“So,” Enrico says. “Our princess is homesick for his big brother.”
Again, a statement, not a question. I do not reply, though several retorts suggest themselves. If the hardest thing I have to do is listen to you talk, then I can do that all day, my lord.
He points to the third item. “A book! You brought a book?”
“Yes, my lord.” It’s not a manuscript, but an actual bound book about the architectural history of Joya d’Arena. A gift from my mother. The last several pages are blank. I can write whatever I want in them.
“You expect to be so bored here, to have so much free time, that you will be able to read books at your leisure, like priests in a monastery. Do I look like I run a monastery?”
“Not last feast day, when you brought in a wagonload of harlots.”
In my defense, he did ask me a question.
I expect a blow. A scolding at least. The crowd is silent, expectant. Drying sweat itches on my cheek, but I refuse to scratch, reminding myself that I can handle it. I can handle anything.
“Make no mistake,” Enrico says finally. “I never would have accepted your application were it not for the king’s order. I expect you will be expelled within a month.”
His forthrightness makes me bold. “I expect you will be surprised, my lord.”
“It’ll happen within a day if you don’t learn to hold your tongue and know your place.” He turns and speaks loudly to the whole line. “The king always shows up to view the Guard recruits on the first day. But he didn’t today. And do you know why? It’s because he didn’t want to see his pretty little princess fail.”
My face burns. But in a way I feel relieved. Enrico has said the thing everyone is thinking, and it’s like a hot, tight blanket has been lifted from the training yard and everyone can breathe. Or maybe just me.
Lord-Commander Enrico steps back, draws his sword, and raises it to the sky. Loudly enough for the whole city to hear, he yells, “Do you have what it takes to be Royal Guard?”
“Yes, my lord!” we answer in unison.
The Guards lounging by the portcullis snigger to one another.
“Can you work harder than you’ve ever worked—through pain, through pride, through exhaustion—to become something more?”
“Yes, my lord!”
“Will you give up everything you own, everything you are, and swear to protect the king and his interests even unto death?”
“YES, MY LORD!”
His eyes narrow to slits, and he says in a normal voice, “We shall see.” He sheaths the sword, sending it home with a swick! of finality.
He indicates the portcullis with a lift of his chin, and one of the guards lounging there peels off and steps toward us. “This is Captain Mandrano, my second-in-command,” Enrico says of the approaching guard. “He’ll play nurse to you whelps for the rest of the day. You will follow his orders without question, as if they come from the king himself. Or”—he stares directly at me—“you will be sent home.”
The worst is over. Now I’ll be able to show them what I’m worth.
2
THE iron portcullis squeals as it rises, and once Enrico has passed into the cool shadows of the barracks, it slams down behind him with a clang.
Odd. I’ve watched recruiting day for the Royal Guard for years, even before it became my plan to join. The lord-commander himself always oversees the first day’s evaluations. Always.
Captain Mandrano paces before us with hard purpose. He is a beast, with boulders for shoulders and tree trunks for arms. A white scar bisects the right half of his mouth, lifting his lip into a permanent sneer, but a steady intelligence in his eyes gives me hope. This is a man I can impress, a man who will see.
The first thing the captain will do is put us through a series of exercises to assess our speed and strength, our coordination and reaction time, our judgment. It happens every year. Sometimes, one or two recruits are cut on the very first day. It’s the reason people line the wall, turning the training yard into an arena.
The archer—Fernando—shifts uncomfortably, but I breathe deep through my nose to steady my pulse and send life into my limbs. Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.
Captain Mandrano’s voice booms over our heads. “Your first task,” he says, “will be to wash the training yard.”
I almost drop my princess quilt.
“What?” Lucio says. Then he goes stiff beside me, and no one wishes he could suck the word back in more than I do.
“Are you questioning orders, whelp?” Mandrano barks.
“No, my lord!”
“Am I wearing gold and jewels? Do I smell like a courtesan’s underskirt?”
Lucio hesitates. “No, my lord.”
“Then why would you mistake me for a lord? I’m a workingman who earns my bread, just like every other man in the Royal Guard. Are you a lord?”
He’s speaking to Lucio, but I know—everyone here knows—the question is directed at me. I hold my breath and pray that Lucio doesn’t make things worse.
“N-No, my . . . captain,” Lucio stammers. I allow myself to exhale.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Mandrano says. He turns his head and glowers at the whole line of recruits. “All of you workingmen will now wash the walls, as well as the yard.”
This time, no one so much as twitches.
“You’ll be provided with buckets, soap, and rags. When the monastery bells ring the dinner hour, I’ll come to inspect your work. If it has been done to my satisfaction, you’ll take your meal in the barracks. Now, get to work!”
Buckets sloshing with lye-murky water are lowered down the wall. A pile of rags tumbles down after them. Everything comes from the direction of the palace laundry, which means they made all the arrangements ahead of time.
I set my quilt, my plaque, and my book on the ground, and head toward the buckets. A moment later, I sense the other boys at my back. As I’m reaching down for the rope handle of the nearest bucket, I hear a voice at my shoulder.
“Wash the training yard?” Fernando whispers. “This whole place will be a muddy mess. It makes no sense.”
“Have you ever served in the military, even a local guard?” I ask.
“No. My father’s a tanner.” He bends down to grab his own bucket. “When I won the king’s purse with my bow, Papá told me to try for the Guard—he said I’d be set for life and never have to work as hard as he does.”
“Well, that order was not supposed to make sense. We’re to follow it anyway.” I heave the bucket upward. Water sloshes onto the toes of my boots. Between the fraying rope of the handle and the lye in the water, it will be a wonder if all the skin doesn’t peel from my hands. “The sooner we demonstrate that we’ve learned the lesson, the sooner—”
A heavy blow to my right shoulder spins me around, and I almost drop the bucket. “You’re the reason for this,” says Lucio, his face dark.
I peer up at him, able to observe him closely for the first time. His eyes are angry. No, rageful. And his rage has a weight about it, as if he’s been shoring it up, cultivating it, for a long, long time. And now he’s found a focus for it. Lucky me.
“Maybe I am,” I admit. Lucio’s face flickers with hesitation. I guess that wasn’t the response he was expecting. “Or maybe,” I continue unwisely, because I can’t help it, “all this is meant to wean you from Conde Treviño’s teat.”