Fire and Thorns 00.7: King's Guard Read Free Page A

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

    W E’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.”
    “But that will ruin it,” Fernando says.
    Mandrano’s voice fills the barracks. “Did I ask you for your opinion on weapons? Do you think a recruit knows more about a Guard’s weapons than a twenty-year veteran?”
    Fernando bites his tongue for once, but it’s likely more from exhaustion than anything else. Or maybe he’s worried Mandrano will notice the state of his shoes.
    Mandrano comes to me last. “That is a lovely quilt, recruit,” he says.
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “It’s the envy of every little girl in Brisadulce. I saw them sitting on the wall today, staring at that blanket and asking their mothers if they could join the Guard so they could have one just like it. Is that what you want, recruit? You want a Guard full of little girls?”
    “If they can fight well enough to defend the king, sir.”
    “Are you talking back to me?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Tuck every bit of that quilt under the mattress, recruit. If I see even the tiniest edge, I will confiscate it