“Same here. Hector does a more sideways motion. I like the diagonal version just fine, though.”
“I’ve never done just forms before,” Iván says. “They were always accompanied by actual swordwork.”
“It’s a little odd,” I agree.
A moment later, we are joined by Aldo, then Itzal, then Pedrón and the army recruits.
“You seemed to handle those forms all right,” Pedrón says.
I ignore him, taking another bite of oat mash.
“That swordmaster is a hypocrite,” Pedrón carries on. “Asking us to learn everything with both hands. I bet he’s not even very good.”
Pedrón is an ignorant fool. “And I bet he could thrash all you army boys at once, even with only one hand,” I say.
“It’s in your best interests to become adept with either hand,” Iván says. “That way, if you get injured, you can still keep your job.”
Pedrón shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Go on,” says Luca, nudging Pedrón with his elbow. “Ask her.”
“Ask me what?” I say, dread filling my gut. I’m fully expecting another question about parts—or worse.
Pedrón puts his elbows on the table and leans forward. “See, my boys and me, we spent some time in the army barracks before transferring here. So we’ve done some sword training. We are ready to learn more.”
“Master Santiago says we’re not,” Aldo says.
“That’s my point. He won’t teach us until we learn those stupid forms. So, will you do it, Red?”
“Do what?”
“Teach us the forms. You and Aldo, I mean. If we practice a little every night, maybe we can get to the fighting stuff faster.”
I blink. He’s asking for my help.
“She’s not going to do it,” says Andrés. “I told you she wouldn’t. She wants us to get cut.”
“Of course I’ll do it,” I say.
“You will?” Pedrón says, a surprised grin forming.
“I can’t speak for Aldo, but I’m happy to help anyone who wants it.”
“I’m happy to help too,” Aldo says.
Pedrón suddenly appears suspicious. “You’re not . . . I mean, you don’t think that will give us an advantage? We might get picked over you.”
I shrug. “The best thing that could happen is that we all become such strong candidates that they can’t bring themselves to cut any of us.”
Silence greets me. Then, “Is that even possible?” Pedrón says.
“Why not? They do such a good job of pitting recruits against each other in competition that they’ve probably never bothered to find out.”
Pedrón takes a few bites, chews thoughtfully. “So, can we get started after lunch then?”
“No, sorry,” I say pointing to my eye, which is surely bright plum by now. “I got walloped last night, remember? Another night of sleep will set me to rights. So anyone who wants to practice the forms can meet up in the arena tomorrow night during laundry time.”
“I’ll be there,” Pedrón says.
“And me,” says Itzal.
“Me too,” says Aldo.
Iván remains silent.
“We’ll spread the word,” says Luca.
We get busy eating, but after a moment, Itzal asks, “Aldo, where did you learn the forms? You looked very at ease out there.”
Pedrón snorts. “For once.”
Aldo says, “Mamá hired a tutor for me.”
“I thought you said you were raised on a ship,” I say.
“I was.”
“Who’s your mother?” Pedrón asks.
“No one you’ve heard of. A merchant.”
“A rich merchant, to be able to afford a tutor for classical swordsmanship,” Itzal points out.
“She’s done well for herself,” Aldo says, his voice colored with pride.
“And your father?” Iván asks.
Aldo shrugs. “He wasn’t around.” He says it offhand, in the most casual tone, but his face is suddenly as blank as I’ve ever seen it. “He sent money for a while.”
“Then he stopped?” Itzal says.
“Then he died.”
“Oh.”
I give Aldo a sympathetic look. It obviously pains him to talk about his father.
After an awkward silence, Pedrón blurts, “I wish my papá had sent money at any time in my life! But he was a poor fisherman, always drunk, not a coin to his name.”
“Then how did you get into the Guard?” Itzal asks. “Sponsorships cost money.”
I say, “The Royal Guard isn’t just for rich people anymore.”
“Red’s right,” Pedrón says. “I came in second place at the annual strongman contest. That got me a position with the army recruits. I did well enough there to transfer to the Guard.”
“Still,” Itzal says, “most people who join the Guard are rich. Sons of rich merchants, second and third sons of condes.”
“Do you ever talk about anything besides money?” Iván asks.
Itzal considers this. “No,” he says. “Just money. My father was a moneylender. I grew up thinking about it, talking about it, wanting more of it. Until the Guard opportunity came up, the thing I wanted most in the world was to become grotesquely rich.”
“And now?” Iván prompts.
“I still wouldn’t mind becoming grotesquely rich.” Everyone snickers, and the attention seems to make Itzal uncomfortable. “What about you, Iván?” he says, to deflect. “What do you want most in the world?”
Iván’s eyes narrow, and I imagine his possible answers: I want my countship to regain its reputation. I want to prove myself to everyone. I want my father to stay far, far away. None of your business.
He says, “I want to make it through all four years of training and become a Guardsman so everyone will stop questioning my loyalty.”
“That’s fair,” Itzal says. “What about you, Pedrón?”
Pedrón grins. “I want to marry the most beautiful woman in the world and have ten children with her.” His grin fades as he amends, “Well, I’m not sure I want to have ten children with her so much as I want to make ten children with her.”
The other army recruits laugh and clap him on the back like he’s just said the cleverest thing in the world.
“Is that all you think about?” Itzal challenges.
Pedrón ponders. “No. I’m a deeply layered and complicated person. In addition to getting with beautiful girls, I often think about sword fighting. Oh! And food. I think about food a lot.”
I roll my eyes at him.
“What about you, Red?” Pedrón asks. “What do you want most in the world?” He waggles his eyebrows as though hinting at something scandalous.
I open my mouth to tell the truth, like I always do, but the words stick in my throat. It’s not that I want to lie; it’s that the truth is too precious and heartrending. So I say the second thing that comes to mind. “I want a girlfriend.”