Yipachai had to close his eyes while he and the rest of the novices finished their required slashes. He had to, because each time he opened them—whether he was actively working or pausing to catch his breath—one or more of the other boys was glaring murder at him.

  When at last they had completed their five hundred strikes to instructor Shuji’s satisfaction, Mamoru pulled Yipachai along to the dining area before the others had recovered enough to take a swing at him with one of their practice swords.

  “The instructors wouldn’t let them actually kill you,” Mamoru said. He hardly seemed to have struggled with the exercise. “But they’d probably let them get in a few good whacks before they stopped them. My brother says it’s part of the discipline of being a novice.”

  “Oh,” Yipachai said. “That’s…good?”

  Mamoru shrugged. “If it makes you work harder to avoid getting beaten again, the masters are generally willing to allow it.”

  “And if a novice dies because their peers took their punishment into their own hands?”

  “Then they probably deserved it, if the group decided to beat them that badly.” Mamoru paused, studying Yipachai for a moment. Then, his eyes widened suddenly, as if a thought had just come to him. “Oh, right, you’re probably forgetting—Banqilun have tougher skin than the other races. A little whack with a stick might hurt, but it probably won’t cause any lasting harm. But I don’t think the West Wind’s ever had a Hetanzou student before, so…”

  “So…what?”

  “Try not to do anything to make them hit you.”

  As if it were that simple. Be as strong and fit as these giant people that surrounded him, and have a complete understanding of the ways of their school and culture on his first day. Easy.

  Most of the tables at the dining area were already full. The other boys from their dorm huddled around a table, spreading their stools around it so as not to leave room for newcomers to join them. One of them, the one Mamoru had called “Mikio” during training, looked over his shoulder at them and scowled.

  “Come on, we don’t have a lot of time,” Mamoru said, leading the way to a large table that had once been lined with bowls full of thick noodles. Now those lines had been disturbed by dozens of students and masters taking bowls for themselves while the novice girls on kitchen duty tried to keep the table stocked.

  Yipachai picked up a bowl for himself, then followed Mamoru to the giant pots of steaming broth. A rich aroma wafted up from them, smelling faintly of the sea. They each ladled several spoonfuls into their bowls, then turned back around to seek out a place to sit and eat.

  “Do you think our roommates would—”

  “Yes,” Mamoru said, still scanning the dining area. “They’d probably hit you if we tried to sit with them. Let’s just eat so we can get started on the dishes before the whole kitchen is full of them.”

  The Banqilun didn’t say much while they ate, and Yipachai found he didn’t mind. His body was already exhausted, and lunch felt like the first time he’d been able to rest all day. The noodles were good, but not great, and he realized he preferred the Het way of preparing soup—another little indicator that he didn’t belong.

  In the relative quiet, Yipachai was also able to study Mamoru. If he looked closely, he could see the teenager behind that grown-up face and beard. Mamoru’s dark eyes were still young, still glancing around, as if he wasn’t quite comfortable in his surroundings.

  It made Yipachai feel a little better.

  After slurping down their noodles, Yipachai followed Mamoru past the tables where the food was served and around the corner of the wall that separated the kitchen from the rest of the dining area. On the other side was a surprisingly large space. A long line of tables had been arranged against the wall that separated the kitchen from the rest of the dining area. Two novice girls were just finishing up wiping the tables off with cloths when Yipachai and Mamoru arrived, their own chores seemingly complete.

  On the far side of the kitchen area, standing just under the edge of the roof, three massive basins had already been filled with water, and a stack of dishes nearly as tall as Yipachai was already waiting for them on a table next to them.

  Yipachai gave a pained sigh. He had been assigned kitchen duty before, but here in Amigawa—where everything was sized for Banqilun—it seemed it would be an even larger chore. At least he was supposed to have the rest of the novices in his dormitory to help.

  “Where do we start?” he asked.

  “Let’s each take a basin, eh? Can you reach?”

  “Of course I can—” Yipachai paused as he stepped closer to one of the wash basins. The rim of the thing was nearly up to his chest, so that he was suddenly unsure if he could really reach to the bottom of the basin if he had to.

  Mamoru, however, didn’t seem to notice his pause. The Banqilun had already lifted a stack of bowls into the basin, and was in the process of moving a second.

  Maybe one of the others will come in and take over for me, Yipachai thought as he stood on the tips of his toes to grab several bowls off the top of one of the stacks and lowered them into the basin next to the one Mamoru had chosen.

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  “The water’s cold,” Yipachai said. “How are we supposed to heat it?”

  “Just invoke it,” Mamoru answered. He picked up a l’anti wand that was resting on the table next to the scrubbing brushes. “Surely you can manage that, can’t you?”

  Invoke it. That would mean using Lan Banti. To do something as menial as washing dishes. Yipachai hesitated again, his hands hovering just above the water. “I…erm…”

  “Whatever, we only have one wand. Watch out.” Mamoru aimed the wand at the water in Yipachai’s basin, then sent a gout of green flames shooting out to it. As soon as the flames contacted the water, they disappeared without a sound. The water itself hissed and boiled momentarily before the heat dispersed and left the whole basin hot and steaming.

  Yipachai released a breath. It would take some time for him to get used to the casualness with which Banqilun used the art. “Thanks.”

  Mamoru grunted and repeated the process on his own basin as well as the third. Just then, the other novices started to trickle in, taking up positions washing, drying, replacing dishes, and otherwise refusing to look in Yipachai’s direction.

  Despite the awkward size of the basins, the brushes, and the dishes, Yipachai soon lost himself in the slow rhythm of work. Drop a stack of bowls into the soapy water, scrub them until they were clean, then set them aside for rinsing.

  While they cleaned, Mamoru occasionally leaned over and whispered various bits of helpful information in his ear.

  “That’s Hachiro, the one that’s a little shorter and with the darker hair.”

  “Still looks rather tall to me,” Yipachai mumbled.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  They went on like that for nearly an hour. Shohi’s father was a banker, Yoshito had a cleft palate, and Mikio was cold as a snake to just about everyone. Oh, and their next class was starting in about a quarter hour, so Yipachai should probably finish up with that last batch of dishes so he’d have time to drain and clean the wash basin.

  Once their chores were finished, Yipachai followed the rest of the group back outside, but this time, they walked all the way across the courtyard and out the gate in the same direction they had left that morning on their run.

  They followed the path for a short distance before veering off on a smaller trail through the trees. The hot afternoon air felt sticky in the forest, where not even the slightest breeze stirred through the branches.

  Soon, the path opened up into a rather large clearing. On one side, several logs had been cut and left standing on their ends. Sitting on one of those stumps was a young Banqilun man that Yipachai was already somewhat familiar with.

  Rurou Hirowa seemed to be the epitome of a young Banqilun man—a solid face with dark skin and eyes, a tightly tied topknot of dark green hair with a respectable beard that hung midway down his neck. Powerful shoulders and an easy posture suggested he knew how to use the sword on his hip.

  The sword Harato had made for him.

  Rurou eyed Yipachai and the others casually as they arranged themselves in a straight line before him. A flicker of recognition flashed across the master’s face and he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod as his eyes met Yipachai’s.

  Perhaps this won’t be so bad, Yipachai thought. After all, if Rurou remembered him as the one who had delivered the blade he treasured so much, he might…well, Yipachai wasn’t sure what he thought Rurou might do. Go easier on him, perhaps? Did he want that?

  Rurou stood, clasping his hands at his waist. “Welcome to your dueling lesson. For our new student, I will introduce myself again. I am Master Rurou Hirowa, and I have studied at the School of the West Wind since I was a novice like all of you. And now, it is my job to train you to duel according to the tournament standards. Now, which two of you would like to go first?”

  Five hands shot into the air around Yipachai before he had time to consider Rurou’s question.

  “Mikio, Shohi, you were first. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  The two boys remained standing, hands on the hilts of their practice swords, as the rest of the group sat on the log stools around Rurou.

  Yipachai watched as Mikio and Shohi faced one another and bowed deeply.

  “Lower, Mikio,” Rurou said. “If you dishonor an opponent like that in the tournament, the judges will look at you unfavorably.”

  Mikio corrected himself with a grumble, then he and Shohi straightened, turned around on their heels, and took a few purposeful steps away from each other.

  “Four full steps, Shohi. You look like you’ve got a Montililun’s stride.”

  Shohi flushed, but corrected himself, and Yipachai said a silent prayer of thanks to the mhonglun that he hadn’t raised his hand.

  Shohi and Mikio turned back around to face one another and bowed once more, straightened, then paused and looked to Rurou.

  “Don’t look at me,” the young master said. “Eyes on your opponent. Begin.”

  Both boys surged forward, but Mikio was the more aggressive of the two. He swung wildly from one side to the other, causing Shohi to hesitate and hop away. Shohi raised his sword to block, but Mikio’s slash was too strong. It carried through Shohi’s half-hearted effort, causing both swords to thump into Shohi’s side.

  “Stop!” Rurou called before Mikio could issue a follow-up strike. He hopped to his feet and strode forward, one hand held before him, then stopped in between the two combatants.

  “Mikio, that slash was out of control and sloppy. Any half-decent opponent would’ve seen it coming from the moment the duel began,” Rurou said, his eyes flashing like thunderheads. He whirled around to face Shohi. “And what was that block? Are your wrists made of water? A cut like that should never have broken through.”

  Rurou sighed, those eyes holding both novices as surely as if he held their tunics in a death grip. Yipachai suddenly realized he was holding his breath, but didn’t dare exhale in the silence of that rebuke.

  “Again,” the young master said at last, and the whole group of novices took a collective breath as the world suddenly lurched back into motion.

  Shohi and Mikio exchanged a bewildered look, then bowed to one another once more to begin the opening ritual of the duel. Took four steps apart from one another. Bowed a final time.

  “Begin.”

  The afternoon continued on that way, with pairs of novices taking turns sparring. Rurou cut in to correct them every few steps with scalding rebukes, so that Yipachai began to dread when it would be his turn in front of the class.

  After each of the other boys had stumbled through complete duels—some more than once—Yipachai stood on shaking legs and started for the front, but Rurou’s outstretched hand stopped him.

  “And where do you think you’re going, Hetanzou?”

  Despite his fear, a wave of indignation flushed through Yipachai. He felt his cheeks grow hot. “I’m the only one who hasn’t gone yet.”

  Rurou regarded him with a steely look. “No.”

  “What do you mean? I’m a student here as much as they are!”

  “And I can see your legs trembling from the run and training this morning. The only thing you’d get from a practice duel now is injured.”

  Yipachai gripped the hilt of his practice sword, his knuckles white. “But I can fight!”

  Rurou’s eyes narrowed as his brows drew together. “I suggest you stop arguing with me, novice, and be thankful I don’t set you up against someone twice your weight before you’re trained enough to fight against a paper lantern.”

  Yipachai fumed, but kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t easy. With effort, he lowered his chin and gave Rurou a deferential nod.

  “That’s better,” Rurou said, a slight smile on his lips. “You’ll get your chance when you’re ready.”