I reach for the tie of my linen shirt. Someone whistles.
“Red,” says Iván. “Wait.”
He steps forward, stands in front of me with his legs slightly spread and his arms crossed. Aldo joins him, standing shoulder to shoulder with Iván, though a head shorter. Then another boy, whose name I haven’t bothered to learn—did DeLuca call him Itzal?—stands beside Aldo. They’ve created a privacy wall for me.
I swallow a sudden lump in my throat and dart behind them. I’ll have to work as fast as I can, before any of them think better of helping me or DeLuca decides to put a stop to it.
The first thing I do is fish out Bolivar’s key and transfer it to the pocket of my new pants.
Everything fits, even the boots. The vest hugs my shape so perfectly it’s as if the royal tailor himself sculpted it. The pants and shirt are loose enough for comfortable maneuvering. The boots are stiff, but they’ll allow room for my toes to flex once they’re broken in. I waste a precious moment marveling at how good this uniform feels to wear. Like it was meant to be mine. Like I’m truly a Royal Guard recruit now.
I tap Iván on the shoulder. “I’m finished. Thank you.”
He and the others step aside, and we take our places before our bunks.
DeLuca says, “You have the quartermaster and his staff to thank for your tailored uniforms. His eye for fit is extraordinary, as always. You will demonstrate your gratitude to the quartermaster by keeping your uniforms in good condition at all times. If you do not know how to launder or repair your clothing, you will be taught. Never enter the training arena in the morning with a uniform that is damaged or dirty. You will be given time each evening for laundry and ablutions. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” we respond in unison.
“The next official cuts will be in three days,” he says. “Until then, we have work to do. The first two mornings demonstrated a shameful lack of fitness. We’ll remedy that immediately.”
“Uh-oh,” Aldo whispers.
“You will spend the afternoon running the walls.”
Several boys groan loudly.
DeLuca says, “Complaining is taken into consideration when determining cuts,” and the boys fall immediately silent. “You must complete ten full laps around the palace. If you complete them before the dinner bell, you’ll be allowed free time tomorrow evening.”
The other boys look glum at this announcement, but I’m secretly thrilled. I may be small and not as strong as the others, but I can run. I’ve run the walls plenty of times with Hector. Sometimes even with Mara. I love looking out over the eastern rooftops to the swooping desert dunes, and over the western rooftops to the endless azure sea. I love the fresh air and wide-open sky, the solid stone beneath my feet and the cheery hellos I get from palace guards as I pass.
And by finishing well, I’ll earn free time tomorrow. Time to find Bolivar’s quarters, maybe.
“Any questions?” Sergeant DeLuca asks.
I raise my hand.
“Recruit Red?”
“Do you have word on Valentino?”
“He’s very ill. Too ill to return to the Guard. We expect him to make a full recovery eventually, but most of you will likely never see him again.”
The duckling contingent, led by Beto, buzzes at this news, and their murmurings are both relieved and angry. I understand how they feel. I’m so glad Valentino is going to be all right, especially glad that I didn’t accidentally kill him. Because I liked him. He was smart and kind and an excellent candidate, and he was maybe about to become my friend.
“Guardsman Bruno will lead you to the walls,” DeLuca says. “People will be watching. Do us proud.”
And with that, we march in our new uniforms, out of the dark barracks and back into the sunshine.
I finish third.
It was harder than I expected, thanks to these new boots and the fact that I only got a few hours’ sleep last night. My breathing was fine and my endurance held. But my feet are covered in blisters—several of them broken—and each step is a stinging agony. I’m not the only one. We’re all moving gingerly as we return to the dining hall.
More than half the first years are still out on the walls, struggling to finish, so there are plenty of empty seats. I make a point of sitting beside Iván, who finished fifth. Aldo is not back yet, or Pedrón, though I expect them shortly. The Basajuan boys are all here, though, which is no surprise; the desert nomads spend their days walking and running.
“We can search the captain’s quarters tomorrow,” I tell Iván in a low voice.
“I think we should find Valentino instead,” he says. “See if we can talk to him.”
“Why?” I say around a mouthful of food. We’re back to eating cornmeal sludge.
“Beto said Valentino took stuff, remember? I want to find out what it was.”
“You think it might have been sweet dream. Like the poison given to Bolivar.”
Iván nods. “If it is, we need to know who he got it from.”
Makes sense. Except . . . “If any of the ducklings have free time tomorrow, they’ll probably use it to visit Valentino. They practically worship him.”
Iván snorts, which takes me aback because it’s almost a laugh. I’m not sure I’ve heard him laugh before, or even seen him smile. “Ducklings. That’s appropriate.” He takes a bite of sludge, swallows, then says, “You might be right. If Valentino is seeing visitors, it will be hard to get him alone.”
“So maybe we investigate the captain’s quarters first, and visit Valentino at our next opportunity?”
“Fine. Now let me eat.” With that, Iván visibly cuts me off, tilting his shoulder just so. It’s not quite like he’s turning his back on me, but almost.
With a sigh, I slide down the bench to give him a little space, and finish my sludge.
It’s full dark. Everyone has finished running the wall, though only some of us earned free time. We were shown to the laundry area—a dungeon with a low arched ceiling, filled with basins and washboards that stink of sweat and lye—and given a brief lesson on how to clean our uniforms. It’s astonishing to me that so many of these boys have never in their lives laundered even the tiniest sock.
Afterward, a stray cricket serenaded us as we took turns doing our business in the latrine. Now we’re collapsed onto our bunks. Guardsman Bruno has just blown out the oil lamps, and the monastery has rung the tenth hour. I sink into the mattress, exhausted but grateful, Bolivar’s key now stuffed down my sock so it doesn’t fall out during my sleep. I’ve passed the first hurdle, survived the first cut. For once, I might fall asleep easy and stay that way.
I drift off, as effortlessly as a cloud in the breeze.
My eyes fly open when a hand presses down on my mouth.
“Unngggh!” I try to speak, but someone holds me fast. Hands are gripping my arms and legs too, pressing tight, relentless. I can’t move at all. I can hardly breathe.
“You got Valentino cut,” says a voice in my ear. It’s Beto. His damp breath is hot and so, so close.
I try to whip my head to the side, but the hand on my face presses down until the slats of my cot dig into my skull. Beto is going to break my neck.