The Empire of Dreams Read online

  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, hi
s 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 . . .