The four officers stood with their arms crossed and stared at the room until absolute silence had fallen.
‘Welcome to Vocans! I trust you have all settled in,’ Provost Scipio announced gruffly through his bristling moustache. ‘You are privileged to be the latest generation of students to grace the hallowed halls of Vocans Academy.’ Fletcher looked around, counting the other novices. The second years numbered twelve students, the same as them.
‘Our traditions date back to the first King of Hominum, over two thousand years ago,’ Scipio continued. ‘And though we are few in number, the battlemages that graduate from this institution go on to serve as the finest officers in the military, whether it be at the King’s pleasure or under the banner of one of our great noble houses.’
Fletcher saw Tarquin lean in and whisper to Isadora, whose tinkling laugh rang out across the room. He was not the only one to notice. Scipio’s face reddened with anger, and he pointed at the young noble.
‘You, stand up! I will not abide rudeness, not from anyone, noble or otherwise! Stand up, I say, and give account of yourself.’
Tarquin stood up, yet he seemed unshaken by the Provost’s anger. He dug his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers and spoke in a clear voice.
‘My name is Tarquin, the first in line for the Dukedom of Pollentia. My father, Duke Zacharias Forsyth, is the general of the Forsyth Furies.’ He grinned as the second years began to murmur when they recognised his family name. Clearly his father was one of the oldest and most powerful nobles in Hominum. Fletcher recognised the name Pollentia, a large, fertile tract of land that ran from the Vesanian Sea to the centre of Hominum.
Scipio remained silent, looking at Tarquin expectantly under two bushy white eyebrows. Tarquin waited for a few moments until the silence weighed heavily on the room. Finally, he spoke.
‘I apologise for my rudeness. I was only saying to my sister that I am . . . proud to be part of this fine institution.’
‘It is only out of respect for your father that I don’t send you up to your room like a child,’ Scipio harrumphed. ‘Sit back down and keep your mouth shut until I have finished speaking.’
Tarquin inclined his head with a smile and sat down, unfazed by the exchange. Fletcher was not sure whether it was confidence or arrogance that gave the boy his dauntless attitude, but he suspected the latter. Scipio stared at Tarquin for a while longer, then turned to the three officers behind him.
‘These are your three teachers; Major Goodwin and Captains Arcturus and Lovett. You will treat them with the respect they deserve and remember that whilst they are here educating you, good soldiers on the front lines suffer without their leadership or protection.’
Fletcher examined the two teachers he did not recognise. Captain Lovett was a raven-haired woman with cold eyes and a strict appearance, yet when she smiled at the noviciates as her name was announced, her face lost all of its harshness. Major Goodwin looked almost as old as Scipio, with a large, portly figure and a thick white goatee. He sported a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that rested on a red nose that hinted at a penchant for hard liquor.
‘Now, you second years must be wondering why you have been called down early,’ Scipio announced, causing the bored-looking second years to sit up in their seats. ‘I have an announcement that concerns you all. It may not be a particularly popular decision that we have made, but it is one made out of necessity. In the final exams and tournaments this year, both first years and second years will take part. Should any first year acquit themselves to a high standard, then they too shall be offered a commission and sent to the front lines a year early, where they are sorely needed.’
Immediate uproar ensued, but it was quelled with a bellow from Scipio. He held up a hand as the muttering continued.
‘I understand that this increases the competition for the few high-level commissions on offer for you second years. I remind you that you have had a year’s head start. Should one of the first years beat you, you don’t deserve the commission at all.’
Fletcher frowned at the announcement. So much for befriending the older commoners.
‘As for the first years, you may be worrying that you will be given poor commissions this year, when you might have been given better if you’d stayed on next year. To counteract this, you will only be given good commissions of a First Lieutenancy or higher, with the optional choice of a less prestigious Second Lieutenancy should you decide to take it. The winner of the tournament shall be given a Captaincy, the highest an untested battlemage can achieve.’