Knightley Acadamy 01

by Violet Haberdasher

"Obviously," Valmont sneered.

  "Could you be any more selfish?" Henry accused. "You're here anyway, aren't you? Do you know what would have happened to me if I'd failed the exam? I'd still be a servant scrubbing pots in the kitchens, eating cold scraps of leftovers, and sleeping in an unheated attic in the winter. So I didn't steal your glory or whatever it is you think I did. I gave myself a future, and what's more, I deserved it."

  Henry had never been so angry, had never loathed Valmont so much as he did in that moment. Valmont was without a doubt the most ungrateful, spoiled, self-centered brat he'd ever met.

  "I know," Valmont said.

  "What?" Henry unclenched his fists and looked up.

  "I know that, all right? That's what makes it so much worse. Because I'm not allowed to be mad at you. It's not like Harisford or some other boy from Midsummer passed the exam instead of me. No, it was the brilliant servant, the downtrodden orphan whom everyone felt so sorry for and let take the exam because of a loophole. For five years I'd been promised admiration and awe, and then a charity case came along, and what did it matter about my breaking some stupid curse when you changed five hundred years of history."

  Henry didn't know what to say. Valmont was, well, a person. He wasn't just some horrible monster sent specifically to torment Henry. From Valmont's perspective, it was rather the reverse. But he was still Valmont--none of this changed anything. He still called Henry and his roommates servant boy, Jewish boy, and Indian boy. He'd still tripped Henry in the hall and told everyone that Henry used to sleep in the barn with the pigs, and he'd still hurt Henry's arm with the bandage that first day in medicine. But now Henry knew the reason.

  "I hope this doesn't mean we're friends," Henry said.

  "Good. Me neither," Valmont spat.

  "Good, because we're not."

  "This doesn't mean I like you," Valmont said.

  "Obviously," Henry returned. "Is Sick Matron going to let you out by supper?"

  "She said she would. Why?"

  "Chess rematch after," Henry said. "Or you could just concede victory now and save yourself the rather public humiliation."

  "All right, I admit it," Valmont said, rolling his eyes. "You're better than me at chess."

  The rest of the week was devoted to frantic preparations for the Inter-School Tournament, with little time for anything else. Professor Turveydrop was beside himself in protocol, drilling the boys on Nordlandic table manners ("Fork tines up, boys, not down!") and phrases ("Refer to all professors with the title Compatriot, never Lord or Sir"); Sir Frederick spent a rather welcome lesson reminiscing about his years of hospital work in the Nordlands and completely forgot to assign homework; Professor Lingua glared at Henry as though he wished he could take back his earlier words and force Henry to enter the French oratory competition; Lord Havelock recruited Theobold, Valmont, and a rather horrified Luther Leicester to undertake the novice military history quiz; Adam sulked constantly; Edmund, who had joined the choir at his elder brother's behest, forever had his nose buried in sheet music; and the fencing master took aside two pupils, Rohan and James St. Fitzroy, and devoted all of his attention to their form, leaving the other students to "practice what they'd learnt."

  Rohan spent his evenings in the armory, leaving supper deep in conversation with James about feints and passes, and the library was empty most nights, giving Henry and Adam the luxury of sprawling their books while they worked--if they could concentrate despite the noise in the corridors. Jasper Hallworth and his crowd of "devil may care" second years were taking underground bets on the tournament and had set up shop in the annex across from the library. Boys in Henry's year, in a desperate attempt to learn more about the tournament, had adopted the habit of loitering outside the third years' common room. And two third years had been banned from the tournament for selling a cheat pamphlet, which, despite booming sales, turned out to be full of rubbish.

  Henry didn't mind that he wouldn't be competing in the tournament. He didn't need the whole school counting on him on top of everything else he had to worry about. He didn't need the pressure, and he certainly didn't want the glory. Even though nowadays his classmates were quite civil, he still remembered those first few days all too well, when eating his supper felt like an examination that could be failed by his dropping a knife or using the wrong fork.

  "I still don't see why Professor Lingua won't take it back and let us compete," Adam complained the night before they were to leave, with a glare in Rohan's direction.

  "At least you don't have to worry about anything happening during the tournament," Rohan said severely. "I could be disqualified at any moment for who knows what. I could be expelled."

  "You could also slaughter those smug Partisan students," Adam wailed.

  "It's only novice level," Henry said consolingly. But Rohan did have a fair point--the three of them weren't exactly lucky when it came to being around swords.

  Rohan sighed.

  "Henry's right, you know," he told Adam. "It's only first years--we don't count toward the overall tournament score. I doubt anyone will even notice the outcome. Besides, you might be relieved that you won't be calling attention to yourself."

  Henry frowned. What was Rohan talking about?

  Rohan indicated Adam's yarmulke.

  Of course.

  Henry had become so used to his friend's small, circular head covering that he barely noticed it anymore. But the Nordlandic people weren't known for their religious tolerance, and even though Henry was certain the tabloid stories were nothing more than gross exaggerations, they were certainly based on some truth.

  "Er, Adam?" Henry said. "Maybe you should, you know, not wear--"

  "I'm not taking off my yarmulke!" Adam protested. "Absolutely not. I should never have taken off my necklace, and you know what happened with that."

  "Suit yourself," Rohan said calmly, "but don't say I didn't warn you. I, for one, am glad that I'll be competing in a masked event, and after it's over I intend to stay well out of the way."

  Henry shot Rohan a sympathetic look. Being adopted by a duke couldn't change the fact that Rohan was brown-skinned and foreign-looking. And for all the Nordlands' boasting that they'd done away with their aristocracy, the Nordlandic people were known to be fiercely antiforeigners.

  Ironically enough, for the first time since Henry had gone away to school, he wouldn't feel like a lowly commoner. And yet, he would have traded all that in a moment if it meant that his friends could feel less anxious about their visit.

  The next morning, the bells sounded at far too early an hour even for Henry. And just before dawn, the red-eyed, half-asleep Knightley Academy students boarded a specially reserved train at Avel-on-t'Hems station express to the Nordlands.

  The journey took most of the morning and afternoon. Adam sprawled out over a whole bench in their compartment and promptly began to snore. Rohan sat reading a book without turning the pages, and whenever Henry asked him a question, Rohan looked up blankly and said, "Pardon?"

  Henry studied a Latin book he'd brought along, reviewing the declinations until he gave himself a headache from reading on the train.

  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.

&nb
sp; "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 reflect 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.