KNIGHTLEY ACADEMY

by Violet Haberdasher

By midafternoon, the train was hurtling through the northern reaches of the country, an area that Henry had never seen. He stared out the window of their compartment, fascinated.

  Outside, he could see the coast, dotted with sturdy fishing boats and quaint seaside villages. Swelling beyond the occasional lighthouses was the channel, a murky gray expanse. Soon the train tracks veered further inland, revealing hills cresting so high that Henry at first thought they had to be mountains, before he remembered his geography. They passed stone castles and the crumbling remains of old military fortresses, and suddenly, they passed nothing at all but rocky land covered with an early layer of frost.

  “Nearly there,” Rohan said blandly, checking his pocket watch.

  A half hour later, they’d reached the border, and the train came to a screeching halt outside a squat gray building.

  “This is Partisan?” Adam asked, unimpressed.

  The door to the building opened, and six Nordlandic patrollers in two neat rows marched smartly toward the train, their breath clouding in the cold northern air. Henry and his friends watched as the Nordlandic patrollers, their green-coated uniforms made of thick winter wool, stepped onto the train for inspection. The Patrollers wore tall furry hats, and at their hips, alongside their peacekeeper’s swords, were nasty-looking wooden batons covered with metal spikes.

  When a patroller opened the door to Henry, Adam, and Rohan’s compartment, Henry and his friends surged to their feet and met him with a sturdy salute, as Professor Turveydrop had taught them.

  Their patroller was barely out of Partisan, from the looks of him, his face still cragged with acne beneath his tall hat. He frowned at Rohan, but returned their salute and then marched smartly from the compartment.

  After the patroller left, Henry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  It wasn’t as though he’d expected something horrible to happen, but Henry was surprised to recognize that when it came to the Nordlands, he was curious, yes, but also … afraid. And he rather suspected his friends felt much the same.

  Henry watched as Adam guiltily removed his school uniform hat and turned it over and over in his lap, as though the inside of that hat held the answer to what he should do about his yarmulke.

  Each of them lost in thought, Henry, Adam, and Rohan said nothing until the patrollers had exited the train and the steam engine again lurched to a start.

  The sky had started to darken during the patrollers’ inspection, and as the train continued its journey, the scene outside their compartment window was one of midnight blue mountain silhouettes and faraway lights of distant towns.

  “Blimey, can you believe we’re in the Nordlands?” Adam finally asked, breaking the contemplative silence.

  Henry shook his head, too mesmerized by the view out the window to reply.

  “I hope we haven’t missed supper,” Adam added. “And I hope it isn’t that rubbish food Sir Frederick was going on about—raw fish and meat jellies and that sort of thing.”

  “With our luck,” Rohan said with a small smile, “it will probably be nothing but bacon.”

  And despite their anxiety, the three friends grinned.

  They reached Partisan nearly a half hour after the border inspection. The rail station sat at the foot of a hill, at the top of which loomed the Partisan School castle, known as Partisan Keep. A moat gone to sewage encircled the hill, and a fat stone bridge flanked by two crumbling watchtowers was the only way across.

  The Knightley students were forced into two-by-two rows by Lord Havelock, and the first years were the last group to cross. Henry walked alongside Edmund, who hummed his choir section under his breath.

  The Partisan School was an ancient stronghold left over from the days of the Sasson conquerors, with slits for windows to deflect the course of harmful arrows. Everything about the place was eerily antiquated. Instead of modern electric lighting, Partisan used old-fashioned torches, which lit the way up dozens of worn stone steps and through an enormous wooden door that rather resembled a drawbridge.

  “Spooky, isn’t it?” Adam whispered to Rohan.

  Henry, who was behind his friends, tried not to smile as Rohan elbowed Adam in the side.

  But it was spooky, Henry had to admit. And freezing. Trying to keep his teeth from chattering, Henry followed the line of students through the drafty corridors and into Partisan’s Great Hall.

  Checked banners bearing the Partisan crest (an equal-armed cross inside a diamond) and the Nordlandic crest (three serpents and a star) billowed from the elaborate ceiling beams. The Partisan students stood in neatly formed squadrons, their thick wool uniforms trimmed with fur and gleaming with badges.

  Henry’s heart thundered with excitement and awe as he marched behind his friends. They came to a halt at the far end of the hall, where the High Table stood resplendent in front of an enormous stained-glass window that depicted victorious crusaders on horseback. They formed the lines from Professor Turveydrop’s drills, and at their year monitor’s count, saluted.

  Henry was glad for his height, as from his place he could see Headmaster Winter step forward and embrace the Partisan headmaster, a short, plump man in a fur-trimmed military-style suit so heavy with brocade and badges as to render the color of the fabric unrecognizable.

  Headmaster Winter, Henry noted with some amusement, had spilled tea down the front of his shirt on the journey—but at least his cravat was done and he’d remembered to replace his bedroom slippers with proper shoes.

  The short, plump man saluted Headmaster Winter, kissed him warmly on either cheek, and stepped up to a lectern. Immediately the hall quieted.

  “Welcome, Grand Chevalier Winter, Knightley Academy students, and distinguished staff,” he said in his thick Nordlandic accent, which butchered the vowels in a way that fascinated Henry. “I am head of Partisan School, Dimit Yascherov, and I cannae tell ye how glad I am to host this year’s Inter-School Tournament here at Partisan Keep.”

  Henry and the rest of the students clapped politely, and Henry couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d heard Yascherov’s name somewhere before.

  The feeling nagged at him all through Yascherov’s speech about the tournament festivities, which would begin the following morning with both levels of fencing and choir, to be followed by mock treaty and quiz, then oratory and composition.

  Finally Headmaster Yascherov bade the students to sit for supper at their year tables, which had been extended specially for the occasion. Henry stuck by Adam and Rohan as they walked toward the first-year table, which seemed nearly long as a train. Henry felt ridiculous in his formal jacket and especially in his rarely worn school hat, but was glad enough that they’d been forced to wear them, as it gave Adam some anonymity. Rohan wasn’t as lucky. The Partisan students stared.

  Their expressions, Henry noticed, were nothing like the surprised-but-resigned-to-being-polite looks that the other students had given Henry and his friends during their first week at Knightley. No, the Partisan students’ faces looked almost … disgusted.

  Rohan smiled bravely and pretended to ignore it, but Henry could tell that his friend was on guard. Henry didn’t blame him—even though he, Henry, looked unremarkable to the Partisan students, he was still guarded as well.

  They took seats at the farthest end of the joined-together tables, away from the Partisan students. As if prompted by some invisible cue, the Partisan students removed their hats and bent their heads, joining hands.

  Henry exchanged a look of horror with Adam.

  Wordlessly, Adam removed his hat along with the rest and joined hands with Henry and Rohan.

  The Partisan students recited a short thanks for the meal, gratitude for their strength and courage, and the hope that a common good would prevail.

  As the prayer subsided, Adam reached up and pulled the yarmulke from his head, stuffing it into his pocket.

  Henry didn’t blame him.

  The meal was served family-style, in large, plain bowls to reflec
t the lack of a class system, but Henry wasn’t fooled. When the Partisan School staff emerged from the kitchens with the heavy bowls and platters, Henry could see deep chilblains across their hands, and noted that their uniforms were of thin cotton that provided little, if any, warmth.

  “Looks like we’ve got purple soup,” Henry said, ladling a small amount into his bowl and passing the large pot and ladle down the table.

  Sir Frederick had warned them about the purple soup, but Henry didn’t think it was half bad. Then again, Henry had never had the opportunity to be a picky eater.

  Adam, to no one’s surprise, groaned when he saw their starter.

  “It’s beetroot,” he said. “My gran used to serve something like this, and it’s bloody awful.”

  Rohan, who put down his spoon after one mouthful, had to agree.

  Thankfully, the rest of the meal was less alien: roast beef with small, hard potatoes, and a clear jelly for dessert.

  “It isn’t fish, is it?” Adam asked, staring at the quivering blocks of jelly.

  Henry bravely took a bite.

  “Some sort of fruit,” he said.

  Adam still made no move to try it.

  “Honestly, it’s nice,” Henry said.

  “Just checking, mate,” Adam said, finally taking a piece. “I mean, you did like the soup.”

  After the meal, the Partisan students put on a small exhibition. There was traditional Nordlandic dance (which, per Adam, looked like a lot of pointless hopping and clapping), a student who juggled daggers, an original orchestral composition by some of the third years, and a masked pantomime done in an Eastern style, which seemed to be a parable about listening to one’s elders.

  Adam, despite sleeping for most of the day on the train ride up, yawned through the last half of the pantomime. Henry was tired as well. There was something about sitting for vast quantities of time that was even more exhausting than fencing.

  Finally, the exhibition concluded and a Partisan fourth year whose uniform was more heavily decorated than the rest showed them where they would be sleeping.

  Henry nearly laughed at the expression on Rohan’s face when they had a look at their sleeping conditions. Sleeping sacks had been laid out on the floor of a cavernous hall, like an enormous indoor camping ground.

  Well, Henry thought, it wasn’t as though there were seventy-five extra beds to accommodate the Knightley students, never mind their headmaster or heads of year.

  Henry and his friends chose sleeping sacks next to one another, changed into their pajamas, and climbed in.

  Candles were blown out, and gradually, the hall filled with soft snores and even softer whispers.

  Henry stared up at the high stone ceiling for ages, unable to sleep.

  “Hey, Rohan,” Adam whispered.

  “What?”

  “How do you like sleeping on the floor?” Adam asked.

  Henry tried not to smile.

  “I’d like it better if you weren’t keeping me awake,” Rohan snapped.

  “Oh, that’s right, you’ve got your big fencing match tomorrow,” Adam said.

  “Stow it, Adam.” Rohan sighed.

  “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.