It was sabotage after all. The warnings in those letters hadn’t just been empty threats.
“Thank you for telling us,” Henry said.
The professor’s expression softened. “Oh, Henry,” he said, as though they were back at the Midsummer School and once again Cook had refused Henry his supper for no specific offense.
“Really,” Henry stubbornly insisted. “We’ll do better. We have to. We can’t give whoever is doing these things the satisfaction.”
“I can call for some tea and biscuits, if you’d like,” Professor Stratford said kindly.
“No, thank you,” Adam said, and Henry stared at him in surprise. “We should be going.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Rohan mumbled.
Through an unspoken agreement, they took the servants’ staircase down and didn’t stop when they passed Frankie on their way out.
THE INTER-SCHOOL TOURNAMENT
Henry stayed behind after medicine the next day, telling his friends to save him a sandwich.
“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Grim?” Sir Frederick asked, frowning as he rolled up his anatomy charts and fastened them shut.
“I was hoping you might have a moment to talk, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Well,” Henry said, fidgeting with the strap on his satchel, “I was wondering if you knew … back when I took the Knightley Exam … if you knew what was at stake?”
Sir Frederick finished with a chart and frowned at Henry. “However do you mean?”
“I was wondering if you knew what would hap- pen … if I failed.”
“What are you failing?” Sir Frederick asked, surprised.
“Nothing. I just mean, back when you fought with Headmaster Hathaway at the Midsummer School to let me come to Knightley, if it had occurred to you that I might fail, say, languages, would you have known what was at stake?”
An odd look crossed Sir Frederick’s face.
“An experiment,” the medicine master said, “always begins with a prediction of what the results might be. I predicted that you would excel.”
“But if you had predicted wrong,” Henry pressed.
“Then my hypothesis would be proven false.”
Henry sighed.
“I know,” Henry said softly, “that Headmaster Winter’s job is dependent on mine and my friends’ success.”
“How do you know that?” Sir Frederick asked, raising an eyebrow.
“The same way I know that if one of us does poorly, the exam might be closed to all common-born boys in the future.”
“That’s just speculation,” Sir Frederick said, picking up an armload of charts. “And furthermore, in life, unlike in science, whatever happens is usually for the common good.”
Henry frowned, but Sir Frederick ruffled Henry’s hair and told him not to worry.
“The common good, not the common bad, prevails. You’ll see, my boy. Now run along after your friends. I have to set up for the second years’ practical exam.”
When Henry joined his friends, the dining hall was echoing with loud, boisterous conversations that all sounded to be about the same thing, from the small bits that Henry overheard.
“—the tournament, I’ve heard.”
“—event are you going to do?”
“—defending champion in history quiz.”
“—Partisan always comes out on top in fencing.”
“What’s going on?” Henry asked, sitting down across from his friends.
“You missed the announcement,” Edmund said, sliding over to join them. “They’ve set the date for the Inter-School Tournament.”
“For the what?” Henry asked.
“The annual competition,” said Edmund, who always knew everything because of his older brother, “between Knightley and our rival school, Partisan.”
“It’s supposed to be some sort of skills contest,” Rohan put in. “History quiz teams, fencing bouts, model treaty dispute sessions. But it’s mostly for the older students, anyway.”
“So when is it?” Henry asked.
“Next weekend,” Edmund said. “We’re apparently trying to avoid the bad weather expected to hit the Nordlands in November, so they’ve moved up the date.”
“Wait, we’re going there?” Henry asked, upset that he’d missed the announcement and didn’t know any of this. “To the Nordlands?”
“Last year they held it here, this year we go there,” Edmund said. “So are you looking to participate?”
“Me?” Henry asked, surprised. “I still don’t even know what it is.”
Rohan sighed and explained in full while Henry ate his sandwich. One weekend a year, the students at Knightley had a friendly contest against the students at Partisan, their rival school in the Nordlands. The students competed in all sorts of things—fencing, oratory, composition, model treaty dispute, history quiz team, even choir. First years competed in novice rounds, while second and third years competed in expert. Fourth years were too busy serving apprenticeships in their chosen specialties to be bothered.
While he listened, Henry nodded and smiled, but couldn’t help feeling a sense of dread that they were going to the Nordlands—even if the Partisan School was just a few kilometers from the border, at the southern tip of the Great Nordlandic Lakes.
No one went to the Nordlands. The border was closed except to diplomatic parties and natural-born citizens, but then, an envoy from Knightley was certainly considered a diplomatic party. Henry thought—suddenly, unexpectedly—of the sinister newspaper clippings he and Adam had received in the post.
The Nordlands. Well, he’d find out if there was any truth to the rumors soon enough.
They had fencing next lesson, and Adam, despite his recent injury, clamored about how he intended to sign up to fence at the Inter-School Tournament as they made their way to the armory.
“Just you wait, I’m going to slaughter those Partisan students,” Adam said.
“Er, right,” said Henry, while Rohan bit his lip.
“Mr. Beckerman,” the fencing master called the moment they entered the armory, “you’ll be sitting out this lesson due to your injuries.”
Henry had to stop himself from laughing at the look on Adam’s face, which was more injured than his side. But then, it wasn’t funny. How could anything be funny after Professor Stratford’s revelation about their marks at Knightley, about the weight of their actions?
Someone was out to get them, to make sure they failed. This wasn’t some dumb prank war or a schoolboy grudge.
It was real, and the stakes were terrifying.
On the fencing master’s orders, Henry and Rohan mechanically walked over to the equipment cupboard to pick up their foils with the rest of the class.
But Henry’s foil was missing. He stared at the empty cubby, a sense of dread thick in his stomach. Their saboteur had struck again.
“Mr. Grim! Is there a problem?” the fencing master called.
“Yes, sir,” Henry said with a sigh. “My foil is missing, and it’s the only left-handed sword.”
The fencing master frowned.
“It was here this morning, and I’ve misplaced the key to the storeroom, so you’ll have to make do with one of the right-handed foils today.”
Henry opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it. It was just too convenient that the key to the storeroom had gone missing as well.
“Yes, sir.”
Henry picked up a spare right-handed foil and tried to grasp it in his left hand. But it was no use—the grip plate was all wrong. Instead of providing grooves for his fingers, the grip dug into them.
He frowned at the sword and tried a few passes, but it felt as though the sword might fly from his hand at any moment. As an experiment, he switched the foil to his right hand, where his fingers easily nestled in the grip. Switching his stance to suit, Henry tried an advance-retreat-lunge and nearly tripped over his own feet.
Rohan caught Henry’s eye.
“Bad lu
ck,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “Are you going to be able to fence?”
“I’ll have to,” Henry said through gritted teeth.
The fencing master, apparently satisfied that he had fixed the problem, led the class through a form warm-up.
Henry fumbled along as best he could. It wasn’t too hard to do the handwork without the footwork added in.
The fencing master called an end to the drill and divided the class by skill level. Henry and the rest of the intermediates were to partner up and fence to three hits, then rotate.
Henry took his place across from Rohan.
“Go easy on me,” Henry said through his visor, his every instinct being to put his left foot forward, as he had learned.
Rohan nodded and gave a broad salute, which Henry returned.
And then Rohan started forward.
Henry fumbled his footwork and, with a useless riposte that missed Rohan’s blade by miles, was quickly struck square in his target zone. Rohan did go easy on him, but Henry doubted he could have landed a hit against Lawrence Shipley, the worst of the beginners, so long as he was fencing right-handed.
Henry and Rohan shook hands, and Rohan moved on to fence James St. Fitzroy, the undefeated checkers champion of the common room. But no one wanted to fence Henry.
“Sorry, but you could kill me with that thing.”
“I preferred you left-handed, Grim.”
“Maybe next time?”
“I’ve already promised Theobold next bout.”
Henry was grateful for the mesh visor that hid his expression as classmate after classmate refused the next bout.
It wasn’t as though he blamed them—what was the fun of an easy defeat against an opponent who couldn’t put up a fight?—but it still felt awful. As he stood there, his face going hot beneath his mask, Henry had the horrible sensation that he was back at the orphanage in Mid-summer, a small, gangly boy who was always picked last for teams, a boy who had learned to prefer the company of books to the company of the bullying, cruel orphans.
“I’ll have a go,” Valmont said, poking Henry in the back with the tip of his foil to command attention.
Henry nearly refused. “Kick your enemies while they’re down, is that the idea?” he asked, walking to position across from Valmont.
“More like watch you fall on your arse.”
Valmont gave a weak salute, which Henry returned.
“I want a rematch at chess,” Valmont said, surging forward and landing an easy hit into Henry’s stomach.
“I’ll play you again, but it isn’t a rematch,” Henry replied. “I beat you fairly the first time.”
“Hit!” Valmont crowed.
Henry scowled and willed himself to do better. He couldn’t let Valmont beat him 3–0.
One hit, Henry thought desperately. One lucky hit, that’s all I need.
Henry concentrated on his footwork and managed a passable advance. Through some miracle, he was able to disengage his weapon and put his back arm down to signal attack, giving him the priority. Hardly daring to believe it, Henry lunged forward—and tripped.
He sprawled hands-down onto the wooden floor, landing with a theatrical slap! Valmont, in the middle of an attempted riposte, lost his balance as well, tripping over Henry.
Henry, his face crimson with embarrassment beneath his mask, climbed to his feet.
“Sorry,” he said, offering Valmont a hand up.
Valmont sat on the floor, his sword forgotten at his side, his gloved hand grasping his ankle.
“You filthy servant,” Valmont sneered, pushing Henry’s hand away.
“I’m sorry,” Henry said again, angrily this time, hating that he was apologizing to Valmont for something that wasn’t even really his fault. “But are you going to be all right?”
Valmont struggled to his feet.
“Fine,” he snapped. But Henry could see that Valmont was favoring his right leg, making no move to put any weight on it.
“Is it sprained?” Henry asked, only now aware of their audience. The other boys had abandoned their bouts, preferring to stare at Henry and Valmont, who were known to be rivals.
“Of course not,” Valmont snapped, bending to pick up his sword.
Valmont adjusted his grip and made as though he wanted to continue the bout.
Henry switched the foil to his left hand, deciding to ignore the hindrance of having a right-handed grip plate.
“You’re certain you’re all right?” Henry asked again.
Valmont grunted and gave a small salute. His weight was still on his left leg, Henry noticed.
Valmont took a step forward, but it was more of a limp.
Henry lowered his foil to his side. “It is sprained,” he accused.
“Mr. Grim! Mr. Valmont! I saw you take a spill. Is everything sorted?” the fencing master shrilled.
Henry shook his head. “No, sir. Valmont’s injured his ankle.”
“So many injuries!” the fencing master cried, throwing up his hands in defeat. “Mr. Grim, please take Mr. Valmont to the sick matron for a cold compress.”
“Yes, sir,” Henry said, and then to Valmont, “come on, let’s go.”
“I’m perfectly fine, servant boy,” Valmont snapped.
“Don’t call me that,” Henry returned. “And no, you’re not. You need to put cold on or else it could swell.”
“Look at you, playing nursemaid,” Valmont taunted, taking off his mask and glove.
“More like remembering what we’ve been taught in medicine.”
Valmont took a few careful steps, putting as little weight as possible on his right foot. “I can go myself.”
“So go, then,” Henry snapped.
Valmont hobbled toward the door of the armory. The other students, although feigning that they had resumed their bouts, stared.
Henry felt a knot settle in the pit of his stomach as he watched Valmont limp off toward the sick matron by himself. It’s just Valmont, he told himself severely. You hate him. But even so, he looks hurt and … alone.
Henry sighed and followed after Valmont.
“What are you doing?” Valmont asked. He’d stopped in the corridor outside the armory and was leaning against the wall.
“I’m helping you to the sick matron,” Henry said. “What does it look like?”
Henry slung Valmont’s arm around his neck, and they made their way to the sick bay in horrible silence.
“You again!” the sick matron clucked at Henry.
Henry reddened. It was rather starting to seem that way.
“Valmont’s hurt his ankle,” Henry said, and then turned and marched out of the sick bay.
“Not staying with your friend, dearie?” the sick matron called after Henry.
“He’s not my friend,” Henry muttered.
Valmont hadn’t returned by the end of the lesson, so everyone headed to languages without him.
“He’s probably faking to get out of lessons,” Adam said as they passed beneath the gruesome unicorn tapestry on the way to Professor Lingua’s class.
“If he fakes too convincingly, perhaps they’ll amputate it,” Rohan said with a small smile.
“We can only hope,” Adam said. “Oi, Henry. Look alive, mate.”
“Sorry,” Henry said, shaking his head to clear it. On top of being lost in thought about visiting the Nordlands that weekend, he couldn’t forget how Theobold, Valmont’s only friend, hadn’t cared at all when Valmont limped off to the sick matron.
“Listen, Adam, we should be partners today,” Henry said after far too long a silence.
“Really?” Adam asked. “Because I thought you were all about my learning French rather than copying your work.”
“That was before,” Henry said.
Before. Already it seemed like ages ago, the days when Frankie would climb through their window with a deck of cards and a sly grin, convincing them to put aside their homework for a game or two. The days when their biggest worry was Valmont’s bull
ying, when Adam’s enormous appetite prompted midnight forays to the kitchens.
Professor Lingua waddled into the classroom with an armload of books, plunking one down between every two seats.
“Bonjour, classe,” he called, and waited for a response.
“Bonjour, Maître Lingua,” the students called.
“We shall be finishing our unit in French and turning to a review of Latin at the end of next week,” he said, his many chins quivering as he tried to catch his breath. “Thus, during the time we have left, we shall make use of the French you have learned.”
Henry made a mental note to put aside some time to review Latin.
“Translations,” Professor Lingua announced. “From French to English. No dictionaries on the first draft. You’ll be working in pairs.”
He assigned pages to each pair for translation, and then, with an enormous sigh, heaved himself into his chair.
“Page forty-two,” Adam muttered, staring dubiously at the unopened book.
Henry took out a sheet of paper and his pencil, then glanced at the book’s spine to see what they would be translating.
“It’s Dumas!” Henry cried.
“Who?” Adam asked blankly.
“No, this is good. I’ve read it before in the original French, so that should help.”
Henry turned to page forty-two. A sheet of paper fluttered out of the book and landed on the floor.
“What’s that?” Adam asked, reaching down to retrieve it.
“Dunno,” Henry said. “In any case, it’s not mine.”
Adam opened the piece of paper.
“ ‘Full of ideas, he sped off as if on wings toward the Convent des Carmes Descheaux—a building without windows.’ What’s this? It’s like a page of a novel.”
Henry grabbed it from Adam.
It couldn’t be—but it was. Henry smoothed the paper down on the desk next to their copy of The Three Musketeers and compared.
It was a finished translation of page forty-two.
Henry frowned, his eyes scanning back and forth between the documents. He could find no fault with the translation.
KNIGHTLEY ACADEMY Page 17