Thinking of the poking mattress gives me an idea. I slip open the bedside drawer, grab my golden baby rattle, and shove it beneath the middle part of my back. It’s extraordinarily painful.

My back is deeply bruised by the time the bells ring once, sharp and startling, and something shoots through my blood that’s part relief, part exhilaration. It’s one advantage of having the soldier sickness, Hector says. I can be ready to flee or fight faster than just about anyone.

The bunk creaks as I slip off the mattress. I freeze a moment, listening, but no one stirs. I tiptoe to Iván’s bed and gently shake him awake.

He lurches up, banging his head against the top bunk. “Ow,” he says.

I shush him. “Get your shoes on,” I whisper. “Time to go.”

“Already on,” he says, slipping his booted feet from beneath his blanket and placing them on the floor. “Let’s get this over with.”

Together we creep toward the entrance to the bunk room. Someone flips over in their bed, muttering, and we go still. One of the recruits is sleeping with his arm hanging over the side of the bed, his knuckles resting on the floor. Next to him, the Arturos from Basajuan have climbed into the same cot together; they sleep with their arms wrapped around each other, one’s forehead snugged beneath the other’s chin.

When no one stirs, we continue our agonizingly slow journey, past the snoring army recruit, through the archway, and into the hall glowing with torchlight.

“You have a letter with the imperial seal,” Iván whispers. “Surely we can just . . . go wherever we want? Flash that seal to gain entry?”

“The prince’s orders are to let no one see us.”

He frowns. “How are we supposed to avoid all the patrols?”

“Just follow me. I’m going to move fast, so keep up.”

“But where are we—”

“Please stop talking.”

The exit from the barracks is sure to have a sentry or two. So instead of leaving that way, I usher Iván into the latrine.

“Is this an elaborate prank to humiliate me?” he whispers. “Lure me into the latrine, ambush—”

I can’t have him doubting me the whole way; I don’t have time for it. I shove Rosario’s letter in his face. “Go ahead. Read it.”

He does. His mouth forms an O. “That’s the prince’s writing,” he observes.

I say, “I don’t care enough about you to devise an elaborate prank, and I have no idea why the prince wants you to come along. But we have orders from our liege, and we must obey. Now will you please be quiet and follow me?”

Iván nods, handing the letter back, which I shove into my pocket. He makes a gesture as if to say, “Lead the way.”

It occurs to me to ask him how he knows what Rosario’s handwriting looks like, but I’d so much rather not talk to him.

Three torches line the back wall, just above the row of privies. I move toward the one on the right, step up onto the privy seat, and remove the torch.