“You think they’re lying?”
“Joyans are known for it.”
“They have an Invierno with them,” Mula pointed out.
“They do indeed.” Orlín tapped a fingertip to his lip. “Which makes me think they are definitely not traders.” He crouched down before her, grasped her shoulders, pinned her with a gaze. “You must find out what’s in those packs,” he said. “You will not eat until you find out, hear?”
Mula’s lower lip trembled. “Hear,” she whispered.
19
Now
THE next morning, Master Santiago is back, and we return to endless practice of forms. Our forms are perfect. I have no idea why he refuses to progress our training, why he constantly belittles and berates us. At lunch, I sit beside Aldo, Iván, and Pedrón as usual. Across the room, the Arturos and their fellow Basajuaños are deep in quiet conversation with some of the second years.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” Aldo says.
“No idea,” I say.
We find out that night, during our unsanctioned class. I instruct everyone to grab their wooden practice swords, but Tall Arturo says, “Wait. We need to talk.” He gestures for us to gather into a cluster in the center of the arena. “Might as well sit down for this,” he says.
Short Arturo adds, “And speak quietly so no one lingering on the walls can hear.”
Iván and I exchange a startled glance as we comply. Soon, we’re all cross-legged in the sand, sitting in a tight circle. Evening paints the sky pink and coral. Two palace guards make their rounds nearby; their silhouettes seem to float along the arena wall, black against the sunset.
“What’s going on?” I whisper.
Short Arturo gives Tall Arturo a nod of encouragement. Tall Arturo takes a deep breath and says, “We’ve been talking to the second years. They had a very different first year of recruitment than we’ve had.”
“What do you mean?” says Pedrón, though I have a guess where this is going.
“First of all, they were trained by Captain Bolivar,” Tall Arturo says. “I know Sergeant DeLuca said the captain was busy doing something else, but it’s highly irregular. The captain of the Royal Guard oversees training every year. Every year. The second years have no idea where he is or why he’s been absent so long.”
I sense Iván stiffen in the space beside me. I resist the urge to look at him.
“I’ve been wondering about him,” says Itzal. “I was looking forward to meeting the captain. Supposedly he’s one of the empress’s most trusted men. And a gifted instructor besides.”
“Maybe he’s away on a special mission for the empress,” Pedrón says.
“It’s been almost two months,” Tall Arturo points out.
The truth is like a silent scream in my head. He’s dead. Dead, dead, dead. It goes against everything in me to allow the deception to continue. Maybe these boys, who’ve sworn to protect the empress even if it costs them their lives, deserve to know the truth. It’s not like Prince Rosario specifically ordered us to keep his death a secret. . . .
“There’s more,” says Short Arturo. “By this time last year, the second years were practicing real swordwork, not just forms. They were learning blocks and parries and even a few attacks.”
“Maybe we’re just terrible compared to them,” Itzal says.
“No, you’re just terrible compared to them,” Pedrón says.
Itzal sighs. “I don’t deny it. I’m going to get cut for sure.”
“We’re not terrible compared to them,” Short Arturo says. “Everyone says we’re the most promising class in a decade. Iván and Red have had extensive training. Pedrón and the former army recruits are here specifically because they were too good for the army.”
“Damn right we were,” Pedrón says, and his friends echo him with, “Damn right!”
“Aldo is surprising everyone,” Short Arturo continues. “We Basajuan boys grew up on the Invierne border, so we’ve been adept with slingshots and bows and traps since we could walk.” He pauses to let it all sink in. “There is absolutely no reason for Master Santiago to delay our training.”
“I’m the one holding everyone back,” Itzal says, hanging his head.
“No!” I say. “If that were true, they’d just cut you. You’ve survived this long for a reason. We all have. Pedrón, what does your brother say?”
“I haven’t talked to him. The third and fourth years don’t stay in the barracks. They’re out on maneuvers.” Pedrón is dragging his fingers through the sand, unable to sit still. “I know I’m not as smart as the rest of you,” he says. “But it sure sounds like the swordmaster is delaying our training on purpose.”
The Arturos are nodding. Tall Arturo says, “The second years think it’s very strange that Sergeant DeLuca brought in an outsider for training. And then to see him teach us nothing but forms, forms, forms, for weeks on end . . . I mean, I’m glad we’re strengthening our arms and wrists and shoulders or whatever, but this is getting ridiculous.”
I can’t resist piping in with, “Our forms are excellent now. Even Itzal’s. I don’t see how they can get any better.”
Aldo speaks up for the first time. “So what does all this mean?” he asks, and his voice carries a note of challenge.
“We’re not sure,” Tall Arturo says. “And we don’t want to alarm you . . .”
“. . . or overreact,” says Short Arturo. “But . . .”
“There’s no reason to keep Guard recruits ignorant and incompetent, unless . . .”
“. . . you want them to remain ignorant and incompetent.”
“In short,” Tall Arturo says, “we’re a little bit concerned for our prince.”
Silence greets this pronouncement. Distant wagon wheels roll across cobblestone. The sun sinks behind the outer wall and the sea cliffs, leaving the arena in shadow.
Softly, Iván says, “I think we should tell them. He would want us to use our own judgment, right?”
The Arturos exchange a startled glance.
“What? Tell them what?” Pedrón demands. “Who wants you to use judgment?”
I ignore them all, staring at Iván. His face is a tad apologetic as he leans down and whispers in my ear, “We don’t have to tell them everything. But they deserve to know about the captain. We don’t have orders for secrecy, right?”
I’m so relieved he feels this way. “I agree,” I tell him.
“Red? Iván? What are you whispering about?” Aldo says.
“You must swear to tell no one what we’re about to tell you,” I say.
“On my honor as a Royal Guard,” Pedrón says.
“On my honor as a Royal Guard!” everyone echoes.
I say, “The Arturos are right to be suspicious. I’m afraid Iván and I must inform you all that Captain Bolivar is dead.”
“What?” says Tall Arturo.