Fire and Thorns 00.7: King's Guard Read Free

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