The Empire of Dreams Page 15

  “Whatever you say,” I tell him, trying not to act surprised. I was hoping to sit next to Iván. I need to talk to him about getting inside Captain Bolivar’s quarters. That’s assuming neither of us gets cut, of course. “Pedrón, do you know what this work is that Bruno mentioned? Are they deciding who to cut?”

  “Oh, definitely. After we eat, they’ll call us into the bunk room in small groups to present us with our uniforms. See, they don’t want to issue uniforms if you’re not going to be here very long; they always wait for the first few recruits to wash out. The empress has a budget, you know.”

  I’m well aware. Ever since the Year Without a Summer, when crops failed and the coffers never filled, Elisa has had to be circumspect about how she outfits and arms her Royal Guard. It also meant I got a smaller allowance than her ladies-in-waiting, even though I was her official ward.

  My mouth begins to water as soon as we enter the dining hall, because I smell yeast and butter and piquant spice. We line up, and instead of yellow slop, we’re served black beans seasoned with epazote, roasted peppers, and a chunk of fresh bread glazed with honey.

  “Is this a special occasion?” Aldo says. “I was expecting slop.”

  “It’s one of Hector’s reforms,” I tell him. “We’ll get a real meal about twice each week. Tradition was that Guard recruits grew strong and tough through deprivation, but Hector observed that they actually performed better if they were well rested and well fed.”

  “It’s another reason army recruits try to transfer to the Royal Guard, if they show promise,” Pedrón says. “Royal Guard recruits are treated better.”

  Iván says, “That’s why they wash out as many as they can in the first few weeks. Guard training is expensive.”

  We find seats at the tables. As threatened, Pedrón sits at my left, a little too close for comfort, but I can’t move away because I’m hemmed in by Aldo and Iván on the right. Beto sits right across from us. He glares at me over his bowl as he eats.

  “You and Juan did really well on the course today,” I say, just to make conversation.

  A muscle in his jaw twitches, but Beto doesn’t respond.

  “I hope Valentino is all right,” Aldo adds.

  Beto slams his spoon down, so hard I startle backward on the bench. “What do either of you care?”

  “Huh?” I say, even as I try to calm my heart and steady my breathing.

  “You’re the one who hurt him.”

  “I didn’t mean . . . Is that why he collapsed? Because I injured him?”

  “He took some stuff for the pain,” Beto says. “It made him weird.”

  “What stuff?” I ask.

  Beto shrugs. “All I know is he held back with you yesterday, and you went for his kidney like a spiteful bitch, and now he might be dead. He was my friend.”

  I gape at him. If a boy had beaten a larger, armed opponent the way I had, I’d bet my golden baby rattle that Beto wouldn’t call him spiteful or a bitch. He’d use words like tough or heroic or brilliant.

  “Valentino did not go easy on Red,” Iván says. “He lost to her fairly. Anyone could see that.”

  “Who asked you, traitor?” Beto says. “Son of the Invierno lover. Is that why you’re sticking up for Red? You love Inviernos too?”

  Iván is deadly silent for the space of several breaths. Then he plunges his spoon back into his beans and continues to eat, ignoring Beto.

  “That’s right,” Beto says. “Back down, you Invierno-loving coward.”

  “Beto.” I set my spoon in my bowl and meet him glare for glare. “It’s time for you to find another table.”

  “Or what? I can sit wherever—”

  “Or you’ll find out if this spiteful bitch can thrash another much larger opponent while unarmed.”

  His mouth opens, closes. He looks around to see who’s watching. Everyone is too busy with their first good meal to care. He sweeps his bowl from the table and stands. “If it turns out that Valentino is dead, or if he’s washed out of the Guard because of this, you’ll be—”

  “Goodbye, Beto.”

  I watch him walk away, and I don’t relax my gaze until he’s seated elsewhere and shoving bread into his mouth.

  “Is it just me, or was there actual fire coming out of his ears?” Aldo says.

  “Watch your back, Red,” says Iván. “Valentino is his god. He won’t let this go.”

  “Well, I’m not an Invierno lover,” Pedrón interjects all of a sudden. “He was just talking about Iván, right? Not me.”

  Aldo and I exchange a puzzled look.

  “What’s wrong with loving an Invierno?” I ask. When Pedrón starts to sputter, I add, “I mean, I know they’re our former enemy, but Queen Alodia of Orovalle is married to one now.”

  “Right,” says Aldo. “Prince Storm. He was an ally to our empress even before he married her sister.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “Things have changed.”

  “Not that much, they haven’t,” Iván says darkly.

  We finish our meal in silence. Servants come to clear our dishes. We wait. The monastery bells ring the first hour. Finally Sergeant DeLuca enters the dining hall, several other Guardsmen at his back. He holds a long piece of parchment in his hand.

  Aldo takes a deep breath. “Time to find out if we made the cut,” he says.

  My vision narrows. My muscles tense, as though preparing to flee or fight. But there is nothing for my body to do but wait.

  12

  Then

  THE girl forgot, but the body knew.

  The body knew hunger. A constant ache in the pit of the stomach. The desperate pleasure of licking a dirty plate just for the taste of food.

  The body knew loneliness. The craving for comfort, the search for any sign of kindness. A smile from a stranger in the market was sustenance for weeks.

  The body knew pain, bruise and blood and needle.

  The body knew danger. The casual slap, the thunderclap of a sudden blow, the grip with no escape.

  The body waited.

  The girl forgot. But the body would always remember.

  13

  Now

  DELUCA looks at his parchment and calls out four names: “Recruits Sancho, Itzal, Beto, and Iván. Come with me.”

  Iván rises from the table, face displaying both incredulity and relief.

  “Congratulations, Iván,” I say.

  He nods acknowledgment, and follows the others from the dining hall.

  “No surprises there,” Aldo says.

  “I didn’t expect Iván to be in the first group,” I say. “I thought DeLuca hated him.”

  Aldo shrugs. “Iván is the brother of a Quorum lord. Not to mention pretty enough to make an angel cry.”

  “I thought maybe it had something to do with him being well trained and in excellent shape.”

  “That too.”

  It seems as though we wait forever—though it’s probably only a few minutes—before DeLuca returns to claim another group. This time, he calls Pedrón’s name, along with the other army recruits, Andrés and Luca, and one of Valentino’s remaining ducklings. “Oh, thank God,” Pedrón says, rising from the table, and I’m surprised to discover he had anything to worry about. He runs his hand through his short-cropped hair and grins down at me. “See you in there, Red,” he says, and I hope he’s right.

  The next group contains most of the Basajuan contingent, including the taller Arturo. The one after that sweeps up all of Valentino’s remaining lackeys, along with the shorter Arturo. My hopes dwindle along with the recruits still seated in the dining hall. Soon only six of us remain, including me, Aldo, the two boys who couldn’t complete the log roll, and two others.

  DeLuca returns. He pauses a long moment, staring down at us. He’s torturing us on purpose.

  At last he says, “Recruit Aldo. Recruit Red. Come with me. The rest of you may return home. Her Imperial Majesty thanks you for your service.”

  Aldo’s breath leaves him in a whoosh
. I stand up so fast I knock my knee against the table. As we hurry after DeLuca, I spare a thought for the boys left behind. I feel terrible for them. And so relieved they were cut instead of me.

  We enter the bunk room to a smattering of applause. Everyone is standing at the foot of his bunk, each smartly dressed in a brown vest that laces up over a linen tunic. The vest and tunic fall mid-thigh over black woolen pants and brown leather boots. Everything is cinched up by a leather scabbard, empty until we’ve earned the right to carry weapons.

  “I knew you’d make it, Red,” says Pedrón, grinning proudly in his new uniform.

  “Your clothes are folded on your bunks,” Sergeant DeLuca says. “Please change immediately.”

  As Aldo and I walk the gauntlet of uniformed recruits to our shared bunk, Beto says, “Yes, Red, change immediately. I promise I won’t look.” His voice is mocking, his intent clear.

  Aldo grabs his new clothes from the top bunk and gets started right away, whipping off filthy pants and shirt. The other recruits whoop and holler, poking fun at his skinny legs. The mockery is undeserved; Aldo may be small, but he’s also fit, with muscled thighs and an abdomen like a granite cliff.

  He finishes, stands at attention at the end of his bunk.

  “What are you waiting for, Red?” taunts Beto.

  I look to Sergeant DeLuca. Does he really want me to change in front of everyone? He returns my look with a raised brow.

  All right then. I’ll make this quick. I’ll ignore them all. I’ll be fine.

  I reach for the tie of my linen shirt. Someone whistles.

  “Red,” says Iván. “Wait.”

  He steps forward, stands in front of me with his legs slightly spread and his arms crossed. Aldo joins him, standing shoulder to shoulder with Iván, though a head shorter. Then another boy, whose name I haven’t bothered to learn—did DeLuca call him Itzal?—stands beside Aldo. They’ve created a privacy wall for me.

  I swallow a sudden lump in my throat and dart behind them. I’ll have to work as fast as I can, before any of them think better of helping me or DeLuca decides to put a stop to it.

  The first thing I do is fish out Bolivar’s key and transfer it to the pocket of my new pants.

  Everything fits, even the boots. The vest hugs my shape so perfectly it’s as if the royal tailor himself sculpted it. The pants and shirt are loose enough for comfortable maneuvering. The boots are stiff, but they’ll allow room for my toes to flex once they’re broken in. I waste a precious moment marveling at how good this uniform feels to wear. Like it was meant to be mine. Like I’m truly a Royal Guard recruit now.

  I tap Iván on the shoulder. “I’m finished. Thank you.”

  He and the others step aside, and we take our places before our bunks.

  DeLuca says, “You have the quartermaster and his staff to thank for your tailored uniforms. His eye for fit is extraordinary, as always. You will demonstrate your gratitude to the quartermaster by keeping your uniforms in good condition at all times. If you do not know how to launder or repair your clothing, you will be taught. Never enter the training arena in the morning with a uniform that is damaged or dirty. You will be given time each evening for laundry and ablutions. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” we respond in unison.

  “The next official cuts will be in three days,” he says. “Until then, we have work to do. The first two mornings demonstrated a shameful lack of fitness. We’ll remedy that immediately.”

  “Uh-oh,” Aldo whispers.

  “You will spend the afternoon running the walls.”

  Several boys groan loudly.

  DeLuca says, “Complaining is taken into consideration when determining cuts,” and the boys fall immediately silent. “You must complete ten full laps around the palace. If you complete them before the dinner bell, you’ll be allowed free time tomorrow evening.”

  The other boys look glum at this announcement, but I’m secretly thrilled. I may be small and not as strong as the others, but I can run. I’ve run the walls plenty of times with Hector. Sometimes even with Mara. I love looking out over the eastern rooftops to the swooping desert dunes, and over the western rooftops to the endless azure sea. I love the fresh air and wide-open sky, the solid stone beneath my feet and the cheery hellos I get from palace guards as I pass.

  And by finishing well, I’ll earn free time tomorrow. Time to find Bolivar’s quarters, maybe.

  “Any questions?” Sergeant DeLuca asks.

  I raise my hand.

  “Recruit Red?”

  “Do you have word on Valentino?”

  “He’s very ill. Too ill to return to the Guard. We expect him to make a full recovery eventually, but most of you will likely never see him again.”

  The duckling contingent, led by Beto, buzzes at this news, and their murmurings are both relieved and angry. I understand how they feel. I’m so glad Valentino is going to be all right, especially glad that I didn’t accidentally kill him. Because I liked him. He was smart and kind and an excellent candidate, and he was maybe about to become my friend.

  “Guardsman Bruno will lead you to the walls,” DeLuca says. “People will be watching. Do us proud.”

  And with that, we march in our new uniforms, out of the dark barracks and back into the sunshine.

  I finish third.

  It was harder than I expected, thanks to these new boots and the fact that I only got a few hours’ sleep last night. My breathing was fine and my endurance held. But my feet are covered in blisters—several of them broken—and each step is a stinging agony. I’m not the only one. We’re all moving gingerly as we return to the dining hall.

  More than half the first years are still out on the walls, struggling to finish, so there are plenty of empty seats. I make a point of sitting beside Iván, who finished fifth. Aldo is not back yet, or Pedrón, though I expect them shortly. The Basajuan boys are all here, though, which is no surprise; the desert nomads spend their days walking and running.

  “We can search the captain’s quarters tomorrow,” I tell Iván in a low voice.

  “I think we should find Valentino instead,” he says. “See if we can talk to him.”

  “Why?” I say around a mouthful of food. We’re back to eating cornmeal sludge.

  “Beto said Valentino took stuff, remember? I want to find out what it was.”

  “You think it might have been sweet dream. Like the poison given to Bolivar.”

  Iván nods. “If it is, we need to know who he got it from.”

  Makes sense. Except . . . “If any of the ducklings have free time tomorrow, they’ll probably use it to visit Valentino. They practically worship him.”

  Iván snorts, which takes me aback because it’s almost a laugh. I’m not sure I’ve heard him laugh before, or even seen him smile. “Ducklings. That’s appropriate.” He takes a bite of sludge, swallows, then says, “You might be right. If Valentino is seeing visitors, it will be hard to get him alone.”

  “So maybe we investigate the captain’s quarters first, and visit Valentino at our next opportunity?”

  “Fine. Now let me eat.” With that, Iván visibly cuts me off, tilting his shoulder just so. It’s not quite like he’s turning his back on me, but almost.

  With a sigh, I slide down the bench to give him a little space, and finish my sludge.

  It’s full dark. Everyone has finished running the wall, though only some of us earned free time. We were shown to the laundry area—a dungeon with a low arched ceiling, filled with basins and washboards that stink of sweat and lye—and given a brief lesson on how to clean our uniforms. It’s astonishing to me that so many of these boys have never in their lives laundered even the tiniest sock.

  Afterward, a stray cricket serenaded us as we took turns doing our business in the latrine. Now we’re collapsed onto our bunks. Guardsman Bruno has just blown out the oil lamps, and the monastery has rung the tenth hour. I sink into the mattress, exhausted but grateful, Bolivar’s key now stuffed d
own my sock so it doesn’t fall out during my sleep. I’ve passed the first hurdle, survived the first cut. For once, I might fall asleep easy and stay that way.

  I drift off, as effortlessly as a cloud in the breeze.

  My eyes fly open when a hand presses down on my mouth.

  “Unngggh!” I try to speak, but someone holds me fast. Hands are gripping my arms and legs too, pressing tight, relentless. I can’t move at all. I can hardly breathe.

  “You got Valentino cut,” says a voice in my ear. It’s Beto. His damp breath is hot and so, so close.

  I try to whip my head to the side, but the hand on my face presses down until the slats of my cot dig into my skull. Beto is going to break my neck.

  “What’s going on?” someone asks blearily, and I can’t tell who because blood is rushing past my ears and bile is rising in my throat and there’s a pressure in my chest that’s familiar and comforting and terrifying all at the same time because it means I’m about to lose control of myself.

  “Stay out of it!” growls Beto. “This is none of your business. It’s between us and Red.” He kisses me on the forehead; his hot, wet lips feel like slugs against my skin. “Isn’t that right, little mula?”

  Mula.

  The pressure in my chest becomes a maelstrom. Tears leak from my eyes.

  “Aw, poor Red, are you cry—”

  With all my strength, I bite down on the fleshy part of his palm. Beto yelps, lurching backward as wonderful, glorious air fills my lungs.

  The others are startled enough to loosen their grip. I fling myself over the side of the cot and onto the floor. I’m on my feet in an instant. “Get her!” Beto yells.

  Beds creak as everyone around us wakes. I’m trapped between bunks, my back to the wall, as Beto and two ducklings approach. In the dark, they are looming shapes, like the shadow monsters from my nightmares.

  Hold back, a tiny voice says. Don’t hurt them. But the maelstrom has me firmly in its grip now, and I’m helpless against it.

  A shadow shoulder swings back, priming for the punch. I dodge left, grab his forearm as it sails past, use his own momentum to slam his fist into the wall.