, Coin, Coin.
A swarm of a hundred bodies separates us, and I struggle to keep her in my sight—a glint of steel shackles, a wisp of red hair—and then she’s gone.
CHAPTER 4
We’re in the Royal Court when I realize they aren’t taking me to the holding cells. They march me to the front gates of the palace. The guard with the excellent beard—they call him Lieutenant Glenquartz—pats me down. I don’t object as he takes my favorite knife, a waxy candle stub, and a few stolen baubles and snacks from my pockets. I definitely don’t object when he fails to find the two iron rings in my boot or the lockpick sewn into my pant leg.
As I enter the palace alongside Lieutenant Glenquartz, my fingers twitch at my sides, eager to refill my pockets. The corridors aren’t busy, but we pass by several groups of Royals. One Royal has a change purse tied at his waist. Another has a set of gold rings on her thumb: currency worn as jewelry.
We pass a huge tapestry depicting the construction of Seriden that hangs from the ceiling to the floor. I’m hardly interested in a history lesson from something that really ought to be a blanket. But I can’t deny its beauty.
We go down another corridor, passing statues and sculptures. Then one lined with oil portraits of people who all sport the crown tattoo around their arms. On them, it’s a proud symbol of sovereignty.
I try not to be impressed. I try really, really hard.