"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—or perhaps it's a locket, although I've never seen it unclasped—with 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—having to convince Anna of a lie—she'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—Oy! 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.

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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—or used to show—Misha 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—I 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—or 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.

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"...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—next assassination, or robbery, or whatever—I will be more than just a lookout."

Her hands had formed little fists.

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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—hence, 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—for the masses to which I belong—there 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—or even alluded to—my 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—giddy with insight, as if we've solved some great question—but 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?"