ã€ŠShadows by the Seaã€‹


 Chapter 1

    "You will become named once you become an assassin."

    I choose to believe those words with all my heart. There may be another way¡ªa better way¡ªbut I cannot find it. To become a citizen, I must be named. In order to become named, one must have a profession. Of course, when I was younger, I dreamed of receiving an honored name: of becoming an apothecary, a shipbuilder, or a trader. I wanted to create wondrous potions and beautiful crafts, and then sail to distant ports to meet new and kind companions. I wanted to bring even greater honor to one of those great names.

    But now, as I stand ready to perform my first assassination, I know these honored names are impossible. Today I must earn a dishonored name.

    I am currently waiting in the fish market by the sea. It''s almost noon and the market is crowded, while everyone rushes about to buy before the best fishes are sold or rotten. The sun overhead removes any shadows¡ªexcept for those beneath the wooden carts¡ªand causes a putrid smell to rise amid the sea breeze. I picked this location because of the crowds. With so many people we can move without being seen, and with so many stands we can become lost in an instant. Or at least, that''s how I was able to convince the others. We each know this market well.

    There are three of us who are working together to become named. A boy with black hair, a girl with a scar, and myself. I¡¯m the oldest, in my fourteenth year. Hermes told us that the priest would pass through this market at midday, wearing a brown cassock gartered with golden thread, and that we would know him by his limp. We are early, but so far I have only seen slaves shopping for their masters, or men and women rushing through the humid market and into fresh sea air.

    I look up to check on the girl with the scar. During this assassination, she is serving as a lookout. I can see her standing on the crumbling roof above the market entrance, vigilantly peering out over the street below. Good. When I shift my stance to get a better view, I feel my stolen knife pressed against my chest, where I had fastened earlier it using some loose fabric. Good. Now I¡¯m checking everything. The crate is right next to me, filled with old hay. I have plenty of mud and charcoal on my face and tunic. The boy with the black hair is loitering by the market gate, pacing back and forth, looking at every passerby.

    It would be a lie to say that I¡¯m not nervous. My left leg is shaking. But it would also be a lie to say that I¡¯m scared. This is my chance to seize my future, and I will take it. I have no regret for the priest¡ªI know how evil priests can be¡ªand I have no regret for myself. This is my path.

    When I look up, the girl with the scar has raised her right hand.

    "I pray to no one, because no one has answered me before. But, if there is anyone there, I pray that I might earn my name. And my companions theirs."

    As I muttered those words under my breath, our first ever assassination started.

    <hr>

    It might seem simple at first. People die easily, and, as a matter of course, are easy to kill. You can poison someone, push them off a ledge, shoot them with a crossbow, get them drunk enough, etc. I¡¯m sure there are other ways that are better and more imaginative. But, in short, any idiot can commit murder. The real challenge is getting away with it.

    Or so you¡¯d think.

    Actually, the real challenge for us is that we only have one opportunity. The contract Hermes had us sign was fairly specific: the priest has to be killed today, during his walk from the cathedral to the house of a named citizen. We only met Hermes and learned about this assassination last night, so we didn¡¯t have a chance to come up with some elaborate scheme. Plus, we don¡¯t have any money. The small knives that the boy with the black hair and I are hiding were stolen from the orphanage''s kitchen, and the girl with the scar has nothing at all.

    Hence, I came up with a straightforward plan. Probably not the best plan, but at least it was a plan I could drive into the heads of the boy with black hair and the girl with a scar. And if we all stick to the plan, I¡¯m confident that two fourteen year olds and a thirteen year old will be able to assassinate a middle-aged priest. Very confident. Fairly confident.

    When the girl with the scar raised her hand, the boy with the black hair started to move. It was our agreed upon signal that the priest had entered the market¡ªI assumed that he would walk slowly, because of his limp¡ªand so the boy with the black hair started to circle behind him. At least, that¡¯s what I thought the boy with the black hair was doing. I couldn¡¯t see the priest yet, but I knew he must be in the crowd, limping in a cassock with golden threads. I picked up the crate filled with hay which I had prepared and started walking towards the entrance. The smell of sun-dried fish was everywhere.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    "Get ''em while they''re fresh! Five kopecks only!"

    "Citizens, try my fish today! I caught them this very morning, all healthy mackerel!"

    "Buy your fish here!"

    While walking through these vendors, I saw our target. He is bald, or at least balding on the crown of his head, and from fifteen paces I could see the pock marks along the side of his face. No priest that I know is strong (and this one doesn¡¯t seem particularly strong either) but he is tall. Which makes him easy to follow. I take a few more steps parallel to the priest, shadowing him as he moves into the more crowded areas of the market. It''s not my turn to intercept him.

    The boy with the black hair. A flash of light.

    For a moment I could see, reflected in the noon sunlight, a knife in the hands of the boy with the black hair. He was directly behind the priest¡ªjudging by the man¡¯s head¡ªand had his knife in a reversed grip, near my eye level. Stabbing. He was stabbing. I couldn¡¯t see where the knife entered the priest, since another group of citizens or perhaps slaves crossed between us. But I could tell that the boy with the black hair has completed his part of the plan. The priest¡¯s pock-marked face suddenly convulsed, contorting in shock and sudden pain. He would cry out soon.

    I know I just said that people are easy to kill. And I really do believe that. But we only have this one chance to become named, and I can¡¯t blindly trust my own beliefs. I don''t know whether the boy with the black hair¡¯s attack will prove to be lethal, or if his unlucky knife got caught in the priest¡¯s vertebrae. The thrust might not have been strong enough. Or perhaps the priest will recover, as every doctor would try to save a priest, knowing how many kopecks and favors the church can bestow.

    Now I must act to finish this.

    <hr>

    "Aaaahhh¡­ ahhhh¡­."

    The priest is starting to realize the pain. I''m running with the crate before me, weaving back and forth among the adults, covering those last ten paces that separate me from my target. I have to reach him before he screams. That sound will draw too much attention.

    "Hey, watch where you¡¯re going!"

    "Move out of the way, kid."

    I want to claim that everything is going in slow motion. To imagine I danced through the crowd, pirouetted around the nearby fish stand, and gracefully knocked down the balding priest. But that''s not how it''s happening. One second I was running helter-skelter, and now I''m resting on the ground. Well, not quite. It''s more accurate to say that I¡¯m lying on top of the priest, and he''s lying on the road, covered in moldy hay and broken wooden staves from my crate. Which is even better than I had expected.

    The crate is actually the best part of my plan. I grabbed it when I left the orphanage this morning, along with some of the hay upon which my friends and I sometimes sleep. The crate itself was rotten, having been used for carrying mussels and crabs found by the sea back to the orphanage, and seemed ready to break under a solid impact. Originally, I thought that the crate would give me an excuse for knocking over the priest, and a distraction for the crowd to explain away his yells. But then I realized hay would become my disguise; by covering the priest''s upper body in hay, no one would notice the blood pooling beneath him.

    Or the knife I had shoved into his chest.

    As soon as I knocked the priest down he shouted, but successive impacts with the crate and then the hewn stone road left him almost breathless. While lying on top of the priest I slid my right hand into my tunic, beneath the neckline, and quickly pulled my knife from its carefully wrapped inner pocket. I stabbed the knife into his body for leverage as I stood up. I didn''t look at his eyes: only at the knife, his brown cassock, and now them twined together. We both got lucky. The knife was now embedded between the priest''s right ribs, a clean and mortal blow.

    "I apologize for knocking you down Father," I called out.

    And then I started sprinting. Fast and low, keeping my face down and my body close to the legs of the slaves and citizens rushing through the foul-smelling, humid, and crowded fish market.

    Right now I was a murderer. If I got away, only then I would become an assassin. Only then would I become a named.

 Chapter 2

    I''ve always been small for my age, not necessarily short but impish, with little legs and longer arms. It¡¯s not for lack of trying. I eat all that the orphanage is willing to serve and then some, snatching sour dates from naive vendor''s stalls, or bargaining for overcooked leftovers in late-night pubs. Stone''s Throw usually has something for us, especially on the quiet nights after a tavern brawl. When I have to fight my size becomes an annoying setback. But now, as I''m racing around the fish market, my head at everyone''s breast-bone, I have the advantage.

    Diving through the crowd. Doubling back to scamper within a group of slaves, and then off onto the half-cobbled side-streets. I can hear yelling, but it''s nothing more than the vendor¡¯s shouts.

    I left my stolen knife between the priest''s ribs. Somehow it didn¡¯t seem like a good idea to try and remove it¡ªwhat with the spewing blood and all¡ªand anyway it''s a completely indistinguishable, unmarked, commonplace dagger. Actually I''m not sure if it really counts as a dagger. Regardless, not my problem anymore, just another knife the cooks have accidentally misplaced.

    Rounding the last corner at Crowsfoot, I dart onto Darry Lane, a sickly street even at high-noon on this sunny day. Guards avoid it if they can. Not because it¡¯s dangerous (although it certainly is) but because of the sewage. In the richer districts of Samark, where the nobles and merchants reside, they have a sort of drainage system. Not here. In the slums everyone just throws what they don''t need towards the nearest road. And once it falls into the street, sooner or later thanks to wind, rain, kicks, and gravity, any useless refuse funnels down into Darry Lane.

    Not sure what that says about my murderous crew.

    "Were we followed?" I ask heaving, hands on my knees. Really more of a raspy outpouring of semi-meaningful breaths rather than a coherent question.

    "..."

    The girl with the scar doesn¡¯t talk much. Perhaps it has something to do with that scar, a valley which contours her right cheek, starting¡ªor more likely ending¡ªnear her ear, dipping down towards her jaw, and then smoothing curving back into her upturned nose. I don''t know how she got it. We asked her when she first joined the orphanage, only to receive a blank wide-eyed response. The same response we¡¯re getting now.

    "Speak or I¡¯ll hit you."

    That''s the boy with the black hair for you. If we''re generous he could be termed reductionist, with a talent for getting what he needs, but without the social nuance necessary to conceal those needs from the people around him. I''ve known him as long as I can remember. We hated each other for an entire summer, when we led our rival groups into mock battles along the orphanage corridors. By the end of the summer we had become inseparable friends.

    "Did you see guards tailing us? Or anyone else that chased after me or him?" I''ve got my hands behind my head now, exhaling deeply like I was taught. The words come more quickly.

    "...no," said the girl with the scar.

    I lean back against the wall, sweeping my gaze up from the trash-filled Darry Lane and into the azure sunshine. It will take some time before my left leg stops shaking.

    <hr>

    We returned to the Orphanage of St. Alodia at intervals, first the girl with the scar, then the boy with black hair, and finally me. I''d washed off the charcoal and mud used to obscure my features at the seaside, and now I was dripping seawater across the wooden floorboards. Father Victor wasn''t going to be happy. Of course, he''d be much less happy if he found out the reason why. Priests have this annoying habit of sticking up for (and then deifying) their murdered brethren.

    I want to start out by saying the orphanage isn''t purely evil. It''s provided for my friends and I for many years¡ªsince I was four, according to the church''s records¡ªwithout becoming overbearing. Occasionally we''re sheltered, fed, and taught. More often we''re free to play when we want and eat what we can, scavenging the city of Samark for whatever else we need. Unlike most I can add and halfway use an abacus, I can write and find the berries that produce ink, and I can list every back-alley across the district. All of this is thanks to St. Alodia''s benevolent upbringing.

    The evil lies in the names, or lack thereof.

    No one is born with a name. And no one can give a name to someone who hasn''t earned one; the sound pauses muffled in your throat, to eventually emerge with an unnatural air, coated by a grating feeling of alien wrongness. I''m not sure how best to explain it, but you innately know that the name is false. We can''t call the boy with the black hair anything. He¡¯s just "him" or "boy." Just like we can¡¯t call the girl with a scar by a proper name: only "she" or "girl." To get the attention of another child you need to make eye contact, hit them, or just begin talking and hope they listen. We¡¯re all used to it by now.

    I''m not sure if Father Victor explained naming to us, or if we were born knowing. But it definitely wasn''t Father Victor who told us about the slaves. The unnamed. No, that started¡ªlike all true things in the orphanage¡ªwith a rumor.

    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    "Aren''t you worried what will happen if you don''t become named?"

    "You''re pretty old not to have a real name..."

    "You''ll never get a name."

    The boy with the black hair and I were twelve when we realized something was wrong. Several of the neighborhood kids suddenly had names, while the others were fast working towards earning their own. They were all bickering about it, who would get their name the fastest, and whose parent''s name had the most honor. Father Victor didn''t answer our questions.

    "How do we earn a name?"

    "When do orphans become named?"

    It was the older children at St. Alodia''s who ultimately removed our ignorance. Looking back, I¡¯m not so sure that kindness motivated their actions, or if they wanted others to share in the same misery. It seemed like the knowledge empowered them.

    "Orphan''s can¡¯t earn names. They purposely don''t teach us any trade or occupation, so that we never receive the honor or freedom. Don''t you remember the kids older than us? Haven''t you seen them by the docks?"

    We told them we''d already known all of that for years, and that they were idiots beyond idiots. I think the boy with the black hair hit one of them in the stomach. They laughed, a sort of mechanical half-laugh that condescended to our games, and then continued.

    "If you don''t have a name by the time you turn fifteen, you automatically become a slave by law. And then the church sells you."

    That was when I understood why the orphanage had so many donations and so few rules. I knew why Father Victor would look away in shame, mumbling scriptures every time we asked after our names. I would not be taught a profession within the house of the gods.

    <hr>

    We have to wait until nightfall before we slip out again. Darkness comes late to Samark in the summer, long after the church bells toll the end of the working day, when the sails are taken down and the rudders are stowed away. It''s the sounds that tell us when night has arrived. The sound is born from the festival grounds, where they fight men and dogs against dogs, men, and dogs and men. It swells up into the pleasure district, where the drunkards gladly lose whatever kopecks they have left, chasing women that have already forgotten them. After stopping along the ill-lit theatre streets, it finally crescendos into our orphanage, where the priests chant monotonously into the heavens, synchronizing with the high-tide waves that collapse along the dirty shore. We depart unnoticed amid the night¡¯s sounds.

    Of course we tried to leave Samark after hearing our fate. Twice, actually. The first time the guards demanded our names at the city gate, and neither the boy with the black hair nor I could respond. The second time we tried to stowaway in an outbound cargo ship, along with the girl with a scar. We were caught barely after we boarded, hardly the first unnamed to attempt that particular escape. They said they would kill us the third time. And then they smiled as they shepherded us back to the orphanage, where Father Victor stammered something crossing an apology and an excuse.

    Tonight, however, we''re not trying to escape. Tonight we''ll be named.

    Hermes told us to meet him beneath the pier of the Ambassador, a western-style Carrack that landed in Samark only last week. The city''s rising sound is lessened down by the sea, where the unceasing waves serve as our clock, reverberating against the underside of the creaking pier. When we arrived, Hermes wasn''t to be seen.

    "Do you think it was a trick? To get us to assassinate the priest for free?"

    Mind you, the boy with the black hair posed the same question last night. It''s a fair concern, but one that I thought we''d addressed. As did the girl with a scar.

    "...so what¡­"

    "She''s right. Even if it is a trap, it''s worth the risk. It''s possible that Hermes was lying, and we won''t get our names, but if we don''t try then we will never know for sure. Let''s take our chances.¡±

    The boy with the black hair spun away from us, wary of a stray shadow gliding along the waves. "He seemed like a liar. We should be ready to fight. To assassinate him!"

    "I heard that, twerp."

    Now we all pivoted back to the beach, looking up the sand and stone and into the eyes of a man. A tall man, lanky but muscular, sauntering down to the waterline.

    "Good evening, Hermes," I said as I bowed.

 Chapter 3

    At our second meeting Hermes was dressed much like the first: a deep navy doublet, with soft silken folds to mirror the sea and ridiculous frills to emulate the nobles. Perhaps he is a noble. There''s a velvet fur thrown across his shoulder, tossed carelessly, but then arranged meticulously to attract our nervous gaze. I think the raven''s-head cane is a bit much.

    "You''ve been busy, my vicious urchins. Didn''t even stop to close the deceased''s eyes, or sing any sepulchral prayers; whatever has the church been teaching you?"

    As he moved under the pier his face fell into greater darkness. Gone into shadow were the boyish amber curls, which had seemed to belie a youthful innocence. Now the town''s light and the moon''s sheen reflected from the waves onto his cane, making the man''s expressions difficult to discern and the raven''s head all the more visible.

    "We did what you wanted," said the boy with the black hair. His fear is morphing into angry impatience.

    "We humbly appreciate your confidence," I interrupt, trying to guide the conversation, "and have completed the contract you gave us. My companions and I are glad to hear that the priest passed away. We look forward to serving you again in the future, good sir, if you should ever need us."

    Was that a smirk on Hermes''s face?

    "Deception ill becomes you, child. Better to be like the grunt behind you¡ªcallously speaking your mind¡ªthan to flatter so artlessly. I didn''t need to overhear your council to recognize that you don''t trust me. You''d have to be quite stupid to trust a stranger, really."

    The girl with a scar shuffles forward, shifting onto her left foot, and for a moment it seems like she would mumble something. Then the moment passes and she turns her gaze back down into the sand.

    "The names will change you, of course. Now you are only a part of what you might one day become, a soft clay which your names can sculpt, as they draw out the sharper features from your baser natures. They say that the man makes the name," and here he half turned away from us, facing the Ambassador, but leaving the illuminated raven''s head still pointed in our direction. "Yes, the lords each say the man makes the name, but truly its the name that makes the man. Or at least, it makes his greater essence."

    I¡¯m having trouble following him. He spoke the same way last time as well, gradually circling around the topic we wanted.

    "Choosing a name will alter your life yet to come. If you were named a sailor, you could never have the same existence as an architect. And yet again, you would never be same as you would have been had you been named a farmer, a page, a king. That''s why slaves are so useful, isn''t it my children? No name means you can do anything. Like assassinate a priest."

    The boy with the black hair is boiling. "Just tell us our names! Give us the names that we''ve earned."

    "...please¡­sir..." added the girl with a scar.

    Hermes twirled his cane, playfully trying to rap the boy with the black hair for his impertinence, and then giving up when the boy took the prank too seriously. His red curls are visible now that the lights have altered¡ªa sharp red, made even more so by his blue ensemble. "Oh very well," Hermes eventually replied, "but don''t complain that I didn''t warn you."

    <hr>

    The boy with the black hair, the girl with a scar, and I stood grouped together. At some point the girl had grabbed my hand and now I held her own, the waves beating time behind us, and her pulse pumping to their rhythm.

    "So let''s see...you should be ready for your names, what with the priest''s blood and your easy escape. Death and secrecy are the primary ingredients for assassins, although revenge also does the trick particularly nicely. All that¡¯s left is to divvy up the roles. Maybe the brute''s a guard, the mute''s a seamstress, and the fool''s in a theatre troupe? Or we could do soldier, cook, priest? That seems fair¡ªand equal exchange for the life that¡¯s been taken¡ªplus the sermons will do wonders for your persuasive speaking."

    I don''t like where this is going.

    "Hermes, the boy will be a guard, this girl with be an apothecary, and I will be named a trader." I spoke with conviction, for I can feel that I have spoken rightly. These are my friends, and I know what we each secretly want to become. Or at least, I ought to know better than a stranger.

    "Aye," said the boy with the black hair. The girl just nodded, still holding fast to my hand.

    "No one ever chooses to be the priest: it''s the tonsure I suppose. An apothecary is especially useful¡ªit''s always better to brew your own poisons, isn''t it?¡ªbut you must admit they are some of the first to be suspected. And I''m not sure if trading will suit you...I''ll concede, however, since you''ve already chosen, and I can see the names taking shape within each of you. Look."

    We gazed from one to the other, the boy with the black hair, the girl with a scar, and then back to myself, excited but hesitant, unsure of what we were meant to see. It was our last chance to break our deal with the amber haired man, to eschew this chance of becoming named but named dishonorably.

    None of us spoke.

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    As I watched the boy with the black hair, I suddenly began to remember our past at St. Alodia''s. His face when we had fought and he had won. The time he had broken Father Victor''s clock, shattering it against the cupboard wall and then hiding it within an urn. Him crying when we had been beaten by the neighborhood boys, arms muddy and knee scraped. These images¡ªthe things that I had also experienced¡ªwere increasingly crowded among other memories, ones that I had never seen before. The boy with the black hair, alone, watching the fishermen sail out early at sunrise. Kissing a girl beneath the stairs while the priests overhead were chanting their evening prayers. Gazing at some knight-errant that visited the church, or perhaps...perhaps that was only a drawing from a storybook. Too many images to count, or even recognize, but each of them focused on the boy with the black hair. On Levin.

    Later that night, when the three of us were alone, Elidia murmured that she felt a sense of loss when receiving her name. Or not a loss, exactly; more of a transition, an ending as well as a beginning. "...we cannot go back¡­" she said with a gentle smile, "...we¡¯ve changed now¡­"

    Hermes left us under the pier, clutching his raven-head cane as he skipped along the dock. "A satisfactory exchange, as I''m sure you''ll each agree. The names should get you started. If not, well, I''ll call upon your residences in a couple months, once you''re half-decently established. Consider buying some actual clothes, won''t you? Until then, my dear Levin, Elidia, and¡­"

    "Dragan," I called out. "My name is Dragan."

    <hr>

    Opposite the weather-worn docks where the Ambassador was moored the land methodically rises, and so too do the houses, apartments, and guilds. Here the nobles¡ªeternally vying for prestige and power¡ªbuild higher and higher, sometimes two stories, sometimes three, all the way up to the great stone walls of Samark''s castle, which overlooks the city and the bay. The same night when Levin, Elidia, and Dragan were being named, an alarm was raised along this noble district. Three unknown dark-clad men had decided to pay a visit to Lord Nikita''s estate.

    Lord Nikita, fourth of his name and chancellor to the king, stood within his book-lined study, brooding over the endless lists of grains purchased and farmers taxed. Two of his loyal praetorian guards waited outside, vigilantly watching despite their unceasingly boring task. The night had been peaceful.

    At least, until a steel crossbow bolt caught the left guard below his exposed jugular.

    "We''re under attack! To arms!" The remaining praetorian bellowed, rousing Lord Nikita from his political and economic concerns. The left guard was now slumped over, hands at his own throat, dying as he tried to twist out the assassin''s bolt. At once the sole defender¡ªremembering his training¡ªdrew his hand-and-a-half sword and lowered his stance, preventing any assailant from ambushing the study door. A second crossbow bolt deflected harmlessly off the guard''s heavily armored shoulder.

    Lord Nikita had not assumed his position without a fair share of intrigue; this was not the first, second, or even fourth time he had been targeted. The lord pulled two cords behind his desk: the first to ring an attendant''s bell, the second to open a secret passage. Lord Nikita took nothing¡ªno jewels, no reports, nor any heirlooms¡ªbut fled immediately down this hidden stairway, seeking escape into the night.

    At the study door the guard stood fast. "Come out, vile assassin! Show yourself!" An impotent third bolt missed him entirely, burying itself meaninglessly into the oaken door. And, as the guard watched, he saw a diminutive form disappear back down the corridor and into an unoccupied bedroom, clutching the weapon which had so suddenly killed his comrade.

    "That''s right! Run you coward."

    Lord Nikita barreled down the hidden stairs, taking them three steps at once, rushing headlong towards the manor stables. This particular passage opened into a closet within the stables that he had always kept locked and fastened, and now the key was jangling against his doublet. Safety was in sight.

    "Deep breaths. Calm yourself. No one knows about these stairs besides the slaves who constructed them. The same trick worked last time, didn''t it? Deep breathes. The key¡ªwhere is that blasted key?¡ªinto the lock, quickly now...do I turn it clockwise? Come on. Open already.¡±

    The closet door swung outwards, slamming against the back stable wall in Lord Nikita''s hurry. Speed was the order of the day, fueled by an escalating adrenaline. Many of his fellow nobles would have been surprised with the vigor that the middle-aged chancellor exhibited as he snatched up his bridle and saddle, preparing for flight upon his favored horse.

    "No time for an old friend, Nikita?"

    The lord¡¯s heart froze as he heard those mocking words. Maybe it wasn''t the words themselves that gave him pause¡ªbut rather the voice that uttered them, one he thought was long lost, yet, to be honest, one he had never quite forgotten. Two assassins detached themselves from the sides of his horse''s stall. They had been awaiting him all this time, cloaked by the night''s shadows.

    "Don¡¯t worry my lord."

    "It''ll be over soon."

    And as Nikita turned to flee, discarding first saddle and then bridle to sprint onto the estate grounds, he felt a cutting pain along his sternum.

    Lord Nikita, fourth of his name and chancellor to the king, was found at sunrise lying upon the stable floor. Two daggers were arrayed between his shoulder blades.

 Chapter 4

    I need to find a job.

    Before yesterday I would have had no chance. But now my name changes things, serves as a herald of my capabilities. "Dragan," the name of an honest merchant. Unlike apothecaries, traders are a kopeck a dozen here in Samark; any wealth this city has amassed comes not from the land but from the sea, from shipping and ports, from exchanging goods and mercantile profit. So finding a job as a trader shouldn''t prove too difficult.

    Or at least that''s what I believed this morning, before the half-a-dozen or so rejections.

    "We''re a family-only operation, have been since my great-grandfather''s naming."

    "Already had a clerk. Three actually."

    "Maybe once you get a letter of recommendation. Until then, stay out, you''re tracking grime across the floor."

    It''s another sunny summer day¡ªalmost cloudless¡ªand the heat radiates from the cobblestones, burning the bottoms of leather boots and blistering any slave or child unfortunate enough to be barefoot. I''ve been working my way down through the merchant district, starting with the more established shops level with the castle walls, before meandering after lunch towards the upstart traders that operate alongside the docks. I''m still wearing the tunic in which I assassinated that priest.

    In case you''re wondering, no, I don''t feel any guilt. I might if he hadn''t been who he was: a member of the organization that was trying to sell me, sell Levin, and sell Elidia. She cries about him, but I won''t pity any hypocrite who makes money out of orphans. He was evil. I''m sure that he was...

    As I approach the waterfront the number of citizens increases. I can see other merchants¡ªpotential employers now, I suppose¡ªas well as sailors, shipbuilders and their guild masters, each interspersed between cattle leading half-filled carts of provisions. Trade in Samark has grown since the invention of the astrolabe. Captains use it to follow the sun and its stars, improving navigation during long sea voyages. Actually, I''m pretty certain there''s a watchmaker who sells bronze astrolabes near the adjacent crossroads.

    "Where to try next¡­"

    Judging by my luck so far, it doesn¡¯t seem like the larger stores need more apprentice traders. I should apply at some of the shabbier shops.

    Dodging around an overburdened oxcart, I turn off the main road and venture down the leftmost side street, one of the few I can''t remember crossing before. I''m close to the sea now. The right-side of the lane is trapped within a cooling shadow cast by the overhanging apartments, and, after walking half a block, I notice an overgrown ivy engulfing the front of a two-story house. Once uncovered, its signboard reads: Alexander and Sons.

    The door creaks open to a slightly tilted coat rack, a set of wooden chairs assorted around a coffee table, and an empty front counter. "Good afternoon," I call out, "is anyone there?"

    "No you idiot. We just left the front door unlocked so dirty urchins could waltz in, and then ducked off for tea."

    Huh?

    "Why haven''t you closed the door already? It''s hot outside and I''m trying to eat."

    Eh?

    "Shut. The door. You imbecile."

    And while I turn to do so¡ªplanning on leaving that particular establishment forever¡ªout from behind the counter walks a teenage girl.

    <hr>

    She was beautiful. Taller than me by a hand, with freckles covering her nose and then spreading across her shallow cheeks. The girl had an angular chin, which narrowed to almost a point beneath her narrow lips, and each of her petite features served to augment her large eyes, green orbs shaded by cinnamon colored hair. I remember to say something.

    "Hello...umm¡­"

    "So why are you even here?" I guess she''s not as charmed by me as I am with her. When the girl walks closer I realize that her eyes are really more blue than green, like the color of seafoam on a spring morning.

    "I''m Alexander. I mean, I''m Dragan. I''m looking for Mr. Alexander."

    "Papa is out on business, and I do not expect him to return until dinner," she said as she crossed her arms. "Dragan hmm... I would never have thought you were a trader. You must not be a very good one, to be dressed so plainly."

    I did wash myself this morning, you know. Not sure why everyone is so caught up on my clothes, a tunic and boots is completely normal attire. Somehow this girl reminds me of Hermes.

    "Excuse me miss, what''s your name?"

    "Anna. Well, if you''re going to insist on ruining my lunch let''s at least make it worthwhile. Tell me what you want while I finish eating, and maybe I can help you in place of papa."

    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    Anna and Alexander, two honored names reserved for members of the trader''s guild. I''m at a merchant''s store alright. Although I wonder where the old man''s sons are¡ªyou know, as in Alexander and Sons?

    "Hurry up." Anna gestures me into a chair by the coffee table, which has burn marks in the shape of a semicircle. Now that the door''s been closed this shop becomes quiet; any street sounds are muffled by the vines covering the wall outside. I had prepared an elaborate, rambling lie to conceal my background this morning, with bankrupt parents and a scheming uncle, who forced my family to emigrate but left me behind, destitute, yet highly skilled and greatly experienced in all avenues of trade. However, that''s not the story I tell.

    "I''m an orphan. Never knew my own parents: they were taken by sickness, as far as the church can determine, with my father named a laborer and my mother a weaver. I was raised north of here, at St. Alodia''s...perhaps you''ve heard of it? The clergy there didn''t teach me much, but a few of the parishioners were kinder. I talked with the traders and merchants every Wednesday and Sunday, and just last night I realized my name. Now I can''t remain at the orphanage much longer¡ªI''m about to reach my fifteenth year¡ªand I''m looking for work and a place to stay. Of course, I''d only ask for half the salary of a normal apprentice."

    Her large eyes sparkled. "A named orphan huh? You might be more useful than you look."

    I can''t say that was the response I expected. Anna had started to gently tap her fingers against my spine as I spoke, and now that I was done she stood behind me, her soft palms firmly grasping my shoulders, caressing me back into the chair as I looked up at her face.

    "Wait right here Dragan. My father will see you shortly."

    <hr>

    When looking at Mr. Alexander one got the feeling that he had been skinny from birth, with narrow hips and spindly arms. He wore a monocle (something of a rarity outside the noble families) and peered about often, glancing down at his daughter and then myself.

    "So young Dragan, how many units can you move?"

    I have no idea what that even means. I stare inquiringly at Anna as she bends over the counter, scribbling in the ledgers. "You''ll have to explain properly papa. He''s a slow one."

    After adjusting his monocle Mr. Alexander begins again.

    "Very well young man, let me ask you this¡ªand you''ll have to forgive my intrusion. Do you know anything about the death of a one Lord Nikita, who was found this morning?" My blank gaze serves as a response. "No, clearly not...well perhaps you''re familiar with the assassination of Yakov? A poch-marked priest that was attacked yesterday in the Eastern Sea Market?"

    I estimate that I''m five quick strides from the door. The window¡¯s closer, but then the crash will draw attention, and that glass might cut me deeply. "Ah...yeah, yes Father Victor had mentioned that¡­but I can''t say I know anything about it, sir." I''m sure my tone gave me away immediately, broadcasting my alarm to the man and his daughter.

    "No need for concern, Dragan, this is only a friendly inquiry. From one professional to another, if you will." Here Mr. Alexander attempted a wan smile, looking again from Anna to me, and then hastily continued when neither of us reacted. "Well, yes, I suppose I should have assumed it was the priest. Either way, we''d be more than happy to have a gentleman of your abilities here at Alexander and Sons. It just so happens that I recently come across some merchandise which I''d appreciate your...help...in managing."

    The old man couldn''t seem more suspicious if he tried. What with talking to Anna and then waiting for Mr. Alexander, I must have been in this shop for over an hour; yet not one customer has stepped through the door. The only sound is Anna''s quill, moving back and forth across the page. And the old man''s voice, of course.

    "In short, young Dragan, I will provide you with room and board, as well as a pay based on your profits. I expect that you will take over the transactions best suited to your talent, and consult with my daughter or I as you see fit. I''m sure you will find our cozy establishment most agreeable."

    I fidget under their combined stares, Anna having paused at the end of her line. "Ahh...I am delighted with your offer, sir, but...what exactly will I be doing?"

    Mr. Alexander''s wan smile has returned, and he shifts his monocled gaze from me back onto his daughter. Anna laughs, shaking the freckles around her face¡ªfor a moment I''d forgotten how pretty she truly is¡ªand then leaves the counter to approach us.

    "You really aren''t as smart as you think you are, Dragan. My father''s asking you to be our fencer...or to put it in terms you can understand: Black. Market. Trader." She playfully pokes me on the nose after each word.

    "Succinctly put, dear, although I''d prefer you not utter those syllables within this house. Do you understand now, young Dragan? I have a few customers who''d like to transport some...items...and I''d like to know how many units you can move."

    This isn''t the job I wanted, but I can''t see a way out now. I doubt Mr. Alexander will be fine with me running around Samark with their secret, and it seems he knows my own. Plus, Anna will be here.

    "I accept, Mr. Alexander. And I recommend you accept all the trade contracts...because I know how to move all the units."

 Chapter 5

    In the fortnight since I started working at Alexander and Sons, I''ve learned a few things about the black market business. First, smuggling can only be profitable if everyone trusts that the items will be delivered. Second, don''t bother Anna before lunch; she has a wicked temper when she''s hungry. And third, no actual trading ever occurs inside the store.

    Anna and I sit behind the counter during the day. The wood is knotted and covered by ink blots¡ªsome of which soak in, others we can wipe off¡ªtogether with quill scratches, Mr. Alexander''s abacus, an earmarked copy of Samark''s Laws and Trade, a couple dead spiders, last month''s shipping schedule, a compendium on the prices of barley, and three incomplete sets of scales. The ivy-covered front door remains shut, giving me plenty of time to improve my arithmetic. Anna says my school learning is "somewhere between that of a rock and a lizard."

    Mr. Alexander departs in the morning and returns after dinner. He takes with him a leather-bound traveling case, and each evening he provides Anna with a surprisingly extensive list of the day''s exchange rates: how much copper was being sold for, how many rolls of silk were purchased, and which ships are carrying what spices. He also meets with our clients, apparently. "It''s always better to make deals face-to-face, young Dragan, employing as a few formalities and omitting as many signatures as one can manage." I guess his clients feel the same, since they never want to be seen within our shop.

    Growing curious (and tired of sitting still), I tried to accompany him a few days ago. "Would you like me to come with you, sir? I''d be happy to watch and learn."

    Anna glanced up from the counter, staring through her papa''s monocle with her seafoam eyes. "No, that''s not necessary, but perhaps...perhaps when you are sufficiently prepared, Dragan," said Mr. Alexander, "you must study here for now, since I''m sure Anna would miss you greatly." After he left Anna socked me in the stomach and then played with my hair, knocking another full bottle of ink across the counter.

    Yes, I know they''re still keeping something from me. Yet I can''t blame them for it; I too would be suspicious of an unknown assassin who just happened to stumble across a black market trader. Wariness is really the most I could hope for. And they''ve treated me well enough: for the first time in my life I have a room of my own, with a window overlooking the shop''s shaded entrance, and a bed stuffed with cotton, not hay. Thanks to my name I''m quickly absorbing everything that Anna teaches me¡ªwhich goods are taxed too highly, which items are sought after, and which ports are open to Samark shipping. The longer I can stay here, the more I will learn.

    But that doesn''t mean I completely trust them.

    For the last two weeks Mr. Alexander and Anna have helped me, but haven''t asked for anything in return. They haven''t once mentioned my promise to fence for them: to smuggle goods through the city and into the docks. And when they do ask me, I know it''ll be a "high-risk venture," as Mr. Alexander would say with one of his wan smiles. I need to be ready.

    I need a plan.

    <hr>

    Dragan said we were supposed to meet here at dusk. All three of us: Dragan, Elidia, and me. I guess I go by Levin now, but I''m still not used to that name. The captain just calls me "recruit."

    It feels good to sit outside after a day of combat training. Inside the barracks the air is perfuse with sweat, as everyone rushes to rip off their mended socks and replace their used bandages, while the veteran guards yell at us for whatever they can think of. The other recruits say it''s a kind of hazing ritual; first the guards scream at us, berating our real and imagined shortcomings, and then¡ªperhaps in a few months¡ªthey''ll start being nice to us, accepting us as brothers. To be honest, I don''t really care about brothers. I already have Dragan and Elidia.

    Elidia is the first to one to meet me, arriving as the eight o''clock bell rings out across the city. She still seems unnaturally small for a thirteen-year-old kid.

    "Hey. Have you been eating enough?"

    "...hey¡­Levin..."

    Elidia stands next to the stone wall, keeping her eyes lowered as if she wants to disappear into the background. I guess that''s the end of our conversation. The sun is setting now, casting its final rays against the sea and the clouds, and Samark is covered by a sense of peacefulness; it''s too late for work, but too early for revelry. The guards are probably digesting dinner. If Dragan hadn''t arranged this meeting, I would be heading back to the training grounds in order to practice my swordplay. They''ve only allowed us recruits to wield wooden swords so far¡ªwhich are far lighter than their steel counterparts¡ªbut I can still improve my muscle strength and coordination by repeating what I''ve been shown. At least, that''s what the captain told me.

    Dragan arrived after another quarter of an hour. Like Elidia he''s small, but his movements are lithe, and the pair''s self-confidence could not be more opposite.

    "Sorry I''m late. Master Alexander was quizzing me about the different types of trading vessels, and somehow that developed into a treatise on piracy. Regardless, thank you both for coming."

    I punch him in the shoulder. "Don''t be late next time, I have a lot of training to do." But even as I say that, I can''t help but smile¡ªit''s good to see him again.

    "...happy birthday Dragan¡­"

    I''d forgotten about that.

    "Thanks! Yeah, if it wasn''t for meeting Hermes, right now the church would be getting ready to sell me as a slave." He grinned, walking closer to Elidia as she stole a glance at his dark eyes. "You should have seen Father Victor''s face when Levin and I told him our names. He was confused, angry, and happy all at once: confused because it was so unexpected, angry because he knew that somehow we''d cheated him, and happy because...well...Victor wasn''t completely evil. He was happy that we''d found a better life, even if it was at his own expense."

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Fifteen-years-old, huh. The naming year. In a couple months, I will turn fifteen too.

    "...even so...the church will never forget¡­" Elidia mumbled that phrase so softly that we almost missed it, letting those words drift away over the quiet dusk. Later¡ªmuch, much later¡ªI realized that the sentiment was something that she had thought about deeply, and that each of those words were dear to my shy, nervous, and disfigured companion. But not now, not when Dragan was back, and our night was about to begin in earnest.

    <hr>

    The first thing you should know about Dragan is that he has a lot of ideas. Plans. He calls them plans. A few of those ideas are quite good¡ªlike assassinating the priest from both his back and chest, while posting Elidia as a lookout¡ªbut a lot of those plans are questionable. To be more precise: most of his plans don''t make any sense to me.

    "Levin, I need you to pick two of the older boys at St. Alodia''s. Choose ones that are strong and reasonably clever, but above all, choose kids that are obedient. They should do whatever you tell them without question. It might be useful to thrash them several times...I dunno, you need to command their respect, but without inciting their hatred."

    Another thing you should know about Dragan: he has an annoying habit of talking rapidly and then ending abruptly, as if he expects you to complete his thoughts.

    "And why should I do that?"

    I don''t want to waste my spare time anywhere near St. Alodia''s, bullying those unlucky kids whose fate we just escaped. I want to train and become a guard, someone whom the captain and my friends can depend upon. Clack. Clack. A stranger stumbles close to the wall where Elidia, Dragan, and I are conferring, and now Dragan pauses to let her meander past, intently studying the uneven lime mortar between the irregular stones. He resumes as soon as she''s twenty paces away.

    "We need more help. People that we can call upon to assist us, but also people who won''t pose a threat to us. People who don''t realize that we''re assassins."

    Elidia stammers, seeming to anticipate where Dragan is going. "...so Levin will teach them how to fight¡­" I wish she would talk more. Honestly, I think Elidia is smarter than either Dragan or I.

    Dragan nods along, acting every bit the omniscient leader. "Exactly. I''m sure all the kids at St. Alodia''s look up to you Levin¡ªyou''ve just been named, and now you''re learning cool combat techniques. Pick some of our mates and spar with them. It''ll be a chance for you to keep practicing, and they''ll get stronger from it." And then he added, almost as an afterthought: "plus, maybe if you teach them what you''ve learned, they might one day be named as well."

    I double check to make sure that the drunken woman is completely gone. The sun has completely set, and now our faces are illuminated by the stray lights that have wandered out of open doors, unlatched windows, and the night sky. It would be nice to have some kids my age to practice with; the other recruits can''t be bothered to care, and the wooden practice dummies outside the barracks make everything seem...impractical. As if training against them won''t translate into actual combat.

    "Aye." I''ll do it. Nothing more to be said.

    I should have guessed Dragan had other plans.

    "Elidia, you still haven''t told anyone that you''ve been named?" She nodded, concealing her scar in the deeper shadows. "Please remain anonymous at the orphanage for now, and keep tabs on the kids that Levin is training. Make sure they can keep a secret¡ªif not, we''ll be forced to stop working with them." Here he stopped to grab a breath, racing through his ideas before they were fully formed within his throat. "I haven''t found anyone willing to take apothecary apprentices without proper schooling; they all expect their pupils to have attended the College."

    It was Elidia (our named apothecary) who originally informed Dragan and I about Samark''s College; apparently it''s outside the city walls, and the school is largely operated by the clergy. In other words, it''s impossibly expensive.

    "...you should get me books¡­"

    Now it was Dragan''s turn to lag behind. "What did you say, Elidia?"

    Elidia glanced over at me, hoping I would explain. Nope. This is what you get for not talking with me earlier, while we both were waiting alone for Dragan to arrive.

    "...I can learn what I need...from the recipes....there are books filled with apothecary recipes, and lists of ingredients, and the alchemical formulae...for brewing potions, or ¡­you know."

    It makes sense. Instead of a master chemist¡ªwhich are rare and expensive¡ªElidia could learn something from manuscripts. Apothecaries are one of the few named professions where that might work; or at least, it could help the girl with a scar get started.

    "Ah I see...that''s an excellent idea Elidia!" Was it just a trick of the flickering light, or did I see the girl blush under Dragan''s kindness? "Now we have our first mission for Levin¡¯s men."

    Huh?

    What is this guy talking about now?

    I just want to go back and train. Next time I have to listen to Dragan''s plans, we should meet at the sparring field.

 Chapter 6

    The chemist''s house doesn''t look any different from the others along this empty avenue. A single wooden door, beige brickwork, double windows with square inlets, and an open cornice along the roof. At night seagulls nest within the building''s many pockets, and I can see some now, silhouetted wings against the hazy starlight. A shallow front step leads up to the foyer, branching left into a laboratory¡ªwith bottles and beakers pressed against the windows¡ªand right into a sitting room¡ªwhere an ornate grandfather clock ticks away. It''s almost midnight.

    In a sense, this unassuming house has been the focus of the last month-and-a-half. An attractor working with something like gravity, slowly but inevitably drawing Levin, Elidia, and I closer to our second assassination. No, sorry: our first robbery. Assassination only if necessary.

    I pull my oversized cloak tighter, feeling the fleece lining between my fingertips. It¡¯s July now, the beating heart of summer, and yet today was cloudy, overcast, and the night is becoming cold. I stitched extra fabric into a makeshift hood so that the cloak serves to hide both my body and my visage. Anonymity is deeply etched within my name; again I''ve coated my face in charcoal, paranoid that I will be recognized by roving or friendly eyes.

    Tock. Tock. We can hear the grandfather clock within the alley.

    "Alright. Enter only after you hear glass breaking." I turned from one of the kids that Levin was training to the other. "And you, stay alert." Both of these lads had been my playmates at St. Alodia''s; but that time is becoming more and more distant now, like a life that someone else lived, and I can''t see either boy as anything but a chess piece. A disposable pawn.

    Leaving my underlings behind I separate myself from the alley wall, gliding onto the empty street while the gray cloak flaps about my legs. A seagull sees my coming, and squawks haughtily to its neighbors within their artificial colony. Up close I can see the imperfections of the chemist''s house: the weather-worn bricks, chipped at the corners, and a meter-long crease along the left wall face, perhaps caused by seasons of fluctuating temperatures. I hurry to the sitting room window.

    Strange as it may seem, breaking into the house is really the part of night about which I am most uncertain. Once we enter everything should run smoothly. But I really have no idea how to take that first step...should I learn how to pick a lock¡ªdo people still do that? Or is it only from picture books? Regardless, attempted break in has very few risks associated. If we are caught inside the house, we''re trespassers¡ªbut if we''re caught trying to enter, we haven''t actually committed a crime yet. And if we can''t find a way in tonight, we''ll just return for a second visit.

    That said, it''s not like I don''t have a plan.

    The sitting room window is latched on the inside, with a small steel lip between glass pane and its metallic casing. I extract a half-meter lever from the inside of my cloak; the tool has a flat end, which slots perfectly beneath the window''s metal overhang. "Here''s to hoping for shoddy craftsmanship," I mumble under my breath, taking one last glance along the road. The garrulous seagulls are crying above as the grandfather clock ticks within.

    Tock. Tock.

    "Huuuuhhhh"

    With a sharp exhale, I apply my body weight against the thick wooden lever, watching to see if the latch snaps.

    The chemist''s house has drawn me in completely. This is my chance to get closer, to become enveloped within its beige walls, and discover its potions, kopecks, recipes, and books. Dragan. I feel as though my name is calling out to me from within the house, from a shadowed room I cannot see nor have ever entered, where the chemist himself sleeps fitfully.

    "Grraa¡­ahhh...shhh"

    The latch grinds to a breaking point, and then snaps. The window lays open before me.

    <hr>

    Isn''t is strange how little we know about the people around us? Even the people we interact with everyday? Take Anna and Mr. Alexander for example. I don''t know why their trading company is called Alexander and Sons, or whether those implied progeny ever existed. Throughout the many summer afternoons I''ve spent studying with Anna¡ªsneaking looks at her narrow freckled face¡ªshe''s never once mentioned friends, or other family, or suggested venturing outside the unopened ivy-covered door. Among the many trinkets, pamphlets, pages, and records lying around their store counter or covering the surrounding shelves, I''ve never once seen memoranda of Anna''s mother, of Mr. Alexander''s wife.

    Connections are everything.

    And what about my closest companions? Levin, like me, has no memory of his parents; they were slaves, apparently, and lived their short lives unnamed. Perhaps they were taken by the same fatal fever that led to my own orphanage, and were similarly burned outside the city, cremated to prevent the disease''s infiltration among Samark''s noble families. Elidia is different: she knows her parent''s names. But she keeps the information locked away¡ªnever revealing her origins to either myself or Levin¡ªclamming up whenever either of us try to ask, while silently rearranging her ashen hair across her scarred right cheek.

    Knowledge is everything.

    Some of the most important people to me are people I don¡¯t know at all. Hermes and the priest (Yakov, Mr. Alexander called him) together gave me a name. But what more could I say about Hermes, besides describing his boyish face and recalling his dandy clothes, and what more could I say about Yakov, besides recognizing his height and remembering his death? It would be a lie to call them strangers. To me, right now, they are people I hold dear...whose life and death has become linked to my own. Just like the two lads Levin has trained to fight, and whom I will now teach to steal. We are connected¡ªperhaps intimately¡ªbut we know nothing about each other.

    Understanding this world is everything.

    Maybe I am still being childish, but that is what I have come to believe.

    I want to know more about Samark.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    So far Levin, Elidia, and I have been little more than puppets. First we were fools of the church, as they guided us unsuspecting towards the yoke of slavery. Then we were a tool for Hermes, caught up in something that we don''t understand. And now I''m dependent on Mr. Alexander, a movable piece within his and Anna''s schemes. Somehow we need to break the trend. Or more to the point: somehow I need to break the trend, to guide Elidia and Levin forward.

    I tell you all of this not because I know how to solve our problems. I don''t. But I do know that our first step to freedom lies in the chemist''s house. In tonight''s heist.

    Once through the window I unlock the front door, creaking it open slightly in case we need a quicker escape. Away from the windows the house is pitch black. I try to move lightly, stepping with the balls of my feet, and eventually decide to remove my leather boots entirely. Tock. Tock. The grandfather clock seems louder now, as I prick up my ears to try and detect the chemist''s snores. His bedroom door should be nearby; I sneak with my hands held out before me, feeling my way between the rough hallway walls. My cloak trails along the floorboards.

    Within the bedroom I find the chemist asleep on his side, his bearded face illuminated by flecked lights filtering through the half-open curtains. The covers are a mess¡ªhe''s rolled over through the early night¡ªbut now his face is turned away from mine, a roman nose pointed towards the incoming light. This is where my name wants me to be; I feel an odd sense of belonging in the strange man''s house. But I suppose everyone and no-one is a stranger.

    *Crash*

    I smash an empty wine bottle against the back of his unprotected skull.

    <hr>

    After that, everything ran like clockwork.

    I checked the chemist''s pulse. Tock. Tock. His blood flowed to the beat of the house, still alive but certainly out cold. Good. I didn''t know whether the blow would kill him, but I''d rather not perform my second assassination here; it would draw too much attention to the robbery, and too much suspicion to my name. I walk back down the hall to put on my boots.

    "Should I start?" The smaller of the two boys had entered after the bottle broke, and now he stares at me, my face completely hidden by the darkness, the cloak, and the charcoal.

    I guess that we have about an hour...maybe? "Yes. Get at much as we can carry. Go quickly." I sit down on a wooden wicker chair to think for a second, to calm down.

    My leadership strategy is brilliant, if you''ll permit my self-indulgence. Actually, it''s something I picked up from Anna''s business lessons. The lads are responsible for paying me a flat fee when we leave the chemist''s house: I set the price at five thousand kopecks, or jewels of twice that value. It''s a lot, certainly, but not beyond of the amount of money I expect the chemist to have. And here''s where the motivation really comes in¡ªthe two can keep any kopecks they find past the agreed upon price. When I was nameless, I killed for nothing.

    I forcefully slow down my breathing. Fine. Everything is fine.

    The chemist''s lab shines like beetle scales in the moonlight, as each different glass bottle, beaker, and flask reflects off the others and into the multicolored liquids they contain. When I step on the floorboards one of the wooden tables shakes, causing the glasses atop it to softly tinkle. The bookshelf is on the back wall. Before it I see a few apparati that I can name¡ªa triangular crucible, a porcelain mortar and pestle (with some granules crushed inside), and a large black crochan¡ªtogether with many instruments that I do not recognize.

    I need to steal books for Elidia. Three, four maybe is all I can carry. But along the wall are more than fifty: all leather bound, with identically embossed spines and large silver titles. The chemist must be an orderly man. Fortunately, Elidia had scoured these shelves the week before during a daytime visit, and provided me with a succinct list.

    "Let''s see...here''s Flamel''s Flora and their Uses, and...yes, Modern Chemistry by Proust¡­" Heavy, that one. "And finally...Recipes for Health and Sanguine Blood, written by Dante." I shoved each successive title into my cloak, causing it to bulge awkwardly around my waist.

    Tock. Tock. I leave the beetle bottles behind and return to the entryway, signaling the larger boy outside who was serving as our lookout. He rushed beneath the seagulls and into the entrance.

    "I have what I need. Case the house with the other kid, I''ll stand watch here." My voice comes out raspy and growling. I can''t let either of the lads know who I am; that I''m barely a year older than them, or that we used to play together under Father Victor''s sporadic care. Separation. Now I''m an assassin, and they''re my first acolytes. They''re the only pawns Elidia, Levin, and I have to leverage.

    Leaning against the front door I again pull the fleece-lined cloak close to my body, trapping in the remaining warmth and stolen books. While I watch the two boys race between rooms, whispering directions back and forth, as they search for some secret stash or buried collection. It''s true what Hermes said: unnamed can do anything. My name drew me into the house, down the corridor, and around the chemist''s exposed form. But now my name is telling me to be gone, repelling me from the vulnerable house and out into the cloudy night. Tock. Tock. I can''t think clearly any longer; or perhaps it''s that I lack the required imagination, that now I increasingly see things from a single named viewpoint. I fiddle with a dagger strapped to my chest. I listen to the sounds of the passing night: the boys rummaging, the clock ticking, the seagulls occasionally squabbling for territory. I wonder if the chemist will live, or if my attack has caused some irreparable damage. I wait as patiently as I am able.

    And then I decide we should wait no longer.

    "Let''s go. It''s time to get away from this house."

    Tock. Tock. The grandfather clock slowly unwinds in the sitting room, fading away as we sweep back along the empty avenue.

 Chapter 7

    "Wake up, sleepyhead. You''re drooling on the balance sheet."

    Lavender. Her legs smelled like lavender.

    "I''ll stab you with this quill. Or better yet, I could give you a tattoo...let''s see, maybe: I...can''t...do...math. And here, a couple zeros to really emphasize your talents."

    Good morning to you too Anna. Or good afternoon I suppose; time is hard to distinguish inside the shop, where no one ever enters, and shadows shroud the windows before creeping from item to item along our jumbled counter. Mr. Alexander had gone out on business again.

    "Sorry, your excellency. I was just dreaming that I was doing some actual trading. You know, where you talk to people, and buy items, and then sell them at a higher price¡­and meet with your customers, of course."

    She snorted, wrinkling her thin lips ever-so-slightly upwards into the beginnings of a smile. But only for a moment. She still hadn''t cut her cinnamon hair, and now it stretched straight down the back of her tight-fitting bodice, a few loose strands curling over her shoulder. Around her neck lies a silver amulet¡ªor perhaps it''s a locket, although I''ve never seen it unclasped¡ªwith a swallow surrounded by ancient hieroglyphs. A common symbol, that. Almost half the sailors in Samark have a swallow tattoo, since they supposedly ensure a safe return voyage across the stormy sea. Nevertheless, it''s an unexpected necklace for one so housebound.

    Anna slid closer to me. "You''re eyes are pretty bloodshot, you know. Like you haven''t slept at all."

    There''s a good reason for that. Of course, it''s not one I''d like to share with Anna or her father; they already have enough reasons to mistrust me. If I was in this same situation a few weeks ago¡ªhaving to convince Anna of a lie¡ªshe''d catch me in no time. She''s perceptive. But I''ve discovered that she also prefers sarcasm to the unimaginative truth.

    I move my mouth closer to her own, almost whispering the words. "Of course, miss...I could hardly sleep for dreaming of you. Of your fabled addition, your marvelous multiplication, your untouch¡ªOy! Watch where you''re swinging that!"

    I dodge out from behind the counter, laughing at Anna''s childish riposte. We race up the stairwell, where maps of distant archipelagos are crowded out by her charcoal sketches, across the landing, her cheeks blushing beneath the freckles, and to my temporary bedroom, when I promptly slam the door shut in her face.

    "Such a brave man, to run away and hide from a spurned damsel."

    By the time I came up with a half-witty response she was already gone. Back downstairs to her accounting, perhaps, guessing at which spices would rise in price the most, and what ports would sell them most dear. A trader''s endless cycle of goods for money for goods, just to turn around and repeat the same exchange. Even so, I envy her honored name. To be able to exist fairly, without worrying about harming others, or concerns about being caught. No assassinations. No theft.

    But my name is not without its allure.

    The bedroom window before me looks out across the shadowed entrance of Alexander and Sons and onto the walls of opposite shops, their red-bricks baking under the thick sunlight. Beneath the window is a worn earthen-brown chest. It was this chest that I was considering when I nodded off next to Anna. To be more precise, I was thinking about the three chemistry books and five thousand kopecks it contains: the profits of last night''s adventure.

    Now I just need to decide how to invest them.

    <hr>

    We arranged to meet beneath the stone statue of King Misha. The noblemen and lords had ordered its construction during the great man''s rule, attempting either to ingratiate themselves further or atone for some past conspiracy. According to the placard, the statue shows¡ªor used to show¡ªMisha as he looked when he returned victorious from the battle of Erastfer, where Samark and the surrounding city-states repulsed the heretical invasion of Assur. A truly glorious victory granted to us by the gods: that is, if you believe Father Victor. Alternatively, it might have been that the Assurians sailed too far away from there homeland, and ran out of provisions, and eventually decided that Samark wasn''t worth their time. Regardless, King Misha got his regal statue, which has now been corroded by wind, rain, and time into a vaguely anthropomorphic stone blob. I find Elidia leaning against its shaded side.

    "...Hello, Dragan. I was worried about you¡­"

    It''s just the two of us; Levin can''t make it because his guard captain is offering extra training sessions. Elidia talks more when we''re alone¡ªI think she finds Levin too abrasive, and becomes unsteady under the pressure his personality unconsciously exerts. Which is rather ironic, because Levin actually cares about her quite a bit. They''re just on different wavelengths: he, with his black hair, intensely focused on the moment; she, with her scar, silently brooding over every memory. Now that we live apart, I miss interacting with them both.

    "I have a gift for you. Well, three presents really; too bad you already know what they are. Here are the books you wanted." I''ve wrapped the three volumes that we stole from the chemist''s house within my gray cloak, which I now set upon the ledge of King Misha''s statue. Any chill from the previous night has been forgotten with the rising tides, and now I''m sweating, relieved to join Elidia within the evening shade. I know she has questions.

    "What happened? I saw the two boys Levin trains return to the orphanage early this morning, but¡­" She places her hands one inside the other, her skirt ruffled by the ocean breeze.

    "Everything went like we planned. He was sleeping, and I didn''t hurt him badly¡ªor at least, I tried not too." I remember the breaking glass around the chemist''s unprotected skull, and the few stray droplets of wine that sprayed onto his hair and leaked along the pillow. Violence better left unsaid, or euphemized, as if repressing the act will make it unreal. "The kids did well. Once we guide them a little, they might soon realize their own names." I smile.

    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    "...I''m glad that you''re all safe. And I thank you for your presents." Elidia''s hands were now unclasped, her fingers tracing the outline of the perfectly bound books through my fleece wrapping. For a moment she simply gazed. "It''s strange, isn''t it," she eventually continued. "...I was the one who originally said that assassinations can''t be evil...that nothing in this world is purely good, or purely evil, and we must find our own meanings. But I feel guilt for what we have done. What we''re doing."

    I don''t know if Elidia had stopped to think, or if she was awaiting my response.

    "Do you mean the two lads?"

    "Ah...how we''re trying to have them named as bandits? Maybe I should feel guilty about that as well, but I don''t...they could change things, if only they used their heads a little. Change. That''s the right word. You know, both you and Levin have changed since you became apprentices."

    I could sense that she was backtracking. Even at her most talkative state, Elidia is never completely candid.

    "...ignore that last bit. Anyway, I''m sorry Dragan. In the future, I will be there with you...next time¡ªnext assassination, or robbery, or whatever¡ªI will be more than just a lookout."

    Her hands had formed little fists.

    <hr>

    It''s true. I''m trying to get the two boys that Levin is training, and which I took on last night''s robbery, to be named as bandits. Or thieves, or robbers, or thugs, or mercenaries...anything dishonorable, really. In some ways it''s more of an experiment, since neither Elidia or I understand exactly how naming works. We performed an assassination, and were named assassins; perhaps if we get them to steal, they will be named thieves? Although thieves aren''t exactly what I want right now, not if I''m going to leverage the boys as pawns for smuggling goods. My intuition is that we''ll need muscle first¡ªhence, swordsmanship and unarmed combat training with Levin. Worst case, they become city guards that we can corrupt.

    I don''t even know if "thief" is a possible name.

    The shade surrounding the statue of King Micha has rotated, so that his featureless mass creates a sundial in the late afternoon. Across from the statue is a small graveyard. Only the wealthy would be buried there, in marble sepulchers and marked graves, their headstones containing a carved circle with a horizontal line spanning its diameter. It symbolizes the sun and the sea: the mark of the gods. For the less fortunate¡ªfor the masses to which I belong¡ªthere is simply not enough space on the surface; our bodies are interred ever deeper within the stale catacombs that burrow beneath Samark. The priest Yakov should be in neither place. The clergy are not buried but burned, cremated to hasten their soul''s departure from this world.

    We''ve wasted too much time. Now we need to decide what to do with our stolen funds.

    "Guilt or no guilt, what''s done is done. I have a plan for how to spend the kopecks we obtained, Elidia, but I want your opinion." I run my hand through my hair, pushing it away from my sweaty brow. I wonder why I''m so eager to talk about this. "But be warned: my plan is not what you''d expect."

    "...smuggling."

    Huh?

    "You should buy goods for smuggling¡­"

    Ah.

    That was precisely my idea. I''d been internally debating the options last week, and trading was what I eventually decided to be best. "How did you know?"

    "...Isn''t it obvious? We can''t buy apothecary supplies without a proper space to use and store them, and paying for rent...it''s just not an efficient investment. Same with purchasing better weapons; only a short-term gain, and we might not need them anyway..." Elidia looked away from the graveyard. "What we really need is a steady source of income. Where we can use our names...but without relying on luck...or drawing so much attention."

    So smuggling it is then.

    "You know, you can speak very eloquently when you want to." But the girl with a scar doesn''t find my teasing amusing; maybe, like Levin and I, she has also changed in some small way. "Very well, I will work on finding a seller and buyer. I had hoped that my master would give me contracts directly, but he''s been...reluctant." Anna and Alexander still haven''t mentioned¡ªor even alluded to¡ªmy promise to smuggle for them, my vow to bootleg every deal. I don''t even pretend to know why anymore.

    "...he might be testing you¡­you said he suspects you are an assassin..."

    Then why let me sleep within his store, next to his daughter''s room?

    Knowledge. Just like I don''t know which bodies sleep within the catacomb, how King Micha won the battle of Erastfer, or why Anna wears a swallow amulet, I don''t know what Mr. Alexander expects of me. Elidia and I stand here in the summer shade and plan¡ªgiddy with insight, as if we''ve solved some great question¡ªbut cognizant of stray thoughts: the loose ends and missing pieces that we''ve overlooked, or willfully ignored. We are drawn towards danger by our natures, and compelled onward by our names.

    Which is all a fancy way to say that I don''t know what I''m doing.

    But I want to know.

    "Dragan...why are you laughing?"

 Chapter 8

    All the nobles agreed it was uncanny, having the fasting of mid-summer so soon after Lord Nikita¡¯s assassination. Which isn¡¯t to say that they were grieved by the chancellor¡¯s sudden death. No, aside from a fleeting reminder of their own mortality¡ªand a much more tangible interest in the chancellor¡¯s successor¡ªthe nobles treated the loss of one of their number with a stately dispassion; an attitude which lesser-bred citizens might have mistaken for apathy.

    In reality, it was the assassination¡¯s timing that had somewhat unsettled Samark¡¯s elite. To have such a highly political crime occur directly before the largest social party of the calendar was rather...gauche. Ungentlemanly even. Indeed, one of the skillful lords most associated with propriety was overheard to remark: ¡°The assassins could have been stopped, had Nikita simply shown them his engagement book.¡±

    The mid-summer fast was from midnight to midnight, a religious ceremony meant to honor the figurative marriage of the sun goddess Solntse and the ocean goddess Volna. To remind the citizens of the sea-side city-state of Samark of those two sine qua non necessities: light and water. The vivacious sunshine on the longest day of the year sparked and reflected off the waves, filling the overcrowded avenues with delight before being absorbed by the few crops north of the city walls. It was a day to enjoy.

    And the royal fete began immediately after the fasting ended. This celebration was a completely immovable social fixture, one which dated back to the reigns of the first enlightened kings. Every lord was invited, and every noble would most certainly attend, arriving at the royal palace¡¯s steps just moments after the town¡¯s watchtowers rang out the end of the summer solstice. It was here¡ªbetween the castle steps and the palace ballroom¡ªthat a feeling of uncertainty descended upon the fashionable guests. An eerie parting gift from Lord Nikita.

    The first thing which an onlooker would have noticed was the great disparity between the guests¡¯ attire. To be sure, the women came is gorgeous silk, satin, and brocade dresses, with corsets around their chests and farthingales about their legs. The men similarly followed in jerkins and damask stockings, wearing the emblem of their house as well as the season¡¯s trending accessories: canes, furs, and silver buckles were requisite. So far, nothing was out of the ordinary.

    But the awkward contrast didn¡¯t arise from the from the guests¡¯ style; rather, it was the color of the fabrics themselves which caused a stir. It seems that about half of the guests, out of deference to Lord Nikita¡¯s death, wore all-black garb with a slight touch of ermine. The other half¡ªin keeping with the holiday¡¯s festival tradition¡ªwore tinseled cloth, with bright bursts of ocean blue and bronzed yellow. Half were dressed for a somber memorial, the other half for a gay carnival.

    Lord Hermes belonged to this later half.

    He had exchanged the navy doublet in which he named Dragan, Elidia, and Levin for one that was aggressively apricot, but he still retained the raven-headed cane. His red locks and smooth face marked him as a young man¡ªwith less than twenty-five winters¡ªbut the elder nobles vaguely recalled that Hermes had been attending the mid-summer parties for at least forty years. He entered the ballroom alone and unnoticed, sprightly rapping his cane against the marble floor.

    Had the other nobles known that Lord Hermes contained the answers they sought, he would have instantly become the center of attention. Because¡ªbeyond the half-muted, half-vibrant clothes¡ªthere was a second reason why the night¡¯s festivities were unnatural. Almost certainly, ¡°he¡± or ¡°she¡± was there. Everyone was thinking about it. But no one could say it, not even the princess who acted as host.

    The murderer.

    The noble who had commissioned Lord Nikita¡¯s assassination.

    Somewhere within the ballroom, dancing under the stars or mingling amidst their peers, walked the noble who was responsible for his death.

    <hr>

    ¡°Is it not abnormal? That crime can even exist in Samark?¡±

    The one who spoke was Lady Sophie, a young woman with earnest eyes.

    ¡°You have asked precisely the right question, my lady. And I can summarize all our previous scholastic work on the topic very succinctly: no one knows.¡±

    The one who answered was Lord Ivan. Although we have tenuously added the prefix ¡°lord¡± to his title, in reality he was one of the lesser nobles, to the extent that¡ªon another day¡ªthe Lady Sophie may have forgotten him altogether. Ivan served as an officer in the city guard.

    ¡°Surely they must be named as criminals in order to act as such; yet I have never heard a criminal¡¯s name, not do I know whether such names exist. Perhaps this ignorance is a fault of my education. I hope you will explain it to us thoroughly, Officer Ivan, for now I am altogether curious, and I would appreciate your perspective.¡±

    A small crowd had gathered, drawn by the charms of the beautiful lady. A few others wandered over when they heard the lady¡¯s question, since her conversation touched upon the matter which had put the night¡¯s feast into its uneasy state. Hermes listened with an enigmatic smile.

    ¡°You are too kind, Lady Sophie. I guess the best place to start is...well, right. Like you said, the city guard has so far never discovered a criminal name.¡± His face flushed under the crowd¡¯s attention. ¡°Just like Ivan and Sophie are the names of nobles, and Luka and Tanya are the names of peasants, there are no *names* for murderers, thieves, cut-throats, or pick-pockets.¡±

    Every guest here knew that. Part of a noble¡¯s training is to learn the names.

    ¡°But what about the criminals you¡¯ve caught? Are there any especially common names among them?¡±

    ¡°No and yes. Since we¡¯ve started keeping records¡ªto be frank, I¡¯ve never read them my lady¡ªI¡¯m told that no individual names or profession¡¯s names stand out. This year I arrested a baker, a tax collector, and...ah there was one other named individual I believe...but, what I mean to say is no. There don¡¯t seem to be specific criminal names.¡±

    Lady Sophie swirled her wine glass in her hands, with a rather mischievous glance at the surrounding crowd. ¡°And so the reason you also said yes, is¡­¡±

    Officer Ivan¡¯s cheeks turned two shades darker to approach a vermilion hue. He was starting to think that Lady Sophie was toying with him, leading him by the nose into some sort of social trap. ¡°Well, right. I said yes because we arrest an uncommon amount of slaves. Although they don¡¯t have a name, of course, they do seem to be Samark¡¯s most frequent criminals.¡±

    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    Bumbling though he was, Officer Ivan was correct. The rules for slaves were rather nebulous, but there was an unwritten understanding that they were free to act at their own discretion when encountering a situation about which their master had not instructed them. For instance, if you gave your slave fifty kopecks and ordered them to purchase a case of champagne, they could buy one for thirty kopecks, pocket the difference, and you might be none the wiser. At least, until you tasted the watered-down champagne.

    ¡°So tell me, Officer Ivan, in your professional opinion.¡± Here Lady Sophie took a half-step forward, her slender form entering the shadow cast by Ivan¡¯s portly frame. ¡°How is it done? We are each named according to our trained profession, and no one can perform a profession outside the bounds of their name. How do these criminals exist?¡± She tilted her glass forward.

    The wine was unusually potent at the royal palace. And the guests, having fasted throughout the day, were susceptible to its influence. Midnight had becoming early morning: the alcohol compounded with fatigue to deceive, to induce those less proficient nobles into committing mistakes, missteps in the intricate but ultimately meaningless dance of the bourgeoisie.

    Ivan spoke honestly. ¡°I think evil lies within all of us, Lady Sophie. We are all able to commit crimes¡ªif driven by need or passion¡ªsuch that every name has the potential for sin.¡±

    What followed was a brief pause. Then:

    ¡°Ah but surely you forget¡­¡±

    ¡°When interrogated, the criminals themselves¡­¡±

    ¡°According to the church and the gods¡­¡±

    Whatever check had restrained the onlookers was now disintegrating, and a babble of ideas and sophistry poured forth from around the circle. The topic of the night¡ªwhich had caused such uncertainty¡ªhad been well introduced, and now everyone was ready to make their impression on the established thinking.

    A pair excused themselves from the crowd.

    <hr>

    I find the youthful nobles particularly entertaining. They always deem themselves cleverer than they actually are, and believe that each of their revelations are novel, brilliant, and enlightening. As if not one¡ªor even a thousand¡ªhaven¡¯t had the same thoughts before.

    ¡°So, Lord Hermes, to what do I owe the pleasure?¡± Once we reached the starlit balcony Lady Sophie twisted around, her somber fabric harmonizing with the string quartet, so that each note resonates with its silken folds and sunken patterns. Her lips are carefully composed into a neutral curl.

    Ambitious. She strikes me as ambitious.

    ¡°You are too young to be wearing black, my dear, but I must compliment you for your emerald earrings; I remember when your late mother wore them. But perhaps black should be your color, since it seems that black would be your deed.¡± She looks nonplussed. Too subtle, I suppose. ¡°I am here to put myself at your service, Lady Sophie. I can...sense...that you require some assistance in removing a personage, and I would hate for you to resort to the unprofessional methods. Indeed, I know what you want quite well. This is a business transaction, and¡ªas boorish as it is to discuss at a fete¡ªyou broached the topic yourself.¡±

    Now her facial expression is becoming disorganized. The poised smile which she had plastered on is slipping, her lips parting to reveal a modest overbite. The lady¡¯s hair is raven black, and it curls tightly, wrapping around her pointed ears.

    I can¡¯t resist it.

    I lean in, my breathe reverberating against her emerald earrings and elvish ears. With a whisper over the string quartet:

    ¡°Assassination.¡±

    ¡°How did you?!¡± The Lady Sophie exclaims, all sense of control lost. ¡°You? You, Lord Hermes, were you the one responsible for Lord Nikita...?¡± Her tawny eyes are wide.

    Perhaps I have overestimated her; I trusted that she was cunning, like her mother, but now she just appears a foolish eighteen-year-old. I slowly spin my cane to the rhythm of the music.

    ¡°I know nothing about that sad transgression, of course.¡±

    The lady squares her shoulders, her smooth sternum exposed to the night air. ¡°I apologize, Lord Hermes, I seem to have forgotten myself.¡± She has restrained her voice to match my soft tone. ¡°But I am sure you will forgive me, as I am rather inexperienced.¡± Our eyes catch. Lady Sophie¡¯s fake smile is gradually returning to its usual position. ¡°Although I cannot completely understand your meaning, it is true...yes, it is true that I find a certain individual troubling.¡±

    We break off our tete-a-tete when a slavish waiter approaches to refill our glasses. A short interlude so that the lady can completely compose herself. As I listen¡ªnow the quartet has begun Gliere¡¯s Nocturne, and the staccato beats run along the castle marble¡ªI wonder how she will justify herself. They always seem to, don¡¯t they? It¡¯s not an assassination, it¡¯s not a murder, I¡¯m not asking you to kill another, no; they have wronged me, their death is necessary, I can pay you exorbitantly...so many meaningless words and trite excuses.

    But I am pleasantly impressed.

    ¡°Lord Hermes, how should we proceed?¡±

    I suppose we can dispense with the reasons.

    ¡°A name, my young accomplice. Tell me the name, and I shall tell you whether it is possible¡ªboth for me and for you.

    Lady Sophie returns an earnest smile. Then she tells me quietly, with both feminine grace and childlike innocence, so that no onlooker could have doubted her purity.

    The name she gives makes me smile as well.

    In the ballroom behind us the nocturne ends softly, lulling the nobles¡ªhalf in memorial attire, and half in festive garb¡ªback towards their homes. The celebration of mid-summer has officially ended.