“Yes, sir!” we respond in unison.

“The next official cuts will be in three days,” he says. “Until then, we have work to do. The first two mornings demonstrated a shameful lack of fitness. We’ll remedy that immediately.”

“Uh-oh,” Aldo whispers.

“You will spend the afternoon running the walls.”

Several boys groan loudly.

DeLuca says, “Complaining is taken into consideration when determining cuts,” and the boys fall immediately silent. “You must complete ten full laps around the palace. If you complete them before the dinner bell, you’ll be allowed free time tomorrow evening.”

The other boys look glum at this announcement, but I’m secretly thrilled. I may be small and not as strong as the others, but I can run. I’ve run the walls plenty of times with Hector. Sometimes even with Mara. I love looking out over the eastern rooftops to the swooping desert dunes, and over the western rooftops to the endless azure sea. I love the fresh air and wide-open sky, the solid stone beneath my feet and the cheery hellos I get from palace guards as I pass.

And by finishing well, I’ll earn free time tomorrow. Time to find Bolivar’s quarters, maybe.

“Any questions?” Sergeant DeLuca asks.

I raise my hand.

“Recruit Red?”

“Do you have word on Valentino?”

“He’s very ill. Too ill to return to the Guard. We expect him to make a full recovery eventually, but most of you will likely never see him again.”

The duckling contingent, led by Beto, buzzes at this news, and their murmurings are both relieved and angry. I understand how they feel. I’m so glad Valentino is going to be all right, especially glad that I didn’t accidentally kill him. Because I liked him. He was smart and kind and an excellent candidate, and he was maybe about to become my friend.

“Guardsman Bruno will lead you to the walls,” DeLuca says. “People will be watching. Do us proud.”

And with that, we march in our new uniforms, out of the dark barracks and back into the sunshine.

I finish third.

It was harder than I expected, thanks to these new boots and the fact that I only got a few hours’ sleep last night. My breathing was fine and my endurance held. But my feet are covered in blisters—several of them broken—and each step is a stinging agony. I’m not the only one. We’re all moving gingerly as we return to the dining hall.

More than half the first years are still out on the walls, struggling to finish, so there are plenty of empty seats. I make a point of sitting beside Iván, who finished fifth. Aldo is not back yet, or Pedrón, though I expect them shortly. The Basajuan boys are all here, though, which is no surprise; the desert nomads spend their days walking and running.

“We can search the captain’s quarters tomorrow,” I tell Iván in a low voice.

“I think we should find Valentino instead,” he says. “See if we can talk to him.”