“No!” says Itzal.
“How?” says Aldo.
I’m not sure how many details to reveal. Before I can decide, Iván says, “We’re not sure. But there’s a good chance he was assassinated.”
Pedrón tosses a handful of sand at me. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why would you keep that a secret?”
“It’s not her fault!” Iván says. “We thought it was the sergeant’s place to tell everyone. Or Guardsman Bruno’s. We just followed their lead by keeping quiet.”
“Oh,” Pedrón says, somewhat sheepish. “That makes sense.”
It does make sense. I never would have thought up such a perfect response.
Aldo says, “Where did you find the captain? How do you know what happened to him?”
Iván gives me a questioning look, and I shake my head slightly.
“We weren’t given those details,” Iván says smoothly. “I mean, we’re just recruits.”
“But you are friends with the prince, right?” Aldo presses. “Is he the one who told you?”
“Yes. The other night at the soiree.”
Aldo looks down at his hands, frowning. I know how he feels. Right now, it feels like all of us have failed.
“This is serious,” Itzal says. “Getting Bolivar out of the way made it possible for Sergeant DeLuca to take over training.”
“Right,” says Tall Arturo. “And Master Santiago wouldn’t have been brought in at all if the captain were still here.”
“It’s all connected,” says Itzal.
“That’s why we’re worried for our prince,” says Short Arturo. “Especially now that we know Bolivar is dead. It sure seems like sabotage.”
“So what do we do?” Pedrón asks.
“We’re just recruits,” Aldo says. “First years.”
“We should tell someone,” says Pedrón.
“We don’t know who to trust!” says Itzal.
“There has to be something we can do, right?” says Short Arturo.
Everyone starts talking over each other. Their voices get louder and louder, edged with panic. Soon the whole palace will hear us arguing.
“Stop it!” I yell.
Suddenly everyone is looking to me. What would Rosario have me do? Tell them to go to bed and not worry about it? Carry on as though nothing has happened? Pretending has never been my strong suit.
I say, “Harsh winds.”
“Rough seas,” say Aldo and Iván.
“Still hearts!” says everyone else.
We repeat the Guard motto, in unison this time.
Into the ensuing calm, I say, “We train.”
Pedrón smiles.
“How?” says Itzal. “More forms and escapes?”
“Short Arturo is right,” I say.
“Just call me Arturito,” he says. “Or Rito.”
“Rito, then. You’re right. We’re the most promising class in a decade. All of us bring something. I don’t have a lot of experience with a sword, but I can teach dodging and close quarters combat. Iván is a wonder at footwork.”
Iván points to Aldo. “He showed us how the forms work. I bet he can teach us how to parry and how to turn those forms into attacks.”
Aldo hesitates, not meeting anyone’s gaze. “I guess can do that,” he says. “I mean, I’m not just here in the Guard because I’m better looking than the rest of you.”
Rito rolls his eyes.
“My boys and me,” Pedrón says, “we learned some exercises as army recruits that made us strong.”
“Good!” I say. “That’s good, Pedrón. Exactly what we need.”
“We Basajuaños can teach everyone basic archery,” says Rito.
“And I,” Itzal says, “am a magnificent encourager.”
I grin at him. “Everyone can help in some way.”
“We don’t have real swords,” Andrés points out.
“We don’t need real swords to train,” I insist. But we will need them if we ever have to fight. That’s a problem we’ll have to solve another day.
Iván says, “We can do this.”
“We can do this,” Aldo agrees.
“If the Guard has been compromised,” Tall Arturo says, “or if someone comes for our prince, we’ll be ready.”
I jump to my feet. “Let’s start right now.”
The others follow. “Start with what?” Itzal asks.
“Grab your wooden swords,” I say. “Let’s learn some basic parrying. Aldo, can you help us out tonight?”
He grins. Whatever hesitation he had, I can tell he’s fully committed now. “Of course. You’re not really training for combat until you’ve felt the impact of your opponent’s sword shiver down your spine.”
We spend the next half hour on parrying angles. Aldo is a good teacher. Just like he did on that first day, he shows us how the forms interact, how they’ve prepared us to defend and counterattack. Even better, he shows us how to anticipate the direction of a swipe by watching someone’s shoulders and how to ground ourselves so we don’t get knocked down. The wooden swords clattering against each other sound like a group of furious carpenters building something in the arena. During a pause to wipe the sweat from my forehead, it occurs to me that we are building something in this arena.
“There’s a lot to learn,” Aldo says as he adjusts Itzal’s wrist to strengthen the boy’s grip. “As you get better, I’ll show you how to make sure you don’t leave yourself open to a follow-up attack, and how to use your parry to knock an opponent off balance. But for now, I want you all to focus on your stance, your grips, and your angles.”
We are exhausted by the time the torches are snuffed. My muscles burn with the satisfaction of having worked hard. As we pass under the portcullis and return to the barracks, Iván whispers in my ear, “I hope we did the right thing by telling them.”
“Me too.”
We settle into a routine: useless forms in the morning with Master Santiago. Fitness exercises or chores in the afternoon. Our unsanctioned class at night before lights out.
After three days of parrying, we all agree to switch to archery for a few days, to keep ourselves fresh and give our bodies a chance to recover. I expect Iván to be good with a bow. When he misses the target over and over, I give him an arch look.
“What?” he says, looking offended. “I’m allowed to be bad at something.”
“But your fingers . . . those calluses . . .”
“These?” He holds them up in the fading light. “Red, I play the viheula.”
“Oh.” I blink up at him. In spite of sharing Traitors’ Corner, in spite of conspiring together on behalf of our prince, there’s still so much I don’t know about him.
“Or rather, I used to play the viheula. I haven’t picked one up since I joined the Guard. My brother talked me out of bringing it as one of my three items. He said I play so badly I’d end up murdered in my sleep by the other recruits.”
I can tell he regrets the joke as soon as it leaves his mouth, remembering the night that Beto and his duckling friends literally tried to do that to me.