I get to my feet and grasp Rosario’s shoulder. I’m staring at Bolivar, his prone form barely breathing, when I say, “Please be safe, little brother.”
“You too, little sister. Here.” He pulls an iron key from his pocket and places it in my palm. “This will get you into Bolivar’s quarters.”
I close the key into my fist.
“What if we need to contact you?” Iván asks.
“Use the stable hand, the one who slipped the message to you. He’s one of the spymaster’s people. Now go. If you hurry back, you might be able to get a few hours’ sleep. The second day of training is always awful, and I need both of you to perform well.”
“We’ll do our best,” I assure him.
“Do better than your best,” Rosario says. “Do you understand what I’m saying? It’s the single most important thing right now. Don’t get cut.”
11
Now
IVÁN and I sneak back to the barracks. Our bunk room is silent when we enter, except for some soft snoring. Before letting Iván collapse into his bed, I grab his arm and whisper as quietly as possible, “We should eat dinner together again tomorrow, go over what we might have learned, plan how we’re going to get into Bolivar’s quarters.”
He nods once, then stretches out and closes his eyes.
I’m about to stretch out on my own, but my hands encounter something wet and sticky on the blanket. It smells of rich loam and wet ash, and I almost loose an actual sob.
I know exactly what it is, even in the dark: my hair dye, spilled all over my bed, staining my fingers. Someone noticed I was gone and took the opportunity to vandalize my things.
I rip the blanket from my cot and wad it up so the dye doesn’t get anywhere else. Carefully, I slide open the bedside drawer and peer inside. I breathe deeply of relief to discover the dark shapes of my baby rattle and Godstone, still intact. But my pot of dye is in ruins.
On closer look, a tiny bit of ink remains, trapped in the curve of a ceramic shard. Not enough for even one hair treatment. My white streak will start showing within days. In two weeks, it will be a blotch on my forehead. In a few months, a streak all the way to my chin.
Who would do such a thing? Someone who hates me. Someone who wants to hurt me. No, maybe it was just a prank. Not everyone understands how important that dye is to me, what great pains I take to cover the white streak in my hair.
Either way, I’ve no recourse for acquiring more. I could sell the jewels in my baby rattle, but I’d need time and freedom to leave the barracks during market day. Perhaps Rosario could help me.
Or maybe that would be an abuse of our friendship. He has more important things to worry about. I have more important things to worry about. Like whether or not whoever did this realized how long I was gone, whether they saw Iván and me leave, whether they followed us into the latrine.
And figuring out who poisoned Captain Bolivar.
I stretch out on my cot, the blanket wadded up at my feet, Bolivar’s key still clutched in my fist. I close my eyes and listen hard for anyone who might be stirring, but I hear nothing except the deep, even breathing of slumber.
More than anything, I need to join my fellow recruits in sleep. Tomorrow, I begin searching for an assassin while facing the notorious second day of training. But even though my limbs are like lead and my eyes burn with dryness, my mind won’t stop churning.
In desperation, I slip from my bed and curl up on the floor, my back to the wall. The cold stone is safe and solid, and at last I drift away.
I’m fleeing through the pine forest, barefoot in the snow, chased by a brass bell that won’t stop ringing, its crystal clash driving deep into my mind, shattering my thoughts, my sleep. . . .
My eyes fly open, and it’s a moment before I orient myself. I’m on the floor, chilled to the bone. My shoulder aches from my odd sleeping angle. A soft-cheeked face with long-lashed eyes is peering down at me. “Red? You all right?” says Aldo. “Did you fall off the bed?” He reaches for me. “Get up before Guardsman Bruno sees you.”
He helps me to my feet. Everyone else is scurrying to don their boots and make up their cots. Across from us, Iván bumps his head on the top bunk in his hurry to situate himself. I hope he’s not as tired as I am.
I join them all in the fray, shoving on my boots. I slip the key down my sock along my outer right heel and twist my foot around to test it. It chafes a little, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
Next, I flip out my blanket to appear as though I’m making up my cot, but it’s really to assess the damage in the light. The woolen fabric is blotched with black dye, which is already drying. So many recruits choose a blanket as one of their three precious items because the standard barracks issue is this cheap, thick, scratchy affair; a boon, in this case, because dye leaked through in only a few places. It’s ugly, but salvageable.
“What happened?” Aldo says, tucking in his shirt. “Your blanket . . .”
I shrug it off. “A prank.”
“Huh? Who would do—”
I’m saved having to respond when Guardsman Bruno stomps in. “To the dining hall,” he booms, “by bunk order. Eat fast. We have a big day.”
We line up. As I pass Bruno on the way to the mess, I sneak a glimpse at him. Did Guardsman Bruno poison Captain Bolivar? But my quick glance reveals nothing, save for a stern glare from beneath caterpillar brows.
We are served cornmeal mush again, and no one repeats yesterday’s mistake; we all shovel the slop into our mouths and wash it down with water as fast as we can. Within minutes, our bowls are scraped clean and we are marched out of the barracks and into the sand.
The arena has been transformed with obstacles. Near the weapons rack, a long wooden beam is suspended by hanging ropes—I’m guessing we’ll have to run across, adjusting for the sway. Beyond that is a giant cedar log that I assume must be rolled over the lumpy sand to a flag marker. Next comes a set of wooden hurdles, staggered at varying heights, followed by a net climb to a high platform. A landing area below the platform is cushioned by a pile of straw. After that, water basins are lined up four wide and ten deep, all filled to the brim. And finally, a wooden barrier juts from the sand, surpassing even the height of the surrounding walls.
The arena walls aren’t as thick with onlookers as they were yesterday, but they still hold a fair-sized audience. News of whatever happens today will be all over the city by nightfall.
News of my humiliation, that is. Even if I’d gotten a full night’s sleep, even if the morning was cool and breezy instead of brick-oven hot, I’m not strong enough to roll that log, and I’m not tall enough to get over that barrier. I have no idea how I’ll pass this course.
Sergeant DeLuca is inspecting the net climb, checking the rope. Satisfied, he clasps his hands behind his back and turns to face us. He announces, “One of you is about to be cut from training.”
A wave of murmurs flows down the line. Aldo whispers, “Who do you think?”
I can’t respond. I can hardly breathe. It’s me. It has to be me. Whoever vandalized my empty bunk last night must have reported me missing.
DeLuca continues, “At least one of you. Maybe more. We’ll be watching closely as you traverse the obstacle course. Excellent physical fitness is essential to protecting our empress. Therefore, the recruit who performs the poorest will gather his—or her—things and leave the barracks.”