Wood cracked against wood across the guard yard, and a young soldier yelped and sat down hard in the dust.
"Again," Rama said. "And this time stop looking at my feet. My feet aren't going to hurt you."
"No, sir." Private Bayu climbed up, rubbing his elbow. He was nineteen, all knees and enthusiasm, and he held his practice spear like a man who had been told it might bite. "It's only that you move before I can see you decide to move."
"That's the problem you're going to fix."
It was past midday, and the sun had baked the yard to the color of dry clay. Three dozen soldiers of the royal guard stood in loose rings along the wall, watching. Pramono had ordered the drills open to every watch captain. Rama suspected that the order had been less about training than about letting the guard see the Shield of the Throne with a staff in his hands and sweat on his face. People trusted what bled.
