The King's Guard

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.”

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.