“She should also be removed from the dueling club,” Gordian added. “Or should she stay, because she’s one of the best duelists?”
Emily resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Frieda probably should be banned from the club, at least until her disposition improved. It wasn’t something Emily had thought about, but ... it was a good point. And yet, Gordian didn’t want her to go. The irony cut at Emily like a knife. Frieda was being offered the chance to get away with something bad because she was good at sports.
And she’d hate to lose it, Emily told herself. She is a good duelist.
She looked back at the Grandmaster. “If she behaves, she should stay,” she said. The club would give Frieda something to work for, if nothing else. “And if she misbehaves, she should go.”
Gordian quirked his eyebrows. “Is that your decision, as Head Girl?”
Emily sighed. “Yes.”
“Very good,” Gordian said. “I believe the next contest is in a couple of weeks, right? Maybe she will do well enough to go into the final round.”
“Yes, sir,” Emily said. That would be good for Frieda, wouldn’t it? Winning a contest on even terms, proving that she truly did have a place at Whitehall ... it would be good. But after all the rumors spreading through the school, it might turn to ashes in Frieda’s mouth. “I’m sure she will do well.”
“She’ll have to work hard to overcome some of the older students,” Gordian said. “They won’t underestimate her any longer.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I trust you will also try to keep your boyfriend from making matters worse. We don’t need angry parents descending on the school.”
“No, sir.” Emily rubbed her forehead, feeling a headache starting to pound under the skin. She’d have to have a talk with Caleb, soon. But she didn’t want to take her attention off Frieda. “I’m sure that Marian will recover.”
“Very good,” Gordian said. “You may go.”
Emily bit down on a number of sharp—and unhelpful—replies as she rose and hurried out of the room. It had been a long day and she was too tired for word games. And she didn’t know what Gordian actually had in mind. She walked down the stairs, trying to parse out the problem. What was he doing? Trying to deal with too many conflicting issues ...
... Or trying to push her into making a mistake?
She reached the bottom of the stairs and walked into the armory. Sergeant Miles was drilling a bunch of students in the correct use of the sword, alternatively encouraging or berating the younger boys as they took jabs at stuffed dummies. They wouldn’t be allowed to use real swords in training, Emily remembered from her own days. The practice blades were wood, charmed to deliver a nasty whack without causing real damage. She’d staggered back to her room covered in bruises more than once, back in the early days.
Not that I’ll ever be a swordsmistress, she thought, reluctantly. She knew how to handle a sword, but she was no match for Jade or Cat, let alone Sergeant Miles. Many of these young men will surpass me.
Sergeant Miles blew his whistle, scolded a young man who hadn’t put his blade down fast enough and then dismissed the class. Emily stepped to one side as a mass of sweaty students pushed past her, all male. It didn’t look as if there were any female students in this class, not entirely to her surprise. Men had always outnumbered women in Martial Magic.
“Emily,” Sergeant Miles said, walking over to her. The training room was hot, but he didn’t seem to be sweaty. “What can I do for you?”
“I need to talk,” Emily said.
Sergeant Miles nodded. “I’ll be in my office in five minutes,” he said. The sound of punching and kicking echoed down the corridor, coming from the changing room. “Go there and wait for me.”
Emily nodded, feeling a flicker of sympathy for the younger students. Sergeant Miles could deliver a devastating reprimand without ever raising his voice. Roughhousing had its time and place, she’d been told, but not in the armory. She turned and hurried to his office, feeling the wards part as she reached the door. It was unchanged, save for a large map of Farrakhan stuck to the wall. Someone had sketched an outline of the first and second battles for the city, then covered it with notes.
They’re learning more about using guns in combat, she thought. The Orcs had received a terrible surprise, the first time they’d encountered muskets. They’d have been slaughtered within seconds if they’d faced machine guns. Who knows what will happen next time?
Sergeant Miles entered, looking grim. “Emily.” He walked over to the sideboard and poured a glass of juice. “Drink?”
“Yes, please,” Emily said. “I ... I have a problem.”
“You have many problems,” Sergeant Miles said. “Which one are we talking about here?”
“Frieda,” Emily said. “You do know you’re listed as one of her guardians?”
“Barb convinced me to add my name to the list,” Sergeant Miles said. “However, she is required to request my assistance if she needs it.”
Emily sighed. “She needs help.” She went through the whole story, starting with Frieda’s increasing moodiness and ending with her assault on Marian. “I don’t know what to do.”
Sergeant Miles considered it for a long moment. “She has taken on rather a lot. I believe she even had a nasty fight with her teammates, a month or so ago.”
“I know,” Emily said. “Why did you let it happen?”
“Sometimes, you have to let things happen,” Sergeant Miles said, curtly. “I didn’t approve of the rest of her squad giving her a beating, even though I knew there would be no permanent harm. But, by the same token, I had to make sure that everyone knew there would be punishment if someone stepped too far out of line.”
Emily swallowed. “That could have happened to me ...”
“Only if you weren’t trying. Or if you were making a fool of yourself. Or if you were costing the team its chance at victory.” Sergeant Miles took a sip of his juice. “Believe me, there have been worse incidents. When I was a young man, newly assigned to a regiment on the border, we had a thief in the barracks. When he was caught, he was forced to run the gauntlet.”
“And died,” Emily finished.
“He went on to be one of the bravest soldiers in the field,” Sergeant Miles said, quietly. “I believe he died in combat, ten years ago.”
Emily felt sick. She’d seen a man run the gauntlet, back in the army camp. His beaters had not been gentle. He’d been covered in blood before reaching the end of the line. A healer could have fixed him up, if he’d been able to pay, but the lingering effects would have taken years to fade. How could a man who’d suffered like that go on to be a brave soldier?
“Trust has to be rebuilt,” Sergeant Miles said softly, answering her unspoken question. “Sometimes, that means taking your lumps like a man.”
I’m not a man, Emily thought. She remembered Lady Barb talking about respect, years ago. If you want respect, particularly from men, you have to earn it. And that means acting like a man.