Which is a questionable idea. Many of these boys have had training, for true, but several haven’t had a lick. Any good teacher knows that the best way to determine someone’s aptitude is to try to teach them something.

The boy selects a wooden longsword. A good choice. He’s tall enough to make use of it.

“Now you,” DeLuca says, gesturing to Aldo. “Choose your weapon.”

“What?” I say, before I can think better of it. “Pedrón has four years and a full arm’s length on Aldo!”

DeLuca rounds on me, fury in his eyes. “Do you think the empress’s enemies give a roach’s ass if they’re fairly matched or not?”

“I . . . no, of course not.”

“Interrupt a training session again, and you’re short a ration.”

I’m about to protest further, but Aldo catches my eye and gives me the barest nod of his head. “Yes, sir,” I say weakly.

Aldo steps to the weapons rack. He chooses two wooden daggers.

“That’s two weapons, not one,” Sergeant DeLuca says.

Aldo’s expression reveals nothing as he returns one of the daggers to the rack.

“Make a circle, everyone!”

We do, and Aldo and Pedrón face each other, wooden weapons brandished.

“The match lasts until first blood—or until I call a halt, understood?”

“Yes, sir!” we all respond.

“We know that not everyone has prior training. Just do your best, and trust in our expertise to evaluate you according to your current skill level.” This was one of Hector’s reforms, and it’s good to hear DeLuca repeat it, even if I don’t trust him to follow through. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Begin.”

Pedrón lunges with his sword, creating a perfect straight line from shoulder to blade tip. It’s a pretty bit of choreography, but it’s too slow, and Aldo dodges easily.

“Saw that coming from way down south of Ventierra,” Aldo taunts.

Pedrón shrugs and gives Aldo a wry smile. Then, quick as a scorpion, he whips the sword around and whacks Aldo in the shoulder with the blunt side.

Aldo yelps as the momentum from the blow spins him, and he tumbles to the ground, landing hard on his stomach.

He groans, clutching the sand with his fingers, like he’s trying to get up but can’t.

Other recruits lean in, worry marking their faces. Not worried for Aldo, I’m sure. Worried for themselves. They see this exact punishment and humiliation in their very near futures.

But they didn’t see what I did. Aldo exaggerated everything. The flat of Pedrón’s blade barely hit him. It was a perfectly executed bit of theater for a boy who wanted out of a mismatch as quickly as possible.

Pedrón steps forward as if to deal a killing blow.

“Halt!” DeLuca calls. “Now help your fellow recruit to his feet,” he orders, and Pedrón does as commanded, reaching for Aldo and yanking him up.

Clutching his side, Aldo staggers over to stand beside me.

“Well done,” I whisper.

Aldo tries very hard not to grin.