"Sorry," Adam said, and then, "Hey, Rohan?"
"What?"
"Do you reckon Henry's asleep?"
"I'm not," Henry said.
"Oh ... well, hey, Henry?"
"Yes?" Henry asked, resisting a very strong urge to sigh.
"I wish Frankie were here."
"Me too," Henry said with feeling, knowing that somehow Frankie would have made them laugh over the purple soup and the pantomime, over the sneering Partisan students and their pompous headmaster. "Me too."
KNIGHTLEY VERSUS PARTISAN
Henry had meant to stay awake until the other students had fallen asleep, and then to have a look around the deserted corridors, but somehow, despite the hard ground and his desire to find out what really went on in the Nordlands, he'd fallen asleep after all.
Angry at himself because of it, Henry buttoned his shirt in silence alongside his classmates in the cavernous hall the next morning.
Rohan looked horrible as they dressed for breakfast, his face a greenish gray.
"You all right, mate?" Adam asked, knotting his tie. "Because you look a bit peaky."
"I'm perfectly fine," Rohan snapped.
"Because if you're ill," Adam continued, "I could take your place in novice foil."
"I'm just nervous, that's all," Rohan said, straightening his cuffs. "You would be too if everyone stared like you were some sort of heathen."
Adam reflexively raised his hand to the back of his head, which he'd left bare.
Theobold, who was lacing his boots nearby, looked up.
"You're both heathens," he said. "Coming here will do you well to remember it."
Adam clenched his fists. "It's your fault I got banned, Theobold. You know Henry and I weren't cheating."
"To each what he deserves," Theobold said, and then narrowed his eyes at Henry. "Why so quiet, Grim? Shouldn't you jump in to defend your friends like you always do?"
"From what?" Henry asked, rolling up his sleeping sack. "Your words?"
"Remember your place, Grim," Theobold hissed.
"Leave it alone," Valmont said, buttoning his jacket. "It's not worth it."
"Well I say it is," Theobold challenged. "Anyway, Beckerman, what's happened to your little hat?"
"Last call for bets on the tournament!" Jasper Hallworth said, interrupting. "How about you, Grim?"
"Him?" Theobold scoffed. "He hasn't a penny to bet with."
Henry shook his head.
"No, thanks, Jasper."
"Worth a try," Jasper said, shrugging. "Knightley's a sure thing this year, especially with yours truly fencing sabre."
"I really can't," Henry said firmly.
When Jasper left, Adam whispered, "I didn't bet either. Somehow, it isn't as much fun when you're not participating."
At breakfast they encountered the dreaded fish gelatin, which the Partisan students were enthusiastically spreading on their toast.
There were great quivering blocks of the stuff, inside of which were suspended tiny chunks of fish, including heads and tails, waiting on the tables.
"Eat up," Henry joked, sipping his tea. "Big day ahead."
"You first, mate," Adam said.
Even Henry ate his toast dry that morning.
After breakfast, all of the boys who meant to compete went off to rehearse or review, and Henry, Adam, and a handful of others were left to help with last-minute preparations.
Lord Havelock had volunteered Henry to squire the fencing match, and so Henry missed the opening remarks, instead double-checking that every sword in the fencing anteroom met regulation standards.
"I'm certainly glad to see you," Rohan said, sitting down next to Henry with some difficulty, as he was already wearing full fencing gear, including the mask.
"Yeah, well, I've made sure to put you down for the sword with the loosest bell guard and worst balance," Henry teased, trying to make Rohan relax.
Rohan's right leg was bouncing from nerves.
"So everything's in order?" Rohan asked.
"Just about," Henry said, ticking a box on his checklist. "How are you holding up?"
Rohan glanced around. The other fencers were congregated on the opposite side of the room, swigging water, doing extra stretches, or pantomiming sword passes.
The older boys, who could elect foil or sabre, were particularly terrifying, practicing moves that looked set to chop an opponent's head off.
"Is it just me," Rohan asked, "or are the Partisan students rather ... large?"
Henry's first thought was that Rohan was imagining things, but sure enough, when Henry looked again, he did notice that the Partisan students seemed a bit hulking, especially next to their Knightley challengers. Then again, they were from a different country.
"Don't worry, you'll be brilliant," Henry assured his friend, and then hefted the huge bag of swords. "I have to report to the tournament master with these before we start, but I'll see you after."
"Right. After," Rohan said, looking as though he doubted he'd survive that long.
"I'd wish you luck, but you won't need it," Henry said, staggering out of the room under the weight of the swords.
The fencing was set up in a large tournament hall, with spectators from Knightley along one side and spectators from Partisan along the other. Above their respective sides were school banners, and the Partisan students had made pennants, which they waved merrily, cheering for their own.
The two schools' fencing masters were set to referee, with Henry handling the scoreboard. A Partisan squire was situated at the opposite end of the hall with a large megaphone, interpreting the judges' calls and announcing the contestants.
Henry sat behind a large wooden scoreboard. Nearby he had set aside the first two foils to wait for their respective contestants. He stared out at the Partisan crowd in their fur-trimmed uniforms, waving their pennants, and at the Knightley students, cheering and clapping in their stiff, formal coats and caps. He spotted Adam standing with Luther and Edmund, applauding along with the rest.
Somehow, without their noticing, they had become part of Knightley, Henry thought. And then, turning his attention back to the scoreboard, Henry waited, his heart pounding, for the games to begin.
"And now, in novice fencing," the Partisan squire called, and the first contestants stepped forward, accepting their designated swords from Henry, "James St. Fitzroy of Knightley Academy against Luon Muirwold of Partisan School, fencing foil to five hits."
James and Luon took their places across from each other on the piste, waiting for the signal to start.
Henry's view at the scoreboard was from behind James, and the match began so quickly that Henry nearly missed it, with James and Luon meeting at the center of the piste, and James landing a quick hit.
Knightley cheered, and Henry hung a "1" on the scoreboard for James.
The players returned to their ends of the piste and went again, but it wasn't much of a contest--Knightley continued cheering as James swiftly dispatched his opponent with a final score of 5-1.
Henry reset the scoreboard to 0-0 as James and Luon shook hands and returned their swords.
"Well done," Henry whispered to James, and James, his blond hair matted to his head with sweat, smiled.
Henry readied the swords for the next pair, and when the Partisan squire called, "Rohan Mehta of Knightley Academy against Volomir Dusseling of Partisan School," Henry clapped his hand on his friend's shoulder and wished him luck.
Volomir, Henry noticed, was one of the larger Partisan students, and Henry wouldn't have thought him to be a first year.
Still, Rohan took his place opposite his hulking opponent, giving a curt salute and waiting for the call to begin, never betraying his fear.
Henry wished he were allowed to cheer along with his schoolmates as Rohan quickly landed a hit to Volomir's stomach.
With the scoreboard changed to 1-0, Henry turned his attention back to the match. Rohan, although not quite as flawless in form as Adam, was light and quick
on his feet--amazingly so. He was nothing but a blur to Henry, while Volomir seemed to stand still, his sword darting dangerously around him.
Volomir landed a hit high on Rohan's target zone, and Henry changed the scoreboard, hoping fervently that Rohan would win.
It was close, with a final score of 4-5, but the match went to Volomir.
Rohan removed his mask and shook hands with his opponent, and Henry watched Volomir pander to the Partisan crowd, pumping his fist in triumph, and then galloping toward Henry and throwing down his sword.
Rohan smiled ruefully, his chest heaving and his face trickling with sweat.
"You almost had him," Henry said, and Rohan nodded seriously.
"Next year," Rohan swore.
The fencing competition turned to the main attraction now that the novice fencers had gone, and Henry felt as though he was constantly hanging numbers on the scoreboard as the older boys' swords clashed and hit to deafening cheers.
Henry realized what Rohan had meant about the Partisan boys seeming so much bigger than their Knightley opponents, and as he watched Jasper Hallworth land a crushing blow to the side of a Partisan student's mask while fencing sabre, comprehension dawned. It wasn't that the Partisan students were taller or heavier, it was that they all looked like athletes, their muscles thick and their hair cropped short. The Knightley students spent their free hours sitting around their respective common rooms in front of chess and checkerboards, and they looked it.
Finally, after Henry was long sick of hanging numbers over the scoreboard, the last fencers shook hands at the end of their match, and the Partisan squire called the end results: Partisan led by two bouts.
Bad luck, Henry thought as the other students went off to watch the choirs compete, and he stayed behind to account for the swords.
Henry busied himself with his checklist, watching the Partisan squire on the other side of the anteroom do the same with the masks and gloves. The last of the expert sabre fencers were toweling off, and the room had a musty, postsport smell that Henry hoped wouldn't cling to his clothes.
"Hallo," the Partisan squire called, nodding at Henry.
"Hello," Henry said back.
"Rum luck we've got here," the Partisan squire said, indicating the boxes of gear he had to sort and account for. "Whadya do?"
"Sorry?" Henry asked.
"Whadya do, t'get stuck with equipment duty?" the boy asked in his Nordlandic accent.
"Nothing." Henry said, surprised. "At least, I don't think I did. But my head of year isn't particularly fond of me."
"I'm Meledor," the boy said, and Henry couldn't tell if it was his first or last name, but didn't think it polite to ask.
"Henry," Henry said, dragging the equipment over to Meledor's side of the anteroom. "What did you do, then?"
"What ha'ent I done?" Meledor laughed darkly. "Ten demerits this week at inspection."
"Inspection?" Henry asked.
As they sorted through the work, Meledor told Henry how he'd failed to tuck the corners of his sheets, correctly stow his spare uniform, iron the wrinkles from his trousers, tidy his work space--the list went on exhaustively. It seemed that Partisan was far stricter than Knightley, and with more severe punishments.
Henry listened sympathetically. He was fascinated to learn the differences between the two schools, to find out that Partisan admitted students who were members of the Morsguard--a sort of student scouts who sang songs about their chancellor, marched in parades, and took Sunday lessons in making the right choices.
"I cannae fathom how ye get on with that brown student," Meledor said while Henry helped him finish sorting the gloves by size.
"Rohan?" Henry said, puzzling through Meledor's slightly foreign way of talking. "He's one of my good friends."
"And yor folk at home don't mind?" Meledor asked.
Henry tallied the last of the large gloves and marked down the figure.
"Why should they?" he asked.
"Round here we call them heathen and leave them to their own, those who don' keep the same god."
"Well, that's a rather narrow way to live," Henry said angrily, shaking his finished tally to dry the ink. "You should get to know a person before you judge him."
Meledor finished his own count and followed Henry to hand in the lists to the tournament head.
"Why don't you educate women?" Henry asked daringly.
"Women learn from the world," Meledor said. "No need to fill their heads with troubles they may never encounter."
"Troubles like reading?" Henry asked skeptically.
"If a man wants his wife to read, he teach her and then she reads," Meledor answered, leading Henry through a narrow stone passageway.
"And if she wants to learn but he won't teach her?" Henry asked.
"An' if a servant in your country wants to learn but his master don't teach him?" Meledor accused.
"That's different," Henry said. "It isn't illegal to educate the lower classes. Your government's given privileges to half its subjects and taken them away from the other half for no good reason."
"All men in the Nordlands are equal," Meledor answered.
"Not having titles doesn't make everyone equal," Henry said. "I doubt you'd be friends with a boy who worked in the kitchens."
"If we are both ill, a hospital treats him who arrived first. If we are both hungry but cannae afford food, the chancellor provides us the same bread."
"But you would not be equally ill, or equally hungry," Henry said, thinking of the thin uniforms for the school staff.
"We are all born the same, what happens after is free will," Meledor said, pushing open a swinging door and signaling the attention of the tournament head.
After Henry was relieved of his squire duties, the choir competition had already ended in Partisan's favor, and Henry found his friends consoling Edmund.
"It's a cheat," Edmund wailed over the meat puree and carrots they'd been given for their afternoon meal.
"Actually, I thought Partisan was quite good," Adam said, causing Rohan to elbow him in the side.
"What are we watching next?" Henry asked. "Quiz or treaty?"
"Quiz," Rohan said promptly. "I want to see Valmont and Theobold embarrass Lord Havelock."
But Theobold, Valmont, and their teammate Luther didn't make fools of themselves at all.
By the end of the first round, they led by three points.
"Round two, where every question is worth double," Compatriot Quilpp, the quiz master, called. "At what age did pre-Longsword Treaty conscription laws bind boys to military service?"
Luther rang the bell first.
"Knightley?" Compatriot Quilpp called.
"Thirteen," Luther said.
"Correct. Two points to Knightley."
The audience applauded.
"What ancient weapon is said to be a cross between a pike and a scythe?"
Partisan rang first.
"A gisarme."
"Correct. Two points to Partisan."
Henry played along with the quiz in his head as he watched with his friends. It was strange rooting for Valmont. Not that he was rooting, exactly. But from his conversation with Meledor, Henry was becoming less and less a fan of Partisan School. Knightley had to win the tournament. Come on, Henry thought fiercely, win!
"What was the title of the boy who carried the banner of a knight?" the quiz master asked, and Knightley promptly rang in.
"A standard bearer," Luther answered.
Knightley was still up by three.
"Which ancient knight was famous for his orders to massacre every occupant of castles taken by force?" the quiz master asked.
Partisan took the point on this one, and the crowd cheered, as the whole match now depended on the next--and final--question.
"Final question," the quiz master said. "Which ancient order of knights is responsible for the idea of the 'note of hand'?"
Henry nearly laughed aloud. Knightley had this!
Valmont hit the be
ll.
"Knightley?" the quiz master asked.
"The Knights Templar," Valmont answered.
"Correct!" the quiz master said. The room erupted in cheers.
Henry grinned and clapped along with his friends, even though the results didn't matter to the overall tournament score, even though it was just novice level and they weren't particular friends with the boys on the team.
Valmont, at the front of the room with the rest of the quiz team, was smiling hugely, as though he were back at the Midsummer School for Boys all those months ago and his name had just been called on that fateful morning in the dining hall.
THE SECRET OF PARTISAN SCHOOL
The announcement was made just before dinner, and no one was surprised that Partisan had won the Inter-School Tournament.
"They bloody cheated," Adam grumbled.
"At what?" Rohan asked, clapping along politely with the rest of the Knightley students.
"How should I know?" Adam whispered back.
Henry didn't mind that they'd lost. Of course he'd wanted Knightley to win, wanted it very badly, but the more he thought about Meledor and his ten demerits, about the depressing food and the Morsguard, he had to admit, the Partisan students could use something to celebrate.
But then, come to think of it, so could he.
Because those rumors, the ones in the gossip magazines that he'd always been certain were nothing more than gross exaggerations? Now he wasn't so sure. Being there in the Nordlands, and seeing just a small piece of how things were, Henry could easily believe that anyone caught educating women would be given three years' forced labor or that shopkeepers would be required to display portraits of the chancellor in their windows.
As the students got ready for bed, Henry couldn't wait to get back to Knightley Academy in the morning. He wanted to make sure Frankie hadn't killed her grandmother, for one thing, and he wanted to see Professor Stratford and tell him about the Nordlands.
"Our last night in these sleeping sacks," Rohan said cheerfully, pulling the top half up to his chin.
And finally, with much whispering, and hushing of the whisperers by those who were trying to sleep, the hall quieted.
Henry turned over onto his side, watching the silhouettes of the other sleeping boys rise and fall in the gray-blue darkness. But he didn't close his eyes or try to fall asleep himself. Instead, he waited until he was certain that no one would notice, and then, as quietly as he could, Henry slipped out of his sleeping sack.
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