By breakfast, three people had asked me for a practice bout, one had requested advice on avoiding light blades, and another had explained how I could have beaten Lucan more efficiently. The last boy had never spoken to me before. He borrowed the salt afterward, which somehow made the conversation worse.
Clara waited until he left before laughing.
"You should've asked him to demonstrate."
"I considered it."
"He'd have remembered an appointment," Tomas said, reaching for the butter. "They always do."
I looked at him. "That sounded experienced."
"People explain my barriers to me quite often."
Clara's amusement faded a little. "Who?"
"Don't start collecting names."
"I wasn't."
He gave her a look. She took a bite of toast.
Across the hall, Lucan entered with Perrin. His gaze caught ours, lingered on Tomas, then moved away. No remark, no sneer. I wasn't prepared to award him a medal, but silence represented measurable progress.
Tomas unfolded a sheet covered in small diagrams. "Are you both free this afternoon? I need someone to hit something."
Clara leaned over. "I'm free."
"The barrier," he clarified.
"I knew what you meant."
Our first lesson concerned national affairs, which ordinarily meant maps and arguments about trade routes. Master Edrick had both waiting when we arrived. He stood beside a wall map of Berken, tapping a road that crossed its eastern border into the neighboring kingdom of Veyr.
"Three Berken caravans have been detained at Veyran inspection posts during the last month," he said. "The merchants have been released. Much of their cargo has not."
A boy near the front raised his hand. "Then they've stolen it."
"The Veyran authorities claim the cargo was improperly declared."
"Was it?"
"In at least one case, the documentation was accepted at the same post six weeks earlier."
That produced a low murmur. Edrick let it settle before moving his pointer north, where the border followed a winding river.
"Separately, mounted men crossed near the settlement of Dunmere, burned a watch hut, and withdrew before the local garrison arrived. Veyr denies they were soldiers."
"Bandits?" someone asked.
"Possibly. Or soldiers without permission. Or soldiers whose government finds denial useful. We do not yet have sufficient evidence to distinguish those possibilities."
The boy in front folded his arms. "We should send troops across."
Edrick studied him. "How many?"
The boy hesitated.
"Who supplies them? Which crossing do you use? What happens when Veyr closes the bridge behind them?"
"I only meant we can't let them—"
"I understand what you meant. Now consider what you proposed."
I looked down at my notes. Hostile kingdoms, disputed borders, cavalry raids: familiar ingredients, stripped of their attractive packaging. I had heard people talk about fighting as though the decision were the difficult part. The work afterward tended to receive less enthusiastic attention.
Clara raised her hand.
"My father said merchants are taking the southern road now. It adds several days."
"And increases transport costs," Edrick said. "Which affects?"
"Prices," Tomas answered.
Edrick nodded toward him.
"My mother mentioned lamp oil in her last letter. The merchant said the wagons were taking longer."
The map became rather less distant. I had been thinking about soldiers at river crossings. Tomas was thinking about someone at home deciding how long to leave a lamp burning.
Edrick marked the longer route in chalk, then discussed stockpiles, alternate markets, and the expense of keeping men stationed where they could respond quickly. By the time he finished, retaliation seemed less like a satisfying gesture and more like a very large undertaking involving hungry people.
A student asked whether academy graduates would be sent to reinforce the border.
"Some already serve there," Edrick replied. "Others work in transport, healing, surveying, or administration. Useful service extends beyond throwing something bright at an enemy."
Several students glanced toward the combat specialists. Edrick waited for their attention to return.
"The emergency-service provision in your enrollment terms also applies to current students, subject to age and qualification. That does not mean you should expect orders tomorrow. It means you should have read what you signed."
I remembered several pages of admission conditions and a strong desire to finish them before lunch. Apparently, that deserved reconsideration.
Clara caught up with us outside.
"My mother made me read that part twice."
"The service provision?" Tomas asked.
She nodded. "I thought she was trying to frighten me into choosing something safer."
"What would you choose?" I asked.
"Field assessment. Scouting, perhaps."
Tomas looked surprised. "Really?"
"What?"
"I thought you'd prefer investigation."
"I might. I haven't decided everything." She shifted her books against her hip. "I just don't want to spend my life examining whatever someone else brings back."
There was enough feeling behind that answer that I left it alone.
Tomas looked at the diagrams tucked into his notebook. "Still free this afternoon?"
"Yes," Clara said immediately. "You're not getting out of it."
"I'm the one who asked."
"Then stop asking."
Bell assigned us a corner of the practice hall, a padded striker, and explicit instructions against turning a technical exercise into another duel. I accepted the striker without arguing. It resembled a short club wrapped in thick leather, less impressive than the carbine but considerably easier to use without attracting supervision.
Tomas placed three small barrier sections in front of a wooden stand. Their edges overlapped, faintly brighter where they met.
"If one breaks," he explained, "I should be able to replace it without releasing the others."
"Should?" Clara asked.
"That's why we're practicing."
I struck the middle section lightly. All three vanished.
Tomas stared at the empty space.
Clara looked at the striker. "Was that too hard?"
"No," he said. "I held them together."
"I thought that was the point."
"So did I."
He opened the birthday book on a nearby bench and found the marked page. We waited while he read, lips moving silently. Then he tried again.
The second attempt survived one tap. On the next, the left section turned sideways and clipped the wooden stand.
Clara jumped back. "Is it supposed to do that?"
"No."
"Good. Because that would be awful."
Tomas rubbed his forehead. I set the striker down before he could rebuild.
"Same pressure next time. We'll only change one thing."
"I don't know which thing."
"Pick one."
He considered the stand, then moved the sections closer together. Clara crouched to watch their lower edges while I repeated the first strike.
"There," she said. "The left one moved before you hit it."
Tomas frowned. "How much?"
"Not much. It bent toward the middle."
"Show me."
She traced the shape in the air. He asked her to do it again, then checked the book.
For the next several attempts, she watched the seams while I supplied the same unremarkable tap. Tomas adjusted one section at a time. Progress became easier to notice once we stopped destroying everything quickly enough to learn nothing.
It was not, however, graceful progress.
"That bit's going pale," Clara said.
"Which bit?"
"The corner."
"There are twelve corners."
"That one!"
I lowered the striker while she pointed. Tomas turned to follow her finger, lost concentration, and dropped all three sections.
Clara groaned. He stared at her.
"You could number them," I suggested.
They both looked at me with the irritation usually reserved for someone who had allowed an obvious solution to remain unmentioned.
We numbered them.
After that, Clara's reports became considerably more useful. Section two twisted under pressure. Section one brightened when Tomas tried to replace the middle. He could correct either problem separately, but not both.
Sweat gathered at his temples.
"Break," I said.
"One more."
"You said that three attempts ago."
He looked ready to argue, then sat beside the book. Clara handed him his water and dropped onto the bench.
"I can see it going wrong," she said. "I just can't always tell you fast enough."
"You're telling me," Tomas replied. "I'm not fixing it fast enough."
Neither sounded pleased. Both had begun reaching for all the blame themselves.
I leaned the striker against the stand. "Then we'll slow down."
When Tomas stood again, we reduced the arrangement to two sections. I struck one, waited, and struck again only when he nodded.
This time, the left section broke.
The right stayed.
Clara straightened. "Keep that one!"
"I am."
The missing section reappeared crookedly, its edge overlapping too far. Tomas corrected it, breathing through his teeth.
I waited for his nod, then tapped the replacement.
It held.
Nobody spoke for a moment. Tomas looked between the two sections as though he didn't quite trust them.
Clara grabbed his sleeve. "You did it!"
He laughed, lost concentration, and dropped both.
I put the striker down. "Still counts."
"It absolutely counts," she said.
Tomas sat heavily, smiling at the empty stand. We had spent most of an afternoon producing two small shields and keeping one alive. Judging by his expression, the time had been well spent.
Bell checked our progress before dismissing us. He also passed on a brief message from Harlowe: the inquiry continued, and she had nothing further to share. I acknowledged it, then helped Tomas collect his notes. There was little else to do until she needed us.
On our way out, Clara stopped at the announcement board. A team demonstration had been scheduled for the following month, with navigation, controlled combat, and practical problem-solving.
Tomas read the notice over her shoulder.
"We could enter."
Clara turned. "You want to?"
He tucked the barrier book beneath his arm. "Yes."
She looked at me next, already smiling. I had been expecting to persuade them, perhaps even prepare a speech. Apparently, neither would be necessary.
"Provided," I said, "we number the corners first."
Tomas groaned. Clara laughed and pulled him back toward the notice to check the registration date.