Nameless Queen

by Rebecca McLaughlin

  “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.

  It doesn’t make sense. It’s beautiful. Hat pokes my arm, sending another jolt of pain to my fingertips and across my chest. I skip away, glaring at her.

  “Seriously?” I say. “You see a big magic tattoo on my arm, and you poke it.”

  “I’m testing a theory.” She taps her chin.

  “What’s the theory? That you’re a jerk?” But I’m not really mad. I’m too stunned and confused.

  Hat squints at my arm. “That it’s not a regular tattoo. That someone didn’t give it to you while you were asleep.”

  “Yeah, because I wouldn’t notice that. I’ve never been that drunk.” I slept right through the night, but if someone did give me a fake tattoo, they would have had to drug me, and I don’t feel hungover or hazy. I went to sleep in the alley under the wooden pallet, and that’s where I woke up. The tattoo is definitely sensitive to the touch, except that the pain resonates deep in my bones.

  Hat pushes her hair behind her ears and inspects my arm. I hope she’ll find a clasp, and the tattoo will come off like a stolen bracelet. But she lowers my arm with a quizzical frown.

  Hat stares out at the flurry of bright colors beyond the alley. “How could the king speak your name if you’re Nameless?”

  Her frown is filled with suspicion and accusation.

  I take a shaky breath. “The tattoo probably isn’t real.”

  “If it’s not real, then you’re lying and got a fake tattoo—which could get you killed if anyone sees it. If you didn’t get it, then it’s real. You’re queen, which means you can’t be Nameless.”

  The alley walls press against me, my heartbeat overwhelming the steady thrum of voices in the market.

  “I am Nameless!” I shout. “I can’t be queen, Hat. The king couldn’t say my name, because I don’t have one. You think I would be sleeping on the streets if I had a name? You think I’d be running bump-grabs in the markets, risking execution every single day? You think I wouldn’t be in a house, with a pet cat, and a bath, and a basement full of food, and…and you and me bartering and getting jobs…” I lean against the alley wall and slide down into a crouch.

  Silently, Hat leans against the wall and sits beside me. She waits. She breathes.

  She smiles.

 
I don’t know how she does it. She sees a feast where I see stale, crumbling bread. She sees friends among the Nameless where I see competition. Everything in me wants to see what she sees. But I can’t. I don’t know how.

  Hat speaks earnestly. “You know, Coin, you could have a name. You don’t know what it is, but someone out there might! If someone, anyone, in Seriden knows it, then you aren’t really Nameless. The king must have known it in order to give you the tattoo, which proves it exists!”

  I shake my head. “The tattoo is real. That’s all I know for sure. That’s why I saw into that Royal’s head in the market. I was…experiencing his memories, I think.”

  “Will it work on me?” she asks excitedly, sticking out her hand for me to touch.

  It won’t, but I take her hand anyway. “The sovereign’s magic doesn’t work on the Nameless. I think that’s why they’ve always hated us.”

  Hat pulls her hand back. “Forget it. It was a silly idea.” Her small spark of hope burns a little less brightly.

  I take a deep breath and try to push it all down. Push everything—the black crown, what it means, the terrible pain of almost wanting something—down into the pit opening inside me. I am unsettled and shaky, trying and failing to bury the fear of impossible things.

  Every time I imagine my future—on those endless nights when I tell myself I’ll survive long enough to see it—I always see a house. It’s small, and dust filters from the ceiling with each ocean breeze. Maybe it’s abandoned. Abandoned and mine.

  I don’t want anything special. I don’t want anything grand. I just want to survive. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’ve never tried to want more.

  “We shouldn’t stay out on the streets today,” I say, breaking the silence and changing the subject.

  Hat jumps to her feet and gives a flourishing bow.

  I tilt my head. “Really?”

  “Consider yourself lucky.” She remains awkwardly bent, speaking to the ground. “This is probably the only time I’ll bow before Royalty.” She straightens up and extends her hand.

  It’s strange to accept her help when she’s younger than me and I’m the one who’s supposed to be teaching her. I sigh, put aside my pride, and let her haul me to my feet, wiping brick dust from my arms.

  She adds, “I bet you’re a princess. How else would King Fallow have known your name?”

  I frown at her. We both know Royalty isn’t passed through bloodlines anymore, not since the peace treaties were signed over two hundred years ago, when the territory borders were set and fourteen crowned sovereigns took ownership of their cities. That was long, long before either of us was born into this life.

  I adjust the two layers of coats on my shoulders. “Let’s go somewhere safe.”

  Hat’s eyes are bright. She’s still excited about this spetzing crown. She doesn’t realize she’s daydreaming of a future where, yes, I might be safe and protected by the Legal status of having a name or the Royal status of this crown…but that is a world she can’t live in. Hell, it’s a world I can’t live in. Royalty has become a game of names instead of blood. A game someone like me isn’t supposed to win. A game I can’t win. Even if this tattoo is real, I would be killed the moment I set foot near the throne.

  I can’t be queen. I can’t.

  “Let’s just go straight to Devil’s. She wasn’t at West Market, so she must be lying low, which is what we should be doing. She can give us a safe place to stay.” I pull Hat down the alley, but she shakes free of my grip.

  “I can’t go straight to Devil’s!” she says, almost mocking. “My things are at the crispy house.”

  That’s what she calls the burned, hollowed-out shack in the South Residences where Marcher houses his crew of child thieves. When I was part of his crew, we lived in a maintenance tunnel near the northern sewers.

  “Your things? You don’t need things. You need safety.” I’ve never understood what she calls her “keepsakes.” From what I gather, they’re a blanket and a few trinkets that she keeps in a box.

  “Well, maybe if you let me live with you, I’d have my things with me and this wouldn’t be a problem! I won’t apologize for having things I care about!” Before I can stop her, she spins on her heel and runs down the alley. “I’ll meet you at Devil’s!” Then she’s gone.

  I growl in frustration, kick the brick wall, and stalk off in the opposite direction.

  * * *

  Devil is one of the only Nameless who have something that would qualify as a home.

  She’s everything a clever Nameless can accomplish. Six barrels of bricks, two broken-down carts, and the dark wood of a sloop in disrepair, and Devil walled off an entire alley between a millinery and a bakery.

  I approach her home from the alley network as opposed to the street. I’ve only visited Devil a handful of times, but she has never let me inside. There’s a rule. There’s a string through the bricks on the alley-facing wall of her home. You pull the string, and Devil somehow knows someone wants to speak with her. Then she sort of appears behind you in the next ten minutes. But I don’t have time for patience. Seconds after I pull the string and feel a faint sense of clicking on the other side, I’m shouting over the wall. It’s not long until a rope ladder is thrown over the top and swings at my ankles.

  When I make it to the top, I sit on the edge of the wall to catch my breath before swinging my legs inward. At this height, I can see across the rooftops of the nearest businesses. A couple have smoke easing from their chimneys, and between the rooftops of the millinery and the glass shop, I glimpse the towers of the Royal Court. The five towers are pressed together like organ pipes. But they’re not musical—they’re an ornament, a crown for the city of Seriden, piercing the sky, no doubt visible by ships coming along the coast.

  I ease myself down onto a high platform. As my eyes adjust to the shadows, I see that the platform is really the top level of stairs that lead down into the alley. The stairs are dark, with the faint scent of brine. They end a couple of feet off the ground.

  At the base stands Devil, pointing a rifle directly at me.

  “Welcome to my home,” Devil says with a sly grin. Her brown eyes are a few shades darker than her tanned skin, and her hands are steady, never for a moment lowering the rifle. Where in the world she got one of the new rifles instead of the older muskets, I have no idea. Not even all the Royal guards have gotten the newer weapons yet.

  “What do you want?” Devil asks. Her voice is smooth and low, like a strong whisper.

  “Sanctuary,” I say.

  A smirk plays on Devil’s lips. “From what?”

  I measure my next action carefully. I pull down the shoulder of my coats and shirt, showing her the black-ink tattoo.

  “Real or forgery?” she asks, not missing a beat.

  “Real,” I say. “Somehow.”

  Devil’s gaze never leaves my tattoo. “I bet they’d offer me a pretty gold necklace if I turned you in to the guards.”

  “You wouldn’t turn me in,” I say. “If you do that, no one will come to you again. Plus, who’s to say I won’t have you arrested? This tattoo means I’m the sovereign, after all.” Heat floods my face. Did I just threaten Devil?

  Devil chews her lip, slightly amused, before dropping the barrel. “True enough.” Her shoulders slump, and she plops down into a chair and throws her black-booted feet up onto the table. If my threat bothers her, it doesn’t show. She reaches over and pulls on a rope, hauling the ladder up and over the wall.

  The extent of Devil’s home is impressive. It’s long and narrow, and a strange furniture collection sits below us, with everything from a sawn-in-half sofa to a set of mismatched dining chairs to a mattress with gold-colored sheets. A decorated Royal headboard serves as a table, with unlit candles cluttering the surface, perched on stray playing cards. The rest of the alley walls are covered in
shelves stacked with oddities: coral from the ocean, a cat’s skull, a variety of walking sticks, and an impressive number of different-sized leather shoes.

  “So. For sanctuary. What are you offering?” Devil picks up the small cat skull, idly petting it with a slender finger.

  I have twenty iron rings and two gold coins.

  “Fifteen iron rings.” I cross my arms.

  Devil’s eyes rise slowly from the cat skull. “Do you swear by everything Nameless?” The rifle leans against her chair.

  Swearing by everything Nameless is the strongest promise we can make, invoking the essence of what we are. It’s our only sense of unity: what keeps us apart keeps us together.

  “All you have for a single night of refuge,” Devil says, and her gaze pauses on me, eyes twinkling.

  “Twenty and two,” I admit.

  She returns the cat skull to its shelf, reaches under the collar of her leather jacket, and pulls out a necklace of twine threaded with silver and copper rings. She takes it off and tosses it to me.

  “Just the rings, please.”

  I string the twenty iron rings onto the twine, tie it off, and toss it over. She beckons me down, slinging the necklace over her head.

  As I descend, the scent of oak, leather, and bone dust settles around me.

  “This is it,” Devil says, spreading her arms out and pacing farther down her alley. “If you want refuge, you can stay here. I’ll have to send May to put a hold on the shipments of bloodwood and…” She trails off, turning toward me. “Yes, well. I’m a gossip and a smuggler. Anyway. Find a place to sleep. Not my bed. Well…” She casts a sidelong glance at me that makes me blush. “Don’t touch the shelves. Everything is arranged just so.”

  The half couch rests against the brick wall, a stack of books propping up the end with no legs, but it’s sturdy enough as I sit down on it.

  “One more thing,” I say. “Hat will be joining me soon. Do you want the coins for that?” I hold them out to her. She gives me a look as if to say, That’s not the type of coin I want. I insist, not lowering my hand.