14

Now

EVEN though it’s early morning, the sun rains pure fire onto my cheeks when I enter the arena, and heat from the sand seeps through the soles of my boots.

The weapons rack has been filled with wooden swords. Before it stands a tall, lithe man with slicked black hair and a waxed mustache that dangles past his chin. He holds his own sword point down in the sand and leans on it in as though it’s a walking cane—an unforgivable treatment of such a weapon. The steel of his blade glints in the morning light, revealing script etched near the hilt, though I’m too far away to make out what it says.

Sergeant DeLuca storms into the arena. “Good morning, recruits!”

The mustached swordsman pivots at the sound of the sergeant’s voice, revealing that most of his other arm is missing. His sleeve is tied into a knot about halfway past where his elbow would have been.

“Stop gaping and line up!” the sergeant yells.

We scurry to comply.

“Tomorrow and every day thereafter,” the sergeant says, “you will line up immediately upon entering the arena without being commanded. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

DeLuca walks down the line, hands clasped behind his back. “Today we have a very special guest. Please welcome Swordmaster Santiago.”

We applaud obligingly. The name sounds vaguely familiar.

“Master Santiago will begin your lessons in swordcraft. He’s one of the finest swordsmen in the empire and an excellent teacher. Though not an official member of the Royal Guard, he has been a trusted associate of the imperial family for over a decade. Master Santiago served as personal bodyguard to the dowager queen at her estate in Puerto Verde until her death a few years ago. Since then, he has been an instructor for private guard corps all over the empire, even serving a six-month post with Brisadulce’s own garrison. You will accord him the same respect as any senior member of the Guard and obey his orders as if they come from me or the Lord-Commander himself.”

Aldo whispers, “Has the Guard ever brought in an outsider for training before?”

“Never,” I whisper back.

Sergeant DeLuca steps aside and gestures toward the swordmaster. “Master Santiago, the class is yours.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” says Santiago. He lifts his chin and addresses the recruits. “Each of you claim a practice sword, then return to your place in line.”

As one, we rush to the rack and jostle each other to grab a weapon. All the largest swords disappear first. I’m happy to claim a short sword with a thick cross hilt and a nicked wooden blade. Maybe a light weapon will be easier on my aching rib.

After we get back in line, Master Santiago individually directs each of us to new positions until we are in a staggered formation of two lines, all of us standing a full arm’s length apart.

“Look around and mark your position,” says Santiago. “This is how you will line up for forms and exercises.”

I’m in the middle front, with Aldo to my right, Pedrón to my left, and Iván staggered behind us. Itzal is on the far left end, after Luca and Andrés.

Santiago says, “Now grip your sword hilts, and raise your blades to the sky.”

We do as asked, raising our wooden weapons. My rib screams in protest.

“Hold them there.”

I’m glad I picked a small sword.

Santiago paces before us. “You’re holding light practice blades. Children’s toys made of pine. Nothing at all like real steel swords. Yet some of you are already struggling. Your shoulders burn. Your wrists tremble. No, don’t drop them; keep them raised high.”

He weaves through our staggered line, and I watch as he inspects each of us in turn. When he gets to Itzal, he reaches up and adjusts his grip on the hilt, moving the boy’s thumb so it wraps toward his fingers.

Santiago steps back to observe us all. His gaze lingers on me. My bruised rib is making each breath a torture, but I refuse to let my blade waver.

“I’ve never trained a girl before,” he says.

“You’ll find it uncannily similar to training any other person,” I tell him, and now I wish I hadn’t spoken, because my words have revealed my ragged breath. Pain makes black spots flit in my vision. Maybe my rib is broken after all.

His eyes narrow. “Are you injured?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Maybe you should rest. Leave the training to the boys.”

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

He smiles. “Good.”

Master Santiago lifts his own sword, whips it around as though it’s as light as a feather.

Addressing us all, he says, “Most of you are not fit to learn sword work. Don’t worry; I will make you fit. For the next few weeks, you will practice forms, and forms only. You will strengthen your shoulders, your arms, even your fingers. You’ll perfect your grip. You’ll learn to find and keep your center of balance, no matter where your sword is or how you’re holding it. Now, follow my lead.”

He turns his back to us, dips into a deep right lunge, and extends his sword out, parallel to the ground. “Assume this position!” he yells.

We mimic him, some with more success than others. I recognize the form; it’s called Eastern Wind, and Hector taught it to me long ago. Pain rips my side, but my thigh muscles find the motion easy and natural.

“Now move as I move,” the swordmaster says. He slowly, gently transitions through a series of forms—arcs his sword around in Path of the Sun, whips it diagonally downward in Slit the Rope, thrusts it high in Salute the Sky, then brings it down—elbow out, heels together, blade at his nose—in Bulwark. His movements are graceful and efficient, more like that of a dancer than a weapons master.

He turns back around. “How did that feel?” he says.

Beside me, Pedrón is breathing hard. Aldo isn’t even breaking a sweat. My rib throbs, and my bruised nose and eye socket are somehow making the sunshine seem like daggers of light in my face. But the forms are familiar to my muscles and so, so much easier than sparring. If we do this for the next two weeks, my injuries might have a chance to heal.

“Again!” Santiago booms. “This time, I will watch.”

We move through the forms again—Eastern Wind, Path of the Sun, Slit the Rope, Salute the Sky, Bulwark.

“That was horrific,” the swordmaster says. “An assault to my eyes. If you must have a reference, watch these two”—with the point of his sword, he indicates Aldo and me—“whose forms are merely dreadful. Now do it again.”

My shoulders itch with the sure knowledge that I’m being closely watched as we move through the forms another time.

“What was that?” the swordmaster says, striding toward Pedrón. He waves his amputated arm under the boy’s nose. “It’s called Salute the Sky, not Pummel the Sky in the Face like a Clumsy Sack. Now do it again.”

We do it again. And again. And over and over until my shoulder burns and my thighs ache. Sweat dribbles down my forehead and stings my eyes. A sunburn heats the back of my neck.

Then, the swordmaster orders us to switch hands and start all over again.

“Hardly fair,” Pedrón whispers. “Being one-handed himself.”

I glare up at him. Injuries like the swordmaster’s are common, especially after the war.

As though he overheard the boy, Santiago says, “I know what you are thinking, yes, I do. But if you are injured in the line of duty, for instance”—he waves his arm stump in the air—“by taking a poisoned Invierno arrow to the elbow, your duty does not end. You must still protect our beloved empress, yes? So you will learn to use either hand with skill and confidence, as I once did.”

The muscles in my sides are beginning to protest and the sunburn on my neck is fire by the time Santiago calls a halt. “Stop, stop, I can take no more of this misery,” he says. “It is clear you are nowhere near ready to learn fighting skills. You will master these forms before I teach you even the simplest block. I expect it will take a month or more. Of course I’ll be delighted if you surprise me and master them all sooner, but . . .” He sighs dramatically. “I never bet on such improbable odds.”

With that, he releases us back into the care of Sergeant DeLuca, who thanks him with a deferential nod. Swordmaster Santiago strides from the arena without looking back.

“After the midday meal,” says the sergeant to us, “those of you who earned free time may do as you please until the dinner bell. Everyone else will remain in the mess to be assigned some afternoon chores.”

Several boys groan.

“You are dismissed,” the sergeant says.

Everything about this feels wrong to me—an outsider brought in for training, the classic forms detached from their practical application. But it could just be tiredness and injury whispering to me. We return our wooden swords to the rack and flee the hot arena for the cool barracks.

Today’s lunch is an oat mash mixed with shredded coconut and drizzled with honey. It’s not exactly a coconut scone, but I’m grateful for it anyway. I find a seat beside Iván.

“To Bolivar’s quarters after this?” I whisper, settling on the bench.

He nods, spooning mash into his mouth.

“How’d you like those forms?” I ask, to make conversation.

“Fine. I’ve done them before, though I was taught a slightly different variation of Slit the Rope.”

“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.”

Pedrón slams the table with his palm in a gesture of victory. “I told you all she liked girls! That’s why she won’t visit my bunk.”

“No, I just mean I want a friend who’s a girl. Someone my age. A few of the girls in the palace have been nice to me, but no one . . . It’s hard to be my friend, I guess.” The half-Invierno girl with a magic mark in her hair and slave tattoos on her feet isn’t exactly in high demand, even if she is a favorite of the empress.

“Well,” Pedrón says, “now you have Aldo.”

Aldo slams his spoon on the table and is halfway out of his seat, but he stops when I say, loudly, “Pedrón, if you insult someone one more time by calling them a girl, I will gut you.”

Everyone looks eagerly to Pedrón for his response. He surprises me by looking sheepish. “I guess now that we have a girl in the Guard, it’s not really a good idea.”

“It was never a good idea.”

“Whatever you say, Red.”

“And you.” I turn my fury on Aldo. “Stop acting like you’ve taken a sword to the chest every time someone calls you a girl. It’s not an insult. Girls are not cockroaches or rats or horse dung. We are people, and it’s perfectly fine to be one of us, so stop.”

Aldo blinks up at me, his brown eyes huge.

Pedrón says to me, “You’re kind of adorable when you’re angry.”

I have to leave, and I have to do it right this second or what I did to Sancho is going to seem like a cheek slap. I stand, sweeping up my bowl. “I’m going to take a nap,” I say, turning my back on all of them.

“That’s not a bad idea,” I hear Iván say, and the bench scrapes as several others rise from the table.

Somehow Iván and I have to meet and sneak away from everyone else to investigate Bolivar’s quarters. I’m sorting through possibilities as I dump my bowl with the rest of the dirty dishes, and I’m almost out the door when someone tugs on my sleeve. “Red.”

It’s Aldo, looking like a kicked puppy. “You were right,” he says. “I’ll stop being an ass every time someone compares me to a girl.”

I stare down at him. Is he expecting a pat on the head? A biscuit? Simply for not being an ass?

He says, “Are you mad at me?”

“Yes.”

“I said I was sorry!”

“How nice.”

He frowns. “I’ll prove it to you.”

I decide to throw this sad puppy a bone. “I know you will, Aldo. Thank you.”

He brightens. “Have a good nap!” he says, and heads for the latrine.

I watch him go, feeling strange, like maybe I’ve given something up, yielded too much. Aldo is the only person in this place who seems to want to be my friend, and I’m not sure if conceding to him chips away at myself or gives me strength.

“Red.”

I jump, startled but not badly. It’s Iván this time.

“You still have that key?” he says under his breath.

“I do.”

“Then let’s go. Quick, before someone sees.”

Together we hurry down the hallway in the opposite direction, into the depths of the Royal Guard barracks.

The officers’ quarters lie just below the ground floor. I know of a secret passage that would take us directly to the monarch’s wing from here, but Rosario would have to give me an imperial edict before I’d reveal it to Iván.

“It smells a lot better here,” Iván says.

“Some of the officers’ rooms back up against the palace wall and have actual windows,” I tell him. “They’re high and small, of course, too small for anyone to use them for access.”

“I’ll never take fresh air for granted again.”

Fresh air isn’t the only difference between the officers’ quarters and the recruit barracks. A plush rug runs the length of the corridor, a woven pattern displaying the de Riqueza seal, trimmed in Royal Guard crimson. Oil lamps light the passage instead of torches. All the door have locks.

By some miracle, Iván and I have this hallway to ourselves. But probably not for long.

“Which room is Bolivar’s?” Iván whispers.

“I’m not sure. I’ve only been to this wing a few times, but I think I can remember the general vicinity of his room . . . I hope.”

“Then how will we—”

“We try the key in all the locks. When the key works, it’s Bolivar’s room, right?”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“The worst.”

We reach a doorway I think might be the captain’s, and I pull the key from my pocket.

“What if this is the wrong room, and someone is in there?” Iván says.

“If that happens, say we’re running an errand for Fernando, but we accidentally got the wrong room. Except you have to be the one to say it. I’m a terrible liar.”

I place the key in the keyhole.

“You think Fernando will back us up?”

“Yes.” If this isn’t Bolivar’s room, it might be Sergeant DeLuca’s. Or the quartermaster’s. I take a deep breath and try turning the key, but it sticks, and the door does not open. I freeze, listening for sounds on the other side.

Calmly, Iván says, “Try the next one.”

We creep down the hall to the neighboring door. This time, the key turns with a soft click.

Iván shoves me inside. He pulls the door shut behind us and locks it so no one can follow.

We’re in a small but comfortable room containing a four-poster bed, a wide hearth with an oaken slab mantel, a small mahogany desk with a stool, and several shelves for clothing and personal items. Everything speaks to a tidy mind that prefers comfort and practicality to ostentation.

A single high window lets in air and light, but perhaps not enough light to investigate. I consider lighting the candles on the mantel and desk, but everything is preserved and still, with a layer of dust across the desk and a bit of ash drifted across the floor from the fireplace. Maybe it wouldn’t be wise to leave evidence that someone was here recently.

Without a word, Iván starts sorting through the shelves, careful to examine everything while also returning it folded or arranged exactly as he found it. I follow his example and start sifting through the desk drawer.

“Tell me again what we’re looking for?” Iván says.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” I say, pushing aside a neat pile of parchment and an inkwell. “Anything. Maybe we’ll know it when we see it.”

“Or smell it,” Iván points out. “Remember, sweet dream supposedly has a spicy scent.”

There’s nothing of interest in the drawer. I shut it and move to the fireplace. “He thought he might have been poisoned through his tea, right?” I say. A kettle hangs from a swinging iron arm. I lift the top and peer inside, sniffing. Do I imagine that it smells faintly of cinnamon?

“I think our captain may have a taste for sweets,” Iván says.

“What do you mean?”

“Look. Do they smell odd to you?”

He thrusts a glass dish toward me. It’s filled with small, doughy balls that have been rolled in sugar and grated coconut. I give them an obliging sniff and immediately recoil.

“They’ve gone sour,” I say. “Tamarind candies.”

“But there’s a lingering spicy smell, yes?”

Reluctantly, I give them another sniff. “You’re right. It’s faint. The teakettle smells like that too.”

“The scent has faded. It’s been almost a week.”

I stare up at Iván, thinking hard, and it strikes me all of a sudden how very tall he is. I say, “You think Bolivar was poisoned both ways?”

“Makes sense,” he says. “Too much would be noticeable, yes? But if the poison is spread out, delivered in smaller doses through multiple foods . . .”

“Then you end up ingesting a lot without even realizing it.”

“Exactly.” Every time Iván gets to thinking hard, a little crease appears at the corner of his right eye. He returns the dish of rotting candy to the shelf. Then his gaze snaps to mine. He says, “Red.”

I raise an eyebrow at him.

“This could happen to any of us.”

“Why do you say . . . oh. Because the poison is too diluted to taste. We might not even know we were taking it.”

“And because the tea and the candy had to come from different sources, right? Whoever is doing this must have their hands in everything. Like supply routes. Or maybe they have total kitchen access.”

I sit on Bolivar’s writing stool to give my sore rib a break. “Not necessarily. Maybe there’s a merchant in the city who sells both tea and tamarind candy in their market stall. Maybe that’s where Bolivar got it. We can make some inquiries.”

“But if not . . .”

“If not, then you’re right. Bolivar probably got both the tea and the candy right here in the barracks.”

Iván starts to pace, and it’s almost comical the way his long legs force him to turn so often. I’m content to watch him because for some reason his pacing makes the warmth of home fill my chest. Then I realize why: Elisa paces like this, back and forth, staring at the floor, whenever she’s mulling a tricky problem.

I miss her. And tiny Ximena. And especially Hector.

Iván comes to a sudden halt, and he spins around to face me. “Where does tamarind come from?”

“Down south. The jungles of Selvarica.”

“And duerma leaf tea?”

“East beyond the great sands. It grows in the desert foothills, in shady spots. It’s one of Basajuan’s biggest exports.”

He blinks. “You knew all that off the top of your head.”

“I had royal tutors for eight years,” I point out.

“All right, Red of the royal education, tell me what all this means.”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“If tamarind and duerma leaf tea come from two of the most distant corners of our empire . . .”

“Oh. You’re saying there’s no way they were poisoned at the source.”

“Exactly. They were poisoned after they arrived here in Brisadulce.”

I consider this. “I’m not sure that tells us anything we didn’t already suspect.”

“It tells us that we need to find out where—”

A key rattles in the lock.

I throw myself to the floor and slide under the bed. Iván follows my lead, making a loud clunk that I’m certain can be heard all the way to the Wallows.

The door creaks open. Boot steps approach.

There’s barely enough room under this bed; I must turn my head sideways to keep it from brushing the slats. My breath fogs the wood plank floor. My injured rib is a dagger in my side.

Iván is taut in the space beside me, his shoulder mashed against mine. His knees poke my thighs; they are slightly bent to prevent his feet from sticking out from under the bed.

The stool scrapes the floor as it’s whisked aside. The writing-desk drawer slides open. Someone rustles through the pile of parchment, rummages through quills and ink. The boots move toward the shelves.

I hardly dare breathe as I stare at the boots. They’re made of hard leather and tanned a rich brown-red; standard issue Royal Guard. Who could it be? Someone with very large feet and a slight inward pronation. Maybe it’s Bolivar himself, recovered and returned home. But no, items from the shelf are being tossed onto the bed. The flap of a cloak suddenly drapes over the side and drags on the floor, obscuring my view of the boots.

Whoever it is searches for something, just like Iván and I did, except without any care for Bolivar’s things.

He moves toward the fireplace. Metal squeals against stone as he grabs the poker and prods at the ash pile within. Then comes a loud, frustrated sigh, followed by a long pause.

The boot steps come near the bed.

The cloak disappears, then suddenly becomes a pile on the floor in the corner. A weight plunks down on the mattress, pressing the wooden slat against my ear, smashing my cheek into the floor. I’m staring at two worn boot heels, afraid to move the tiniest bit lest I scrape all the skin from my cheek.

He sits on the bed a long time. Surely he can hear my heartbeat? Iván is as still and silent as death beside me. If my head hurts this badly, Iván’s skull must be near to breaking.

At last the bed creaks as the man stands, and I barely hold my gasp in check as I’m overwhelmed with space and air and room to breathe.

He lingers a long moment, turning in place as if to survey the room one last time. Then he steps out the door and closes it behind him. The key rattles, locking us in.

We listen as his boot steps fade down the corridor outside. Finally Iván scooches out from under the bed, and I follow, brushing off my pants, which picked up some ash and dust from the floor.

“Well,” Iván says in a low voice. “That was terrifying.”

Standing up straight gives my rib a nasty pinch. “Do you think he knew we were there?”

“I hope not.” Iván frowns. “Were you hurt? You’re wincing.”

“I’m fine. Just need some rest. It seemed like he was looking for something.” I glance around. The room is disheveled now, the clothing on the shelves upended, the desk drawer half open, more ash spilling from the fireplace.

“Who was it, do you think?”

“Someone who was issued Royal Guard boots.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much,” Iván says.

“And someone with a key to Bolivar’s quarters,” I add.

“That, on the other hand, narrows it down quite a bit more. The quartermaster might have keys to everyone’s rooms.”

I nod. “Lord-Commander Dante too, but he’s away with Elisa right now. Cleaning staff would have access to all these rooms, right? Though I doubt servants wear those boots.”

Iván’s face turns grave. “Sergeant DeLuca,” he says. “The sergeant was left in charge of the barracks. Maybe that means getting a master key.”

“DeLuca is already our most obvious suspect,” I say. “He had the most to gain from Bolivar’s disappearance.”

“Exactly. That’s how he got placed in charge.”

We stare at each other a moment. Iván’s face has an intensity about it that I don’t dislike.

“This is not proof,” I point out.

“No. We need something more.”

“Whoever it was had big feet, worn boots, and a slight inward pronation. We should keep an eye out.”

Iván’s brows lift. “Good observations. Hopefully no one will notice us staring at everyone’s feet.”

“So what do we do next? Maybe get a message to Rosario and tell him . . . uh, Iván?”

“Red?”

My gaze has moved beyond him, to the shelves and their disarrayed contents. “Where is that dish full of tamarind candies? Didn’t you put it right back there?” I point.

Iván whirls. He swiftly clears the shelves of remaining items—a pair of socks, a rolled-up belt, an extra shirt—and tosses them onto the bed.

He says, “It’s not here. He must have taken it.”

“Getting rid of evidence?”

“Yes, probably. No, wait, let’s not jump to a conclusion. Maybe he was just ridding the room of molding candy.”

I make a sweeping gesture, indicating the whole chamber. “It’s not like whoever it was showed any care for this place.”

“True.” Iván’s lips press together as though in grim thought. Then he says, “I know your rib hurts more than you admit, so let’s go back to the bunk room so you can rest. While you do that, I’ll find the stable hand and get a message to Rosario.”

“I . . . thank you.” I must admit, this task of sussing out an assassin would be a lot harder if I had to do it alone. “What will you tell him?”

“The prince needs to know the poison isn’t being delivered only through duerma leaf tea—he needs to be testing all his food. And I want to ask him about Swordmaster Santiago. Find out what he thinks of the man.”

“That’s too much for one secret note.” I reach into Bolivar’s desk and grab quill, inkwell, and parchment. I dip the nib, but my first scratch produces nothing. I lick it and try again and finally get a good flow of ink. “We must keep words to a minimum, in case the note is intercepted.” I start scribbling.

“Was that part of your royal education too?”

“Yes.”

I blow on the ink to help it dry and show Iván what I’ve written:

Made small progress on our assignment. When can we meet?—IR

“IR,” he says. “Iván and Red?” When I nod, he adds, “I’ll get this to the stable hand messenger.”

“And the next time we’re given free time, I say we track down Valentino and see what he can tell us.”

“Agreed. Let’s go.”

We reach the bunk room without incident. Two of the Basajuan boys are taking the opportunity to rest in their cots. Aldo is back in Traitors’ Corner, cross-legged on his top bunk. He is staring at his ring—one of his precious three items—but puts it away when the door bangs shut. He looks up and grins to see me, but his grin falters a little when he notes Iván at my side.

“Where’ve you been?” he asks, his gaze shifting between us. “I thought you were going to take a nap.”

“I am. Had something to take care of first. Girl stuff.”

“Oh.” Aldo’s gaze drops back to the cards arrayed on his bed, as though he’s trying not to appear hurt.

Iván says, “I have an errand to run, but I’ll be back soon. The Ciénega del Sur boys are gone now, but I’d rather take precautions. So, with your permission, Red, I’d like to keep watch while you sleep.”

I blink up at him. It’s on my lips to tell him I don’t need watching over, but what comes out of my mouth is: “Actually, that’s a good idea. Thank you.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” And with that, he leaves the bunk room to deliver our note.

“You and Iván seem to be getting friendly,” Aldo says cautiously.

I shrug. “Just like you and me, I guess. You know how it is. We denizens of Traitors’ Corner have to stick together.”

“Sure.”

Careful of my wounded rib, I lie on my cot and stretch out. A wave of cramping hits my gut, so sudden and fierce that I gasp.

“Red?” Aldo’s head peers down at me over the edge of his bunk. “You all right?”

I’m curled up in a fetal position now, my hand to my pelvis. My lower back feels as though it’s being squeezed in a carpenter’s vise.

“Oh,” Aldo says. “Your monthly courses.”

“Yes,” I breathe through the pain. “How did you know?”

“Mamá has a difficult time of it. Sometimes her pains are so bad she can’t leave the bed for two days. I used to help her a lot.”

“My pains aren’t that bad. I should be fine after a nap.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Let me sleep.”

His face falls. “Sorry. I’ll leave you alone.”

“No, wait. Aldo?”

“Yes, Red?” he says eagerly.

“I need rags. I thought about taking some from the laundry, but—” Another wave of cramps takes my breath away.

Aldo jumps from the bed. “I’ll handle it. Just sleep.”

“Really? I mean . . . thank you.”

I reach into the drawer for my Godstone, then I tuck my back against the wall and pull my ink-stained blanket over my shoulders, making my own tiny cave. Distantly, metal clashes on metal—the second years must be practicing in the arena—and I find the sound oddly soothing.

I never nap; I can barely sleep at night, much less during the day. My cramps are ferocious. I was attacked last night in this very bed. But the soldier sickness knows no reason, and somehow, I feel my muscles relaxing. My bones are heavy; my heart beats with perfect, normal steadiness.

I cradle the Godstone to my chest, close my eyes, and sink into my mattress.

The brass bell clangs, and I spring from the bed before I’m even half awake. It takes a moment for my mind to catch up to my surroundings: The scent of slightly burned porridge indicates that dinner is ready in the mess. Several recruits returned while I slept, and they hurry to re-don their boots. Aldo is back on the top bunk. Iván is here too, as he promised.

At my questioning look, Iván gives his head a slight shake, and my heart sinks. Does that mean he wasn’t able to deliver our message?

“Later,” he mouths, eyeing Aldo.

Iván and everyone else heads toward the mess, and I move to pursue, feeling a little queasy. What went wrong? Are we cut off from communicating with Rosario?

Aldo puts a hand on my shoulder. “Wait, Red.”

He allows time for the other recruits to trickle away, then he reaches under his mattress and pulls out several long rags and a wad of straw. “The quartermaster didn’t have much to spare except this ticking for mattress repairs,” Aldo says. “For now, you can wrap it in these strips. Throw the ticking away when you’re done, but wash and reuse the strips. Mamá always preferred wool to straw. I’ll try to get wool for you later on.”

“Aldo,” I breathe as he hands the pile over to me. “This is perfect. Thank you so . . . wait, this fabric . . .” It’s tightly woven, dyed rich blue with black trim. I’ve seen gowns at Deliverance Day balls that were made of lesser material. “Is this your blanket? The one your mamá made for you?”

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.