17

Now

ROSARIO plunks back down in his seat and hunches over, hands on his head, as though pressed down by a crushing weight. More than anything I want to go to him, put my arms around his shoulders. But maybe that would be more of a comfort to me than to him.

I whisper, “I’m so, so sorry, little brother.”

“Any word on Fernando?” Iván asks the priest.

“No change to his condition,” Nicandro says. He turns to me, peering close. “Lady Red, I do not sense your Godstone, the one Elisa gave to you.”

“I left it in the Guard barracks,” I tell him.

“You should carry it with you at all times, my girl. It’s special. More powerful than most. Elisa acquired it on the hidden isle, in a place of power, and she gave it to you for a reason.”

“Yes, Holiness,” I say, though I have no way to carry it.

He waves a hand in the air. “Stop with that holiness nonsense. There has never been formality between us.” He turns to Rosario. “Sweet boy, I know how much you loved Bolivar. I regret that we will be unable to honor him in death right away; I think it’s best that everyone still believes him missing. But I promise you that his body will be tended to with dignity and respect, and when your family returns from their travels, we will bury him in state, as he deserves.”

“Thank you,” Rosario chokes out.

“Does he have a family?” Iván asks. “Does he leave behind a widow or children? If so, we should—”

“The Royal Guard was his family,” the priest says. “Now, come, all of you. Four trusted acolytes have volunteered to help escort you. They are not fighters, but they’ll make a fine living shield for our prince.”

Father Nicandro gestures us up and out of the archive, where three young men and one young woman in black robes wait, backs straight, arms crossed and muffled by their voluminous sleeves. The acolytes, Iván, and I all surround the prince, like he’s the center of a meat pie, and begin our trek out of the monastery.

“Wait!” Father Nicandro says, and our strange little procession pauses. “I almost forgot.”

He hurries back into the archive and returns a moment later carrying a book with a metal clasp. “Red, this is for you,” he says, plopping it into my arms.

I run my hand across the cover. It’s hardened leather, stamped with the rose and crown of the de Vega royal crest.

“What is it?” I ask.

“A copy of the Articles of the Empire. There’s something inside you should see. Or rather, there’s something not inside you should see.”

“What do you mean?” Bound books are valuable and rare. This is a royal gift, no matter what it contains.

“Just read it. If your heart is ready, you will see.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. “I . . . thank you.”

To Rosario he says, “I light a candle every night and pray for your safety. Be well, dear boy.”

The barracks are silent with sleep when Iván and I finally make it back. Or so it seems. I store my book in the bedside table and shuck my boots. When next I look up, I’m surrounded by recruits. Aldo’s head hangs over the top bunk. Itzal plunks down beside me. Pedrón and the Arturos stare at me with expectation.

“So,” Itzal says. “What was it like? Did you see the prince?”

“I bet there were beautiful girls in beautiful gowns,” Pedrón says dreamily.

Iván says, “You know we can’t tell you anything.”

“Not even a hint?” Aldo says. “Where did you go? Was it a grand ballroom?”

“I can tell you one thing,” I say.

Everyone leans forward into my space.

“It was boring,” I say, and they wilt with disappointment. “You just stand there, not able to say anything or eat anything. But you can’t let your mind wander to pass the time, because you’re watching everyone and everything for any possible threat.”

“Red’s right,” Iván says. “It was boring.”

“You’re lying,” Itzal says, peering into my face, though I’m not sure what he thinks he’ll see in this gloom.

Pedrón says, “Moneybags here just wants to hear about all the fine things. He says the ambassador has a flower vase that’s worth three times my father’s annual wage.”

I lie down and push Itzal off the bed with my foot. “You’ll find out yourself. It will be your turn soon enough. Now let me sleep.”

The next morning at breakfast, someone I don’t recognize mans the cauldron, and we line up so he can ladle porridge into our bowls. He is short and slight with sharp features, barely older than the recruits. When I reach the head of the line, he says, so softly that only I can hear, “My name is Luz-Daniel. Please come to me if you need anything.”

I refuse to make eye contact as I whisper my thanks. This is Rosario’s spy, who can get a message to the prince should the need arise.

The morning training session brings more practice with sword forms. And the morning after that. Our nightly class continues, and everyone’s technique improves greatly. Even boys like Itzal, who came to the Guard with no training and hardly knowing left from right, can now be counted on to keep a strong grip while flowing through the poses like water.

Autumn begins to cool the air, bringing the occasional light rain, and we all become restless and frustrated with our routine: sword forms all morning, followed by fitness training in the afternoon, and more sword forms before bed. The boys are eager to learn how to fight, and I don’t blame them one bit. We’re ready. I know we are.

I’m equally frustrated by the fact that we’ve been given no opportunity to earn free time. I’m desperate to talk to Valentino. I’m harried by thoughts of Captain Bolivar’s death, of Fernando fighting for his life. Every day that passes puts my prince in greater danger. One night, Iván suggests we sneak out, but once again, I refuse. We risked too much the first time we snuck down to the Wallows. We don’t dare do it again. Don’t get cut, Rosario said.

Finally, three weeks after the ambassador’s soiree, we enter the training arena for our morning session, but instead of Master Santiago, Guardsman Bruno awaits us. He is swordless.

“Into formation!” he calls, and we scurry to grab our wooden swords but he stops us. “No weapons today.”

Empty-handed, we line up in the staggered formation Master Santiago assigned us. Aldo gives me a questioning look. I shrug.

Guardsman Bruno paces before us, hands behind his back. “Swordmaster Santiago has other commitments today, so I will oversee your training. He assures me that you are not quite ready for swordwork yet. Instead, you will be given an introduction to close quarters combat.”

Excited murmuring runs down the line. Finally we’re going to learn something useful.

“I’m sure it has not escaped your notice that we haven’t made any cuts in several weeks. Since the Ciénega del Sur boys did us the favor of disqualifying themselves, we were able to keep some of you on longer than we expected. That will change. I assure you, cuts are coming, so pay attention today and learn well.”

Itzal groans softly. “It’s me,” he whispers. “I know it’s going to be me.”

“As Royal Guards,” Bruno continues, “you may find yourself in a situation where swinging a sword is a terrible idea—when an attacker is too close to the empress, for example, or when you’re in the middle of a crowd. We will teach you to disarm opponents, grapple an enemy into submission, and even de-escalate sensitive situations—all without ever raising a blade.”

His bushy eyebrows knit together into a single caterpillar line, and he says, “Any volunteers?”

We are as silent and still as the grave, for no one wants to be made a spectacle of in front of everyone. A gust of wind kisses the arena sand, sending up a layer of dust.

“Recruit Red,” Bruno says. “Thank you for volunteering.”

I’m unable to resist giving him an angry glare as I step forward.

“Turn around and face your fellow recruits.”

I do as ordered, and he steps up behind me. Maybe I imagine the warmth of his body permeating my skin, because he’s not that close. Still, my limbs start to tingle, heat races up my neck, my heartbeat comes fast.

He’s going to choke me from behind. But it will be a mere demonstration. Nothing to fear.

The recruits stare at us in anticipation.

“I’m going to reach for your neck,” Bruno says. “I want you to try to escape my grip. Ready?”

I take a deep breath. “Ready.”

My senses narrow to the presence at my back, the hands coming up to my throat, the thumbs pressing against my windpipe.

My body knows exactly what to do. I’ve practiced this maneuver with Hector and Rosario a thousand times. But Bruno is a stranger with strange hands and a strange smell and a strange grip, and I can’t force my body to treat him like a friend.

I drop a shoulder and twist, forcing his grip to release, and I explode my opposite elbow upward, ramming him in the chin.

He flails backward.

I step in for the killing blow. His eyes are wide, his mouth open in surprise, and at the last second I pull my punch. Instead of a hard blow to the groin, I give his abdomen a light tap.

He blinks rapidly, opening his mouth wide to test his jaw.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you!” I say. “Are you all right?”

He nods before finding his voice. “That was well done. Excessive, but well done.”

A smattering of applause hits my back.

I breathe relief.

“Now what if I came at you with a forward choke hold?” He raises his hands to my throat again, except now he’s facing me.

I’m less panicky, more calculated this time. I drop my head low so his thumbs can’t maintain pressure on my neck, duck under, shoot back up, and send an elbow screaming down against his arm to open his torso to attack. I make as if to knee his groin, but I stop short. It’s just a demonstration.

“That was acceptable,” Bruno says. “We’ll teach you two alternative escapes and work on your technique for the one you just performed—your ducking angle was off, and a trained warrior might have been able to reestablish his grip. Now please return to your place in line.”

He’s lucky I didn’t use the escape that includes sticking my thumbs in my attacker’s eye sockets.

“Red, that was great,” Aldo whispers as I take up formation.

“Thank you.” My mind has calmed, but my heart is still pounding, my skin sheening with far more sweat than the amount of exertion justified. The soldier sickness almost took over.

Bruno resumes pacing. “It takes six seconds for someone to choke you unconscious,” he says. “You must not waste even a moment in panic or indecision. Therefore, we will practice escapes—and all their variations—until they are second nature.

“For example, in addition to the rear-choke-hold escape Red demonstrated, you have the option of repeated elbow strikes to the abdomen, a blow to the instep—and, for the strongest among you, a downward hook with your hands, which will force a release. We will teach you all of them, and drill them until you instinctively know which option to use in which situation. Everyone find a partner.”

I look for Iván, but Aldo grabs my elbow, claiming me. “We’ve made good partners before,” he points out.

I grin. “And we will again.”

“Don’t worry about who your partner is to begin with,” Bruno says, noting our conversation. “We’re going to rotate so that everyone gets practice against opponents of different sizes and strength.”

Once everyone is paired, Bruno says, “We’ll begin with a forward choke hold. I’ll demonstrate with Recruit Itzal, and you will follow. I recognize that not everyone has had defense training. Don’t worry; you’ll all become adept soon enough. Those of you who learn this well will be given free time this afternoon.”

I reach out, pretending to choke Aldo. We both grin.

“Now drop your chin to your chest and duck left,” Bruno says. As Aldo easily escapes my grasp, I hear the Guardsman yell, “Your other left, Recruit Itzal!”

We take turns, and he makes us repeat it three more times before we switch partners, and then do it again. My third partner is Pedrón, and he comes at me faster than expected.

My reflexes kick in, and a split second later Pedrón is yelping as he hits the sand hard. Immediately, I reach down to help him—

“Recruit Red!”

I snap to attention. “Yes, sir!”

“We’re supposed to be drilling them, not killing them!”

It’s not really a question and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to respond, but I settle on a “Yes, sir!”

Bruno pauses to rub his face thoughtfully. “Of course, that’s your training. It’s the proper way to do it. We’ll train all of the recruits to perform the same way . . . eventually.”

My shoulders relax a bit; I’m not in trouble.

He scans the group. “How about this? Recruit Red, you take the army boys and the Basajuaños, they’re all fairly advanced. If you’re teaching them, you can’t possibly hurt anyone. I hope. Start drilling them in the five basic escapes while I bring the others up to speed.” When I hesitate, he asks, “You do know the five basic escapes?”

They were the first thing Hector ever taught me. “Yes, sir.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Ask me when you need help with something. The rest of you partner up over here. Not you, Itzal—you’re with me!”

Pedrón jumps up and gets back in place. “Can you show me that again, but slower?”

“Sure,” I say. “Pair up with Arturo—the other Arturo, short Arturo.”

I show him again, but slower.

I’m worried the other recruits will think I’m lording my training over them, but they’re all competitive, they all want to be the best. By the end of the morning session, we’re sweaty and sore, sand scraped and bruised, but we’re all grinning.

Bruno orders us into line and inspects us. Half to himself, he says, “You performed better than I expected after speaking to Master Santiago. Maybe we should have started with the unarmed combat.”

I exchange a glance with Iván. Hopefully one of us has done well enough to earn time off.

“Recruit Red,” Bruno says.

“Yes, sir?”

“You may take the afternoon off. We’ll see how much your group really knows.” As relief surges through me, he looks over the rest of the recruits, the ones that he’s been training. “Iván!”

“Yes, sir?”

“You did creditably well. You’re free too. Now all of you, go get something to eat, and I expect to see everyone but Red and Iván back here before the next bell.”

Finally, a spot of luck. Or maybe it wasn’t luck at all. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Rosario had engineered the whole thing. Iván meets my eyes on the way to the dining hall and we exchange a small nod.

It’s time to go see Valentino.

“You’re very good at unarmed combat,” Iván observes as we walk together to the palace after lunch.

I’m not sure how to respond to that. “I had a good teacher.”

“It’s more than that,” he says. “You react like your life depends on it. Every single time.”

Sometimes life is a good teacher too.

Like many of the empire’s most powerful nobles, Conde Astón keeps quarters in the Sky Wing, the finest part of the palace, where modern architecture promises fresh water plumbed from the underground river, glass-pane skylights, and high balconies overlooking interior gardens. The door to the Ciénega del Sur suite is not far from the royal apartments, where I lived before joining the Guard. Beside the door stands a spearman in full armor.

“We’re here to see Valentino,” I tell him.

“Lord Valentino is not receiving visitors,” he says.

“He’ll be happy to receive us,” I say.

The spearman plants himself in front of the door to bar our path.

Iván steps forward. He’s tall enough to look him dead in the eye; if it weren’t for the spearman’s pointed helmet, they’d be of height. Iván says, “Please tell Lord Valentino that Lady Red, ward of our beloved empress, and Lord Iván, brother of Lord-Conde Juan Carlos of the Quorum of Five, both wish a few moments of his time.”

I give Iván a sharp look. We’re recruits now, without title. But the spearman inclines his head slightly and says, “Wait right here,” and disappears into the suite.

“It wasn’t a lie,” Iván whispers while we wait. “I mean, not exactly.”

“Did I say anything?”

“You had that look.”

The spearman returns. “Lord Valentino will see you now.”

The parlor is dark with mahogany shelves, all filled with parchment and even several books. High clerestory windows fill the place with diffuse light, and a deep stone hearth—cool at the moment—gives off the sharp scent of pine ash.

A tapestry with the Ciénega del Sur crest hangs on the wall. It depicts a river flowing between two low mountains. In the center of the crest, where the river and the mountains come together, a sun rises. The design is so stylized that the sun looks like a crown resting on pillows.

Valentino sits at a writing desk, wearing blue silk robes with golden embroidery. His skin is sallow, and dark circles make hollows of his eyes. A walking cane topped with the head of a brass viper rests against the desk. When he sees us, his eyes light up and he struggles to his feet.

“Red! Iván! I’m so happy to see you,” he says, reaching for his cane.

“No need to get up,” Iván says.

“Oh, it’s good for me, or so the family physician says. Come join me on the divan. I’ll have my man fetch some . . . well, not wine, as I’m sure you can’t stay away from the barracks long. How about some chilled coconut milk with honey?”

“That sounds wonderful,” I say.

He lifts a bell from the desk and rings it, then makes his way slowly to the divan, which is a lavishly cushioned affair in deep, dusty purple. He plunks down and sinks into the cushions as though his short trek across the room was as tiring as a lap around the palace walls.

“As much as I’m glad for the company,” Valentino says, “I’m sure you’re not here to check on me.”

His forthrightness makes me smile. “Checking on you is part of the reason we’re here,” I say. “Does your family physician expect you to make a full recovery?”

“He does. It’s been slow; I was badly poisoned. But I expect I’ll be able to join the army recruits in a few months. Because of my father’s station . . .” Valentino pauses to stare at my hairline. The pause lengthens.

I stare back at him, saying nothing.

Valentino blinks. “Er, because of my father’s station, joining the army will come with an automatic officer’s commission, so long as I survive their recruit training.”

“You’ll excel in the army,” Iván says. “I have no doubt.”

“Thank you.”

I say, “I wish there was a way for you to come back to the Guard.”

Valentino gives me a sad smile. “Me too. But once cut, you’re cut forever. It won’t be so bad in the army. Beto and the others joined up already, as soon as they left the Guard. They say it’s a lot harder than Royal Guard training. The food isn’t nearly as good, and none of their boots fit quite right, but . . .”

His voice trails away at the look on my face.

“Oh, Red, I’m so sorry about what happened to you,” Valentino says. “I did not ask them to do that, and when they visited me, I gave them all a stern talking-to.”

“They needed more than a stern talking-to,” Iván grumbles.

“They did,” Valentino agrees. “But I was bedridden at the time.”

A servant hurries in, and Valentino orders three glasses of chilled coconut milk.

After he leaves, I say, “Valentino, I believe you when you say you didn’t ask the Ciénega del Sur boys to attack me. But do you know if anyone else did?”

Valentino frowns. “Not that I know of. Though, to be honest, none of them is a particularly original thinker.”

“We thought someone might have goaded them into it,” Iván says.

I open my mouth and barely stop short of suggesting that maybe his own father is to blame. I don’t want to put Valentino on the defensive too soon, because we have an even more important question yet to ask.

“You might be right,” Valentino concedes. “Though I’m not sure it matters now.”

Iván says, “It matters because if someone else was behind this, Red could be attacked again.”

“Oh, that’s a good point.” Valentino takes a deep breath, releases it in a heavy sigh.

The servant returns with three glasses balanced on a silver tray, and he hands one to each of us. I give mine a subtle sniff—no telltale cinnamon scent. Still, I wait for Valentino to sip and swallow before following suit.

It’s delicious. I swirl my glass around a moment before softly asking, “What was it like? To be poisoned, I mean?”

Valentino sips his milk then says, “It was the most awful thing I’ve ever experienced.”

“We were really worried about you,” Iván says.

“At first it was just like being drunk—all happy and dizzy and painless. Then it got harder to breathe, and my heart started beating faster than bees’ wings. And that’s all I remember until I woke up with the worst headache of my life and a belly that wouldn’t keep down food or drink no matter what it was offered. The physician inserted a small tube directly into a vein and gave me water that way.”

Iván’s eyes widen. “I’ve never heard of that!”

“Doctor Enzo, the royal physician, published about it in the Journal of Medical Anomalies. Our own physician said the technique saved my life.”

“Enzo is brilliant,” I say distantly, because I’m thinking about Captain Bolivar, and how even Doctor Enzo couldn’t save him. Maybe he won’t be able to save Fernando either.

“Valentino,” Iván says, sitting forward on the divan. “We have to ask . . . how did you come to be poisoned? What poison was it? Who gave it to you?”

Valentino sets his glass on a side table and folds his hands together in his lap. “I thought you might ask.”

When he doesn’t offer more, I add, “We fear others in the Guard may be in danger. Anything you can tell us—”

He says, “It was an accident.”

“Oh?” says Iván.

“It was sweet dream, that syrupy stuff coming from down south. Like duerma leaf except stronger.”

Iván and I exchange a quick glance. This is exactly what we suspected.

“I thought it would help with the pain in my kidney.”

I wince.

“Anyway, I won’t tell you who I got it from.”

“Why not?” I say, even as Iván says, “Please, Valentino.”

Valentino shakes his head. “The person who gave it to me has apologized profusely for giving me the wrong dose and is making amends. I have accepted their apology. Therefore, I consider the matter closed.”

We can’t tell him about Captain Bolivar or Fernando—we can’t tell anyone without possibly warning Rosario’s enemies. But we have to make him see the danger. I say, “What if—”

Valentino shakes his head. “It was an accident. It won’t happen again. The Guard is safe.”

“Assuming the person who gave you the sweet dream is telling the truth,” Iván says.

“Everyone makes mistakes, Iván. And that’s all it was. A mistake. This person promised to do better, and I believe them.”

“I don’t know that I could be so gracious in your shoes,” Iván says.

I couldn’t either. Valentino is better than I am. Too good to be the son of Conde Astón, at least. I mutter, “I can’t believe you share blood with the high conde.”

“What?” Valentino says, eyes widening. Iván shoots me a warning glare.

I blurt, “It’s just that your father seems to hate the empress and all she stands for. He levels insults at every opportunity, and he never forgives a slight. He’s not like you at all. You’re so . . . honorable.”

“Please forgive Red,” Iván says. “She has a terrible habit of letting any old thought spill from her mouth.”

I consider apologizing, but what is there to apologize for? I only spoke the truth.

Valentino has the grace to smile. “She is honest and blunt, just like the Invierno ambassador.”

“She is.”

“Red, you’re not wrong,” Valentino says, and suddenly his gaze seems far away. “I know my father’s reputation. It’s not unearned. In fact, we disagree on many things.”

“Like whether or not Elisa is a good ruler?” I prompt.

Valentino doesn’t rise to the bait. “Many things. Contentiously. It’s why I went to the Guard. He got his peskiest son out of his hair, and I got to do something that would bring honor and reputation to my family that I felt good about. It seemed like such an elegant solution at the time.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out better,” I tell him.

“Me too.”

“Is there anything we can do for you?” Iván asks.

Valentino is so sophisticated and well-mannered, even when convalescing, that it’s a bit of a surprise to see vulnerability flash across his face. “I would like it very much if you came to visit me again sometime,” he says, unable to keep the wistfulness from his voice. “I’ve read through our entire library. It will be months before I can join the army.” He stares off toward the writing desk. “Frankly, I’m bored.”

I grasp his shoulder. He feels bony and frail. “We can definitely do that,” I say.

He brightens. “That would be wonderful.” His gaze shifts back to the writing desk.

“Did we interrupt some correspondence by coming here?” Iván asks.

“No. It’s just . . .”

“Valentino?” I prompt.

He looks back and forth between Iván and me. Back to the writing desk. Back to me.

“If you decide you want to tell us who gave you the sweet dream poison,” Iván says carefully. “You know where to find us. But we won’t press you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

Iván sets his glass on the side table and stands, and I follow his lead. “I wish we could stay longer, but Red and I have to get back to the barracks before our free time is up.”

Valentino gains his feet with the help of his cane. “I understand. Do you mind seeing yourselves out? I’ve already done quite a bit of walking today.”

“Of course,” I say. Iván and I turn to go.

We are nearly to the door, when Valentino calls out, “Wait!”

We turn.

Valentino appears stricken. “There’s something . . . Maybe this is a huge mistake, or maybe it’s nothing . . .”

I peer closer. Stricken, yes, with a healthy pinch of fear for spice. “Valentino, are you in trouble?” I ask. “Do you need help?”

He waves off my concern. “I’m fine, I promise, but . . .” Using his cane for support, he makes his way to the writing desk, opens a drawer, pulls out a rolled-up piece of parchment. “I’ve been doing some work for my father during my convalescence. Mostly accounting and correspondence. I found this, and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. Maybe you’ll know what to do with it.” He holds it out for me to fetch.

I stride toward him and grab it.

“You didn’t get that from me,” Valentino says as I unfurl the parchment and read.

It’s a list, neatly scripted in black ink.

Four barrels Ventierra white wine, two barrels barley, three barrels salt pork, eight live chickens, six barrels water . . .

“What is it?” Iván asks.

“A shipping manifest,” I say. “For a ship called the Kestrel, which sailed to Brisadulce from the southern border. Looks like supplies for a long haul. Valentino, why . . . ?”

“Keep reading,” Valentino says.

I continue to skim.

Three coils rope, one barrel pitch, one box iron nails . . .

Finally, near the end, something snags my attention:

Forty barrels date syrup

“This is odd,” I mutter.

“So you see it too,” Valentino says.

“What?” Iván demands, coming to read over my shoulder. “See what?”

I point. “Forty barrels date syrup.”

“Why is that odd?” Iván asks. “I mean, that’s a lot of date syrup, but . . .”

“Date palms grow around the edges of the great desert and in the oases. They don’t grow down south in the jungles. The countships there—the Southern Reaches, Isla Oscura, Ciénega del Sur—they all harvest coconut palms.”

Iván stares at the shipping manifest in my hand for the space of several breaths. To Valentino, he says, “Is the Kestrel one of your father’s ships?”

Valentino shakes his head. “It belongs to an independent merchant. However, my father has contracted with the ship on several occasions.”

“And this caught your eye because you don’t think it’s really date syrup.”

Still holding his cane, Valentino plunks down into the desk chair. His thumb caresses the brass of the viper’s head, gently traces the curve of one shining fang. “My father has never shipped date syrup from anywhere. And forty barrels! I know the empress likes her sweets, but that’s enough syrup for ten years’ worth of deserts.”

“Date syrup doesn’t keep that long,” I point out.

“Exactly,” Valentino says.

“So what are you saying?” Iván asks him. “That your father is smuggling something else into the city?”

“All I’m saying is I don’t think it’s really date syrup, and . . . that’s all. I’ve done my duty. I don’t care to speculate what it might actually be.” Valentino slumps over, putting his head in his hands.

Iván says, “But what if it’s—”

I put a hand on Iván’s arm, silencing him. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Valentino. I know this wasn’t an easy choice for you.”

“It could be nothing, right?” Valentino mutters. “It’s probably nothing.”

Iván is looking at me, and his eyes are wide with sure knowledge, as he says, “Of course, Valentino. It’s probably nothing.”

The door to the parlor flies open. I spin to face whoever is coming, shoving the manifest behind my back.

It’s Conde Astón, resplendent in royal-blue brocade. The golden medallion that marks his station as speaker of the chamber of condes hangs from his neck on a rope-thick chain.

“Hello, Papá,” Valentino says smoothly.

The conde’s face is emotionless, like he’s made of marble. “You should have told me you were planning to receive visitors today,” he says. “I would have had the receiving room set up with refreshments.”

“Your son’s hospitality was more than adequate, Your Grace,” Iván says.

The conde’s composure cracks just enough to let a bit of anger leak through. “Shouldn’t you be in afternoon training? I thought it was a disqualifying offense to leave the Guard barracks without permission.”

“We earned free time,” I tell him. “Naturally, we wanted to see how our friend was doing.”

“Naturally.”

The parchment in my hand burns like fire. Surely he can tell I’m hiding something? Surely he’s noticed how awkwardly my hand is being held behind my back?

“Well,” Astón says after too long a pause. “I’m afraid my son needs his rest.”

“Thank you for coming,” Valentino says.

“We’ll come again as soon as we can,” Iván assures him.

“I’d like that. And Red, I’m sorry for—”

Astón interrupts: “What I meant was, you are both dismissed. I’d like to speak privately with my son now.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” I say hurriedly. “Please pardon the intrusion.”

The conde steps aside, allowing us to pass him on our way to the door. As we do, I very carefully lower the shipping manifest to my side, keeping it out of sight.

The door slams—too loudly—at our backs.

Quickly I roll up the manifest and shove it in my pocket.

“I hate that we’ve just left Valentino alone with him,” Iván says.

“Me too. Do you think he’ll be punished for receiving us? It’s not like he planned it or anything.”

“If it were my father, I would have been punished.”

“Oh.” We leave the suite and step into the hallway. “I’m sorry.”

We walk in silence for a while, passing squires with messages, servants with cleaning buckets, a minor conde surrounded by guards.

“The gala is more than a month away, and the palace is already filling up,” Iván says.

“It’s the busiest time of the year. I used to hide in my suite as much as possible until everyone went back home.”

We leave the Sky Wing and angle toward the throne room. Beyond it is the central green, though it’s usually muddy with traffic this time of year, and the entrance to the Guard barracks.

Just as we step outside into the sunshine, Iván yanks me aside into the shade of a wide date palm. One of the sharp fronds needles into my shoulder.

“Careful!” I say.

“Sorry. I just wanted to see that manifest one more time before we go back to the barracks.”

I pull it from my pocket and hand it to him. His eyes narrow as he reads. His long body is very close to me, shielding the parchment from any onlookers.

He says, “I don’t know a lot about sailing. But the only thing on this manifest that looks like trading cargo is the forty barrels of date syrup. Everything else is standard sailing supplies for a large crew on a long haul.”

“Yes.”

“Red.” He looks me dead in the eye. “I don’t think those barrels are full of date syrup.”

“No.”

“They’re full of sweet dream syrup.”

“Yes.”

“Enough to poison an army.”

“Or a gala full of nobles.”

He gasps. “You think poisoned food will be served up at the Deliverance Gala?”

“I don’t know. I do know that the gala would be a really good time for a coup.”

“We need to let the prince know about this.”

“And we need to do it right now. Let’s go find that assistant cook.”

We have nothing to write with. So I pull the last shards of my dye pot from my drawer. One curved shard still shelters a small dollop of dye, with just enough moisture that I’m able to dip my finger and make a large X on the manifest, beside the line item for date syrup. After it dries, I fold it up small and tight and shove it into my pocket.

At dinner, we are served caramelized onions and garlic-spiced lentils on a bed of spinach.

Normally, my mouth would be watering with anticipation over such a meal. Instead, my stomach roils as I stand in line, waiting my turn, my palm turning damp with sweat as it clutches my plate and the folded manifest along with it.

I reach the head of the line. The assistant cook gestures for me to hand him my plate, and I stretch my arm out carefully, hoping beyond hope he’ll see the parchment poking out from under the plate’s edge.

“Here you go, girl,” he says, and sometime between a tong full of spinach and a ladle full of lentils, the parchment disappears, so smoothly that I barely feel it slide out of my fingers.

I’m so relieved as I find a seat that when Pedrón insists on sitting beside me, I actually smile at him.

“How did afternoon training go?” I ask him.

“Not well,” he says. “Itzal is right. He’s going to get cut unless he gets some extra help. I could use some help too.”

“We’ll practice those escapes in our class tonight. You’re big enough that I can teach you different techniques that wouldn’t work for me or Itzal, more than just the five basic escapes.”

Pedrón beams. “I am big.” He waggles an eyebrow. “I’m big everywhere.”

“Gross.” I grab my bowl, rise from my seat, and go find Aldo to sit beside. Aldo has never once been gross with me.

We practice escapes in our unsanctioned class and Pedrón is right; Itzal is hopeless. He might be the clumsiest person I’ve ever seen. But that doesn’t stop him from trying. If anyone can succeed in the Guard on sheer determination, it’s him.

After the oil lamps are blown out and everyone settles into their cots, I lie awake, worried for Fernando, hoping Rosario will receive and understand our message, thinking about the upcoming Deliverance Gala. Finally I give up on sleeping, and I grab the book Father Nicandro gave me and sneak into the latrine. By torchlight, I read.

The Articles of the Empire is a massive document, detailing all sorts of matters pertaining to governance, specifically laying out the powers and rights of the chamber of condes, the Quorum of Five, and the imperial throne. Thirty pages alone are devoted to the proper procedure for raising or lowering taxes. If this tome doesn’t put me to sleep, nothing will.

Finally I reach article fifty-seven, section eight, which outlines inheritance law. A single paragraph addresses the adoption of non-genealogical children as inheritors of land, wealth, and power. Taking on wards from other families is such a common practice among the nobility—including among the three queens of the empire—that it’s no wonder some enterprising conde insisted this clause be included. I read it carefully. Then I read it again.

There’s nothing here I don’t know. All adoptions resulting in inheritance of rulership must be approved by a vocal majority of the chamber of condes. So what? What did Father Nicandro want me to see?

No, there’s something not here that he wanted me to see.

I read it again, understanding dawning. I read it yet again to be sure. I read it five more times.

My pulse quickens. My face feels warm. Hope is unfurling inside me, even as I try to tamp it down. Hope is frightening. Hope is risky.

The seed of a precious idea has formed, but I dare not consider it too deeply. I slam the book shut and return to my bunk. I have other things to worry about. Like keeping my prince alive until the empress returns.