‘Is there no way we can help him?’
‘Tell me first, Premian, why you would wish to? You are not friends.’
‘My father taught me to loathe injustice,’ answered Premian. ‘Is that not enough?’
‘Indeed it is. Very well then, I shall help you.’
On the day of the finals, upon entering the examination room, each cadet was handed a small numbered disc taken from a black velvet sack held by the Chief Prefect, a tall, spindly youth named Jashin. Each disc was wrapped in paper to prevent the number being seen by the Prefect. It was a ritual intended to ensure no preferential treatment could be given to any student during the examinations; cadets would merely write the number of their disc at the top of their papers. At the close of the examination the gathered papers would be taken to the judges, who would mark them immediately.
Premian stood in line behind Okai, and noticed that Jashin’s fist was already clenched as he delved into the bag before handing the Nadir boy his disc. Premian followed Okai into the examination room, where desks had been set out in rows.
The examination lasted three hours and involved, firstly, establishing a logistical formula and a strategy for supplying an invading army of twenty thousand men, conducting a campaign across the Ventrian Sea; and secondly, constructing a letter of advice to the commanding officer of the expedition, outlining the hazards he must expect to face during his invasion of Ventria.
Premian felt exhausted by the close, but was fairly certain he had performed well. The questions were based on a real campaign of two centuries earlier led by the legendary Gothir General, Bodacas, after whom the Academy was named. Happily, Premian had studied the campaign fairly recently.
As the cadets trooped out, Premian saw General Gargan enter the room along with the other judges. Premian avoided eye contact and sought out Fanlon. The elderly tutor poured the cadet a goblet of watered wine, and the two of them sat for a while in silence by the upper window overlooking the bay.
The afternoon wore on and finally the Keep bell sounded. Premian joined the other students streaming towards the main hall to hear the results.
Gargan and the senior tutors stood on the raised stage at the south end of the hall as the two hundred senior cadets filed in. This time Premian looked squarely at the general, who was now wearing the full armour of his rank, gilded breastplate and the white cloak of a senior Guards officer. Behind him, set on wooden stands, were scores of shining sabres. When the cadets had taken up their positions, Gargan moved to the front of the stage.
His voice thundered out. ‘One hundred and forty-six cadets have passed the final examination and will receive their sabres this day,’ he said. ‘A further seventeen passed with credit. One cadet gained an honour pass. Thirty-six failed, and leave this honoured place bearing the shame earned by their slothful behaviour. In the time-honoured tradition we will begin with the passes, and progress to the honour-cadet. As your disc number is called, move forward.’
One by one the cadets moved forward and handed in their discs, receiving their sabres and bowing to their tutors, before marching to the back of the hall and standing in rank.
The credit students followed. Premian was not among them, nor was Okai. Premian’s mouth was dry; he was standing close to the stage and staring up at Gargan. ‘Now,’ said Gargan, ‘we come to the Honour Student – the cream of the Academy, and a man whose martial skills will help to maintain the glory of Gothir.’ Turning, he took the last sabre from the stand. Its blade was shining silver steel, its hilt embellished with gold. ‘Step forward, number seventeen.’
Okai marched from the ranks and up the short wooden steps as whispers began all around the hall. Premian focused on Gargan’s broad face; the man’s eyes widened, and Premian saw his jaw twitch. He stood silently, staring with undisguised hatred at the young Nadir.
‘There has been a mistake,’ he said at last. ‘This cannot be! Fetch his paper!’