The Empire of Dreams

by Rae Carson

  “I’m happy to help too,” Aldo says.

  Pedrón suddenly appears suspicious. “You’re not . . . I mean, you don’t think that will give us an advantage? We might get picked over you.”

  I shrug. “The best thing that could happen is that we all become such strong candidates that they can’t bring themselves to cut any of us.”

  Silence greets me. Then, “Is that even possible?” Pedrón says.

  “Why not? They do such a good job of pitting recruits against each other in competition that they’ve probably never bothered to find out.”

  Pedrón takes a few bites, chews thoughtfully. “So, can we get started after lunch then?”

  “No, sorry,” I say pointing to my eye, which is surely bright plum by now. “I got walloped last night, remember? Another night of sleep will set me to rights. So anyone who wants to practice the forms can meet up in the arena tomorrow night during laundry time.”

  “I’ll be there,” Pedrón says.

  “And me,” says Itzal.

  “Me too,” says Aldo.

  Iván remains silent.

  “We’ll spread the word,” says Luca.

  We get busy eating, but after a moment, Itzal asks, “Aldo, where did you learn the forms? You looked very at ease out there.”

  Pedrón snorts. “For once.”

  Aldo says, “Mamá hired a tutor for me.”

  “I thought you said you were raised on a ship,” I say.

  “I was.”

  “Who’s your mother?” Pedrón asks.

  “No one you’ve heard of. A merchant.”

  “A rich merchant, to be able to afford a tutor for classical swordsmanship,” Itzal points out.

  “She’s done well for herself,” Aldo says, his voice colored with pride.

  “And your father?” Iván asks.

  Aldo shrugs. “He wasn’t around.” He says it offhand, in the most casual tone, but his face is suddenly as blank as I’ve ever seen it. “He sent money for a while.”

  “Then he stopped?” Itzal says.

  “Then he died.”

  “Oh.”

  I give Aldo a sympathetic look. It obviously pains him to talk about his father.

  After an awkward silence, Pedrón blurts, “I wish my papá had sent money at any time in my life! But he was a poor fisherman, always drunk, not a coin to his name.”

  “Then how did you get into the Guard?” Itzal asks. “Sponsorships cost money.”

  I say, “The Royal Guard isn’t just for rich people anymore.”

  “Red’s right,” Pedrón says. “I came in second place at the annual strongman contest. That got me a position with the army recruits. I did well enough there to transfer to the Guard.”

  “Still,” Itzal says, “most people who join the Guard are rich. Sons of rich merchants, second and third sons of condes.”

  “Do you ever talk about anything besides money?” Iván asks.

  Itzal considers this. “No,” he says. “Just money. My father was a moneylender. I grew up thinking about it, talking about it, wanting more of it. Until the Guard opportunity came up, the thing I wanted most in the world was to become grotesquely rich.”

  “And now?” Iván prompts.

  “I still wouldn’t mind becoming grotesquely rich.” Everyone snickers, and the attention seems to make Itzal uncomfortable. “What about you, Iván?” he says, to deflect. “What do you want most in the world?”

  Iván’s eyes narrow, and I imagine his possible answers: I want my countship to regain its reputation. I want to prove myself to everyone. I want my father to stay far, far away. None of your business.

  He says, “I want to make it through all four years of training and become a Guardsman so everyone will stop questioning my loyalty.”

  “That’s fair,” Itzal says. “What about you, Pedrón?”

  Pedrón grins. “I want to marry the most beautiful woman in the world and have ten children with her.” His grin fades as he amends, “Well, I’m not sure I want to have ten children with her so much as I want to make ten children with her.”

  The other army recruits laugh and clap him on the back like he’s just said the cleverest thing in the world.

  “Is that all you think about?” Itzal challenges.

  Pedrón ponders. “No. I’m a deeply layered and complicated person. In addition to getting with beautiful girls, I often think about sword fighting. Oh! And food. I think about food a lot.”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “What about you, Red?” Pedrón asks. “What do you want most in the world?” He waggles his eyebrows as though hinting at something scandalous.

  I open my mouth to tell the truth, like I always do, but the words stick in my throat. It’s not that I want to lie; it’s that the truth is too precious and heartrending. So I say the second thing that comes to mind. “I want a girlfriend.”

  Pedrón slams the table with his palm in a gesture of victory. “I told you all she liked girls! That’s why she won’t visit my bunk.”

  “No, I just mean I want a friend who’s a girl. Someone my age. A few of the girls in the palace have been nice to me, but no one . . . It’s hard to be my friend, I guess.” The half-Invierno girl with a magic mark in her hair and slave tattoos on her feet isn’t exactly in high demand, even if she is a favorite of the empress.

  “Well,” Pedrón says, “now you have Aldo.”

  Aldo slams his spoon on the table and is halfway out of his seat, but he stops when I say, loudly, “Pedrón, if you insult someone one more time by calling them a girl, I will gut you.”

  Everyone looks eagerly to Pedrón for his response. He surprises me by looking sheepish. “I guess now that we have a girl in the Guard, it’s not really a good idea.”

  “It was never a good idea.”

  “Whatever you say, Red.”

  “And you.” I turn my fury on Aldo. “Stop acting like you’ve taken a sword to the chest every time someone calls you a girl. It’s not an insult. Girls are not cockroaches or rats or horse dung. We are people, and it’s perfectly fine to be one of us, so stop.”

  Aldo blinks up at me, his brown eyes huge.

  Pedrón says to me, “You’re kind of adorable when you’re angry.”

  I have to leave, and I have to do it right this second or what I did to Sancho is going to seem like a cheek slap. I stand, sweeping up my bowl. “I’m going to take a nap,” I say, turning my back on all of them.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” I hear Iván say, and the bench scrapes as several others rise from the table.

  Somehow Iván and I have to meet and sneak away from everyone else to investigate Bolivar’s quarters. I’m sorting through possibilities as I dump my bowl with the rest of the dirty dishes, and I’m almost out the door when someone tugs on my sleeve. “Red.”

  It’s Aldo, looking like a kicked puppy. “You were right,” he says. “I’ll stop being an ass every time someone compares me to a girl.”

  I stare down at him. Is he expecting a pat on the head? A biscuit? Simply for not being an ass?

  He says, “Are you mad at me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I said I was sorry!”

  “How nice.”

  He frowns. “I’ll prove it to you.”

  I decide to throw this sad puppy a bone. “I know you will, Aldo. Thank you.”

  He brightens. “Have a good nap!” he says, and heads for the latrine.

  I watch him go, feeling strange, like maybe I’ve given something up, yielded too much. Aldo is the only person in this place who seems to want to be my friend, and I’m not sure if conceding to him chips away at myself or gives me strength.

  “Red.”

  I jump, startled but not badly. It’s Iván this time.

  “You still have that key?” he says under his breath.

  “I do.”

  “Then let’s go. Quick, before someone sees.”

  Together we hurry down the hallway in the opposite direction, in
to the depths of the Royal Guard barracks.

  The officers’ quarters lie just below the ground floor. I know of a secret passage that would take us directly to the monarch’s wing from here, but Rosario would have to give me an imperial edict before I’d reveal it to Iván.

  “It smells a lot better here,” Iván says.

  “Some of the officers’ rooms back up against the palace wall and have actual windows,” I tell him. “They’re high and small, of course, too small for anyone to use them for access.”

  “I’ll never take fresh air for granted again.”

  Fresh air isn’t the only difference between the officers’ quarters and the recruit barracks. A plush rug runs the length of the corridor, a woven pattern displaying the de Riqueza seal, trimmed in Royal Guard crimson. Oil lamps light the passage instead of torches. All the door have locks.

  By some miracle, Iván and I have this hallway to ourselves. But probably not for long.

  “Which room is Bolivar’s?” Iván whispers.

  “I’m not sure. I’ve only been to this wing a few times, but I think I can remember the general vicinity of his room . . . I hope.”

  “Then how will we—”

  “We try the key in all the locks. When the key works, it’s Bolivar’s room, right?”

  “That’s a terrible idea.”

  “The worst.”

  We reach a doorway I think might be the captain’s, and I pull the key from my pocket.

  “What if this is the wrong room, and someone is in there?” Iván says.

  “If that happens, say we’re running an errand for Fernando, but we accidentally got the wrong room. Except you have to be the one to say it. I’m a terrible liar.”

  I place the key in the keyhole.

  “You think Fernando will back us up?”

  “Yes.” If this isn’t Bolivar’s room, it might be Sergeant DeLuca’s. Or the quartermaster’s. I take a deep breath and try turning the key, but it sticks, and the door does not open. I freeze, listening for sounds on the other side.

  Calmly, Iván says, “Try the next one.”

  We creep down the hall to the neighboring door. This time, the key turns with a soft click.

  Iván shoves me inside. He pulls the door shut behind us and locks it so no one can follow.

  We’re in a small but comfortable room containing a four-poster bed, a wide hearth with an oaken slab mantel, a small mahogany desk with a stool, and several shelves for clothing and personal items. Everything speaks to a tidy mind that prefers comfort and practicality to ostentation.

  A single high window lets in air and light, but perhaps not enough light to investigate. I consider lighting the candles on the mantel and desk, but everything is preserved and still, with a layer of dust across the desk and a bit of ash drifted across the floor from the fireplace. Maybe it wouldn’t be wise to leave evidence that someone was here recently.

  Without a word, Iván starts sorting through the shelves, careful to examine everything while also returning it folded or arranged exactly as he found it. I follow his example and start sifting through the desk drawer.

  “Tell me again what we’re looking for?” Iván says.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure,” I say, pushing aside a neat pile of parchment and an inkwell. “Anything. Maybe we’ll know it when we see it.”

  “Or smell it,” Iván points out. “Remember, sweet dream supposedly has a spicy scent.”

  There’s nothing of interest in the drawer. I shut it and move to the fireplace. “He thought he might have been poisoned through his tea, right?” I say. A kettle hangs from a swinging iron arm. I lift the top and peer inside, sniffing. Do I imagine that it smells faintly of cinnamon?

  “I think our captain may have a taste for sweets,” Iván says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look. Do they smell odd to you?”

  He thrusts a glass dish toward me. It’s filled with small, doughy balls that have been rolled in sugar and grated coconut. I give them an obliging sniff and immediately recoil.

  “They’ve gone sour,” I say. “Tamarind candies.”

  “But there’s a lingering spicy smell, yes?”

  Reluctantly, I give them another sniff. “You’re right. It’s faint. The teakettle smells like that too.”

  “The scent has faded. It’s been almost a week.”

  I stare up at Iván, thinking hard, and it strikes me all of a sudden how very tall he is. I say, “You think Bolivar was poisoned both ways?”

  “Makes sense,” he says. “Too much would be noticeable, yes? But if the poison is spread out, delivered in smaller doses through multiple foods . . .”

  “Then you end up ingesting a lot without even realizing it.”

  “Exactly.” Every time Iván gets to thinking hard, a little crease appears at the corner of his right eye. He returns the dish of rotting candy to the shelf. Then his gaze snaps to mine. He says, “Red.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him.

  “This could happen to any of us.”

  “Why do you say . . . oh. Because the poison is too diluted to taste. We might not even know we were taking it.”

  “And because the tea and the candy had to come from different sources, right? Whoever is doing this must have their hands in everything. Like supply routes. Or maybe they have total kitchen access.”

  I sit on Bolivar’s writing stool to give my sore rib a break. “Not necessarily. Maybe there’s a merchant in the city who sells both tea and tamarind candy in their market stall. Maybe that’s where Bolivar got it. We can make some inquiries.”

  “But if not . . .”

  “If not, then you’re right. Bolivar probably got both the tea and the candy right here in the barracks.”

  Iván starts to pace, and it’s almost comical the way his long legs force him to turn so often. I’m content to watch him because for some reason his pacing makes the warmth of home fill my chest. Then I realize why: Elisa paces like this, back and forth, staring at the floor, whenever she’s mulling a tricky problem.

  I miss her. And tiny Ximena. And especially Hector.

  Iván comes to a sudden halt, and he spins around to face me. “Where does tamarind come from?”

  “Down south. The jungles of Selvarica.”

  “And duerma leaf tea?”

  “East beyond the great sands. It grows in the desert foothills, in shady spots. It’s one of Basajuan’s biggest exports.”

  He blinks. “You knew all that off the top of your head.”

  “I had royal tutors for eight years,” I point out.

  “All right, Red of the royal education, tell me what all this means.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

  “If tamarind and duerma leaf tea come from two of the most distant corners of our empire . . .”

  “Oh. You’re saying there’s no way they were poisoned at the source.”

  “Exactly. They were poisoned after they arrived here in Brisadulce.”

  I consider this. “I’m not sure that tells us anything we didn’t already suspect.”

  “It tells us that we need to find out where—”

  A key rattles in the lock.

  I throw myself to the floor and slide under the bed. Iván follows my lead, making a loud clunk that I’m certain can be heard all the way to the Wallows.

  The door creaks open. Boot steps approach.

  There’s barely enough room under this bed; I must turn my head sideways to keep it from brushing the slats. My breath fogs the wood plank floor. My injured rib is a dagger in my side.

  Iván is taut in the space beside me, his shoulder mashed against mine. His knees poke my thighs; they are slightly bent to prevent his feet from sticking out from under the bed.

  The stool scrapes the floor as it’s whisked aside. The writing-desk drawer slides open. Someone rustles through the pile of parchment, rummages through quills and ink. The boots move toward the shelves.

  I hardly dare
breathe as I stare at the boots. They’re made of hard leather and tanned a rich brown-red; standard issue Royal Guard. Who could it be? Someone with very large feet and a slight inward pronation. Maybe it’s Bolivar himself, recovered and returned home. But no, items from the shelf are being tossed onto the bed. The flap of a cloak suddenly drapes over the side and drags on the floor, obscuring my view of the boots.

  Whoever it is searches for something, just like Iván and I did, except without any care for Bolivar’s things.

  He moves toward the fireplace. Metal squeals against stone as he grabs the poker and prods at the ash pile within. Then comes a loud, frustrated sigh, followed by a long pause.

  The boot steps come near the bed.

  The cloak disappears, then suddenly becomes a pile on the floor in the corner. A weight plunks down on the mattress, pressing the wooden slat against my ear, smashing my cheek into the floor. I’m staring at two worn boot heels, afraid to move the tiniest bit lest I scrape all the skin from my cheek.

  He sits on the bed a long time. Surely he can hear my heartbeat? Iván is as still and silent as death beside me. If my head hurts this badly, Iván’s skull must be near to breaking.

  At last the bed creaks as the man stands, and I barely hold my gasp in check as I’m overwhelmed with space and air and room to breathe.

  He lingers a long moment, turning in place as if to survey the room one last time. Then he steps out the door and closes it behind him. The key rattles, locking us in.

  We listen as his boot steps fade down the corridor outside. Finally Iván scooches out from under the bed, and I follow, brushing off my pants, which picked up some ash and dust from the floor.

  “Well,” Iván says in a low voice. “That was terrifying.”

  Standing up straight gives my rib a nasty pinch. “Do you think he knew we were there?”

  “I hope not.” Iván frowns. “Were you hurt? You’re wincing.”

  “I’m fine. Just need some rest. It seemed like he was looking for something.” I glance around. The room is disheveled now, the clothing on the shelves upended, the desk drawer half open, more ash spilling from the fireplace.

  “Who was it, do you think?”

  “Someone who was issued Royal Guard boots.”

  “That doesn’t narrow it down much,” Iván says.

  “And someone with a key to Bolivar’s quarters,” I add.