The boy selects a wooden longsword. A good choice. He’s tall enough to make use of it.
“Now you,” DeLuca says, gesturing to Aldo. “Choose your weapon.”
“What?” I say, before I can think better of it. “Pedrón has four years and a full arm’s length on Aldo!”
DeLuca rounds on me, fury in his eyes. “Do you think the empress’s enemies give a roach’s ass if they’re fairly matched or not?”
“I . . . no, of course not.”
“Interrupt a training session again, and you’re short a ration.”
I’m about to protest further, but Aldo catches my eye and gives me the barest nod of his head. “Yes, sir,” I say weakly.
Aldo steps to the weapons rack. He chooses two wooden daggers.
“That’s two weapons, not one,” Sergeant DeLuca says.
Aldo’s expression reveals nothing as he returns one of the daggers to the rack.
“Make a circle, everyone!”
We do, and Aldo and Pedrón face each other, wooden weapons brandished.
“The match lasts until first blood—or until I call a halt, understood?”
“Yes, sir!” we all respond.
“We know that not everyone has prior training. Just do your best, and trust in our expertise to evaluate you according to your current skill level.” This was one of Hector’s reforms, and it’s good to hear DeLuca repeat it, even if I don’t trust him to follow through. “Understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Begin.”
Pedrón lunges with his sword, creating a perfect straight line from shoulder to blade tip. It’s a pretty bit of choreography, but it’s too slow, and Aldo dodges easily.
“Saw that coming from way down south of Ventierra,” Aldo taunts.
Pedrón shrugs and gives Aldo a wry smile. Then, quick as a scorpion, he whips the sword around and whacks Aldo in the shoulder with the blunt side.
Aldo yelps as the momentum from the blow spins him, and he tumbles to the ground, landing hard on his stomach.
He groans, clutching the sand with his fingers, like he’s trying to get up but can’t.
Other recruits lean in, worry marking their faces. Not worried for Aldo, I’m sure. Worried for themselves. They see this exact punishment and humiliation in their very near futures.
But they didn’t see what I did. Aldo exaggerated everything. The flat of Pedrón’s blade barely hit him. It was a perfectly executed bit of theater for a boy who wanted out of a mismatch as quickly as possible.
Pedrón steps forward as if to deal a killing blow.
“Halt!” DeLuca calls. “Now help your fellow recruit to his feet,” he orders, and Pedrón does as commanded, reaching for Aldo and yanking him up.
Clutching his side, Aldo staggers over to stand beside me.
“Well done,” I whisper.
Aldo tries very hard not to grin.
“Recruit Pedrón,” DeLuca says, “you have good power and adequate speed for your size, but you can be better. We’ll work on that. Recruit Aldo, you have better speed and extraordinary spatial awareness. We’ll teach you some real fighting skills so you won’t have to rely on deception.”
My eyes widen. Perhaps DeLuca is not the idiot I took him for. Off to the side, a few other Guards are discussing something quietly among themselves, though their eyes remain on the recruits. Maybe they really are evaluating us.
“Next up, Recruit Iván.”
The handsome boy with quick, dark eyes steps forward. The son of a traitor. Which makes him Juan-Carlos’s younger brother.
“And Recruit Red.”
I’m stepping forward even as Iván says, “I won’t fight a girl.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you,” I tell him.
“It wouldn’t be fair,” Iván says. “And I don’t want to get into the habit of pulling my punches or weakening my blows.”
“It’s clear you have great respect for women,” I say gravely, and Iván gives me a puzzled look, unsure how I just managed to insult him.
DeLuca considers. “Fine,” he says.
Weird that he’s not pressing the matter. Maybe Iván holds some status with DeLuca, being the brother of a Quorum lord. We’re supposed to leave status behind to come here, but such things are never true in practice.
“Any volunteers to fight a girl?” DeLuca calls out.
Several boys appear uncomfortable, looking everywhere but at the sergeant, lest they catch his eye. But there’s no shortage of hands raised.
The crowd on the walls is as thick as I’ve ever seen it. People are leaning forward, eyes wide, chatting excitedly. This is the best spectacle they’ve seen all year.
“You,” the sergeant says, pointing to the rich boy with fine silks. “Recruit Valentino.”
Valentino. Where do I know that name?
The rich boy steps forward. “I won’t pull my punches or soften my blows,” he says, heading toward the weapons rack. The look he gives me is not unfriendly.
“Thank you,” I tell him, and he smiles.
Valentino moves like a dancer, all grace and power and exquisite control, with not a single wasted movement. He is well trained and fully come into his own body. A man, not a boy.
He chooses the double-bladed ax. It’s wooden, like most of the practice weapons, but it’s by far the largest and heaviest of them.
“Recruit Red? You must choose a weapon.”
I stare at them all, remembering Hector’s words. Should I reveal my skills and training or save them for later? Should I look for an easy way out of this match like Aldo did? Valentino seems to be a worthy adversary. Losing to him wouldn’t be too humiliating. I’d get a black eye out of it maybe. A bloody nose. And a whole lot of sympathy.
Then again, I just declared my close relationship to the empress with my Godstone. People already hate me for that.
“Recruit Red?” the sergeant prompts.
All eyes are on me, the failed princess. From the crowd, faintly at first, comes a chant: “Choose, choose, choose . . .”
The spear would give me reach. The dagger would complement my speed. The short sword would be a decent compromise between the two.
“Choose, choose, choose.”
I reach for the dagger. My hand freezes midair.
“Choose, choose, choose!”
I turn to Valentino, clasping my hands behind my back.
The crowd goes still.
“Recruit Red! Are you refusing to fight?” DeLuca asks.
“No, sir!”
“Then choose a weapon.”
“No, sir!”
My opponent’s mouth parts slightly, understanding dawning.
Sergeant DeLuca says, “What do you think you’re—”
Loud and clear so everyone can hear, I say, “I don’t need a weapon.”
My declaration somehow fills the space, and the other boys shift away from Valentino and me, enlarging our fighting circle. The arena is deadly quiet.
“I meant it,” Valentino says. “I won’t soften my blows. Even if you refuse a weapon.” As if to emphasize the point, he whirls the ax around, testing its weight and balance. His forearm is corded with muscle, and his ax, though wooden, is hefty enough to break my bones.