Aldo shrugs. “Like I said, the quartermaster didn’t have a lot to spare. Tight fabrics like this offer the best protection, right?”
I gape at him. This was one of his three items. And he destroyed it for me.
He says. “It’s no big deal, for a friend.”
“Well, it’s a big deal to me.”
His grin could light up the whole world. “I’m going to get some dinner. I’ll save you a seat.”
Quickly, I wrap some straw in the strips he provided and shove the wad into place. It’s not the most comfortable solution I’ve used, but it’ll do. I pile the remaining supplies in my drawer, covering up the Godstone, the baby rattle, and the empty dye pot.
We’re served overcooked, oversalted porridge for dinner, and I eat every bite. Aldo and I are surrounded by recruits at the table, providing no opportunity for me to discreetly speak with Iván.
After dinner, Guardsman Bruno ushers us all into the arena and commands us to sit. Aldo is practically a burr in my side, and it seems awkward and pointed when I move away from him in order to be close to Iván.
Evening light paints the walls purple pink, and a cool breeze brings the scents of sweet lantana and sharp desert sage. I’m delighted when, instead of conducting physical exercises, Bruno subjects us to a long lecture on the care and maintenance of various weapon types.
I already know all this, so instead of listening, I watch him walk. Back and forth across the sand he goes, hands clasped behind his back, droning on and on. His boots are certainly worn enough to be the ones I spied while stuck beneath Bolivar’s bed, but I’m not sure his feet are big enough. Sometimes it seems as though he’s walking on the inner arch of his feet, but maybe it’s just the uneven sand.
A quick glance over at Iván reveals that he’s watching Bruno’s feet too.
Finally Bruno’s pacing takes him down the line of recruits, far enough away that I dare lean toward Iván and whisper, “What happened?”
“The messenger has disappeared,” Iván whispers back.
“What?”
“He hasn’t shown up for work in two days. I asked around. The stable master considers his absence to be dereliction of duty, and the stable hand is no longer employed by the Royal Guard.”
Questions compete for dominance in my head, but Bruno is heading this way again and I’m forced to fall silent. His voice becomes louder, his words eager and fast, as he catalogs various types of polishing oils and whetstones, noting which ones perform best with which metal alloys.
As soon as Bruno is once again out of whispering earshot, I say, “Do you think someone realized he was a spy?”
“I have no idea. I just know he’s not there anymore, and he’s not welcome to return.”
“Then we’re cut off from Rosario.”
“We have to figure out another way to contact him.”
“It might be days . . .” I’m forced to hush as Bruno passes by. After a moment, I try again. “It might be days until we have a chance to leave the barracks.”
Ivan says, “Then we’ll have to sneak out in the middle of the night again.”
“No! Every time we do that, we put this whole mission at risk. What if we’re caught?”
“It would be worse if Rosario was poisoned because we couldn’t warn him.”
“The prince is smart. Well informed. He’ll know one of his assets is missing, and he’ll reestablish contact with us soon. We’re no use to him if we get cut.”
I look up at Iván to find him frowning deeply. He says, “I disagree. I think—”
“Would you two stop whispering?” says Itzal from his place nearby.
“Go flirt on your own time,” says one of the Basajuan recruits.
Bruno is suddenly looming over us all. “Is there a problem here?” he asks.
“No, sir!” Itzal says. “We were just wondering whether Basajuan steel is superior to that of Ciénega del Sur.” I send Itzal a grateful look.
Bruno seems pleased by the question. “Both regions produce excellent steel, but the mines of Ciénega del Sur occasionally yield iron ore with too many impurities—something having to do with being near the ocean, I’d wager—which makes it difficult to refine. You can’t go wrong with either, but given a choice, I’d take Basajuan.”
“Thank you for clarifying, sir,” Itzal says.
My mind is a muddle as Bruno finishes his lecture. Iván is right; we need to make sure Rosario knows to be looking for poison in all his food. But I’m right too; if we get caught sneaking around, it could mean instant dismissal from the Guard, which puts our whole assignment at risk. It’s the single most important thing right now, Rosario said. Don’t get cut. It was his primary order, the one we must obey above all others.
The spy network is competent and loyal. Rosario will learn of the missing stable hand soon enough, if he hasn’t learned of it already. He’ll find a way to reestablish contact with us. Iván and I will have to wait and trust our prince.
Guardsman Bruno dismisses us, indicating that we have just enough time to wash up and do laundry before the lamps are snuffed. After everyone is finished, I take a private moment to change out my straw and wash my rags.
It’s a good thing I got a nap, because I lie awake a long time, listening to my fellow recruits snore, hoping I’ve made the right decision to wait and do nothing.
15
Then
THE girl’s memories resurfaced in another dark cellar, as she was gathering turnips and dried meat for a stew. The meat was billed as lamb, but she knew it was really dog. And dogmeat stew wasn’t too bad, all things considered. The meat bits were a little dry and chewy, but the flavor was fine.
Not that Mula would eat any of it today. The stew was for guests, not slaves. And that was too bad, because Mula had worked through most of the night to clean ash from the bread oven. She was very tired, and very, very hungry.
She worked at an inn now, for a man named Orlín who had bought her from the monster woman over a year ago. Life was better at the inn, even though she worked sunup to sundown. Even though shiny callus rings on her wrists and ankles indicated that she was tied to her cot each night after her work was done.
A good worker, the monster woman had said, as she and Orlín agreed upon a price. But sometimes she tries to escape.
Mula knew these things had happened the same way she knew that the desert became hot in summer—it was assured, incontrovertible knowledge, even though she couldn’t place herself there. She didn’t actually remember.
When her basket was full, she began pulling herself up the steep stone steps leading to the kitchen. Halfway up, she stopped, gasping.
Because the back of her neck was prickling, and her limbs hummed with energy. It was almost like a song in her blood.
Familiarity grated at her. She had felt this before; she was sure of it. But when? Sometime while she lived with the monster woman? No, it was before that. Mula thought hard.
Flames engulfing a wooden shelf. Smoke making her lungs scream. A sizzling puddle of blood . . .
The basket fell from her hand. Turnips and meat strips spilled, toppled down the stairs, plunked onto the damp dirt floor. She hardly noticed.