I see the first blow coming and dodge—directly into his second swing. Light bursts across my vision as my neck snaps to the side. I blink. Blink again. Somehow, I ended up flat on my back, twitching in the now-soaked dirt.
Lucio raises his knee. I roll away from his kick. Grab the now-empty bucket. He kicks again, but I raise the bucket just in time. Lucio’s foot rips it out of my hands, but he screams in pain. I hope he broke a toe or two.
I scramble to my feet. Blood pours from my head and down my cheek, but so long as it misses my eyes, I’ll be fine. I drop into a fighting crouch and size up my options. The other recruits have stepped back to give us space. People along the wall are whooping and hollering like it’s a Deliverance Day spectacle.
Lucio’s head is lowered, like a bull ready to charge.
I have no weapons. Maybe I could leap onto the wall and grab a dagger from an onlooker. But I don’t really think my life is in danger, and I don’t want to hurt him badly. A blow to the head with the edge of a bucket is my best option.
But Lucio doesn’t charge. Instead, he seems to be thinking.
Damn. I had hoped he wasn’t much of a thinker. Then again, a thinking man can be reasoned with.
“Maybe we should get to work,” I say carefully. “Start with the walls. We’d get rid of all these spectators if we tossed soapy water onto the walls.”
“You insulted me,” Lucio says.
“Get used to it. We’ll have to bravely face down a lot of dangerous insults before we’re allowed to take our oaths.”
His fists clench, and I curse myself for stupidity. Control yourself, Hector.
I glance around for our captain. Mandrano is by the portcullis, his arms crossed, evaluating us. Have we failed already, Captain? Are you itching to tell your lord-commander about this?
If I win here against Lucio, I might fail in reaching my goal, so I drop my guard. “You can thrash me after dinner if you want. But let’s get this done first. Either we wash the training yard, or they wash us out.”
A muscle in Lucio’s jaw twitches. “You’re afraid of me.”
“Yes,” I say, wiping a bit of blood from my temple. “But I’m more afraid of getting cut.”
Fernando steps between us, a bucket in hand. “All right, then,” he says. “Let’s get to work.” And he tosses the water against the wall, purposely splashing the dangling legs of several of the palace garrison, who quickly scuttle back and drop out of sight.
We scrub every speck of those walls while the sun beats down on our heads. Then more buckets appear, and we start our useless work on the ground itself. The skin of my hands burns, and the cut on my head stings with sweat.
Much later, the low, orange sun casts gloom onto the training yard, making it hard to tell which areas are damp with water and which are dark with shadows. The monastery bells toll the dinner hour, and I look up from scrubbing uselessly at dirt to find Captain Mandrano standing over me, fists on his hips.
I blink sweat from my eyes and await his pronouncement. Even through my pants, the skin of my knees is rubbed raw, and my lower back aches. My stomach rumbles loudly.
Mandrano smiles, and his scar makes it a mocking grin. “The lot of you had all day to clean the training yard,” he says, and his voice and gaze seem to focus on me, “and not one of you thought to wash the dummies or the targets. Is that what you think of the Royal Guard? That it does half a job, then quits?”
The soldiers, Tomás and Marlo, shout, “No, my captain!” and carry their buckets toward the south end of the yard.
Mandrano moves away, continuing his inspection. I rise from my knees, sensing Lucio and Fernando at my shoulders. I hope I don’t get saddled with them, as neither is likely to make the cut.
“I could use a glass of wine,” Lucio says under his breath.
“I’d be happy with water and a crust of bread,” Fernando replies.
Mandrano makes a show of inspecting the cleanliness of the far wall, then he says, “I’ll be back before dawn, and I expect it to be done right this time.” He disappears under the portcullis, probably to see his wife, eat a big dinner, and catch some sleep. I think I might hate him.
I point to the bales of hay stacked behind the targets. “We should wash those too,” I say, “before the captain invents the job. While we’re at it, we might as well wash the portcullis and the archway.”
Fernando slumps over with a groan. “Maybe I haven’t given enough consideration to the fine life of a tanner.”
“Straighten up,” I tell him. “Just because you don’t see Mandrano or Enrico doesn’t mean they don’t see you. Assume everything you do is being watched and evaluated.”
Fernando grunts and straightens.
I grab my rag and look for something in the yard that hasn’t already been senselessly scrubbed.
3
WE’RE allowed to stumble into the barracks just before dawn. Captain Mandrano orders us to stow our three possessions—which we preserved by balancing them on empty, overturned buckets while we washed the yard—and only then will we be allowed into the mess for a meal. After that, we’ll be permitted two hours’ sleep. Then our real training will begin.
The recruits’ room is a squat, low-ceilinged rectangle with earthen walls buttressed by thick wooden beams. Alejandro was right—it’s much like a dungeon, with damp, chilly air permeated by the faint scent of rat urine. I console myself with the thought that, after hard days of training in the yard, a damp chill might feel nice.
Three oil lamps hang from the ceiling’s center beam. Twelve rickety cots stretch out from the longer walls, six to a side. Beside each cot is a small chest with two drawers. Above each cot is a hanging peg.
I pick the cot nearest the doorway. No one else wants it, for it’s bound to be the noisiest. But it also might have the freshest air, and I’d rather be aware of what’s going on around me than sleep through it. I hang my brother’s plaque, stash my book in one of the drawers, and flip my quilt out over the length of the cot. The latter earns chuckles from several of the recruits, but Fernando gives it an admiring look.
“A girl back home?” he asks.
“Something like that,” I say in a tone to discourage further questions. Confessing that the queen herself made it for me is not likely to earn any good will with this group.
Once we’ve claimed our space and stowed our belongings, we stand at attention by the ends of our cots while Captain Mandrano inspects us. Tomás and Marlo are praised for their hard work and fine example.
He moves down the line. He tells another recruit that his boots are too worn, that he’ll have to go barefoot until he is outfitted with a proper pair. When I see the recruit’s callused feet, I think that he may be better off without the boots.
Mandrano reaches Lucio. Without a word, he grabs the young man’s amphora of wine and dumps it down the floor drain outside the door.
“The amphora is one thing, the wine is another,” Mandrano tells Lucio, who is almost as big as he is. “And you’re only allowed three things, not four.”
“You could have taken my medallion,” Lucio says. It’s a good luck piece, the image of a Godstone surrounded by a verse from the Scriptura Sancta that asks blessings for the bearer.
Mandrano studies it. “No, you’re going to need that.”
Lucio persists, “I would have drunk the wine and gotten rid of the amphora.”
Stop whining, you stupid oaf.
Mandrano’s contempt for him is, fortunately, beyond words. He comes to Fernando. “You can’t lean your bow against the wall—store it under your bed.”