Pavlov takes the coin with a smile. “Enough chatting. You need to get going.”

  “Not quite yet,” the beggar says. “I’m number 49.”

  Pavlov raises an eyebrow, “Not going first, huh? Though you did swap all those numbers.”

  “The ones at the back of the queue deserve it more,” the beggar says, adjusting his clothes. “They’ve got more talent than those up front.” He tightens his belt. “Not that it matters. I probably won’t get the job anyway.” He pauses. “This is more fun. I don’t have the patience to stare at glyphs for long.”

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  “You’re smart, kid. May Athena herself bless you.”

  The beggar chuckles. “Pav, I didn’t take you for someone who believes in gods.”

  “Come on, kid.” Pavlov grins. “What is time to you, anyway? It takes twenty years in this position to reach a new rank—a couple of naps for your kind. And with the way things are now, there’s no telling who’ll stay rich. That’s why even the noblemen are lining up.”

  He pats the beggar on the shoulder. “This is your golden ticket into the palace—to mingle with the royals.”

  “Ouch, Pav, that hurts,” the beggar winces.

  “You gonna go now, kid. Let Athena bless you.”

  The beggar turns, waving as he walks away. He lets out a small laugh and murmurs to himself, “If that old hag knew I still existed. I’d have far bigger problems than getting a job.”