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—almost cloudless—and 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—potential employers now, I suppose—as 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—planning on leaving that particular establishment forever—out from behind the counter walks a teenage girl.

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."

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—you 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—I'm about to reach my fifteenth year—and 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."

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—and 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—for a moment I'd forgotten how pretty she truly is—and 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."