completely open Knightley to common students. Think of it: a new era of Knightley Academy, where the school is no longer a bastion of the elite but an attainable prize for smart, ambitious boys. Boys like yourself.”

“But Headmaster Winter would open the exam to everyone if we succeeded,” Henry said with a frown.

“Would he?” Sir Frederick asked, raising his eyebrow. “Would he really? Or wouldn’t it just be two or three places reserved for commoners, a good show put on for the trustees?”

“Headmaster Winter would take everyone who was qualified,” Adam said with a frown, as though already unsure.

“You poor, ignorant boy,” Sir Frederick said, shaking his head sadly, his gaze filled with pity. “Headmaster Winter is unprepared for what’s coming. His motivation for opening the exam is all wrong.”

“And how is yours any different?” Henry retorted.

Sir Frederick smiled serenely and held up his hand. “Patience, my boy. Do you remember what you told me about the Nordlands? About the boys of Partisan School being trained in combat?”

“You said you didn’t believe me,” Henry accused.

“I lied.” Sir Frederick shrugged. “A war is coming, and those who can’t see it are blind to the ways of the world. War is inevitable, yes, but it is also for the best.”

Henry raised an eyebrow and exchanged an incredulous glance with Adam. How could war ever be for the best?

“Look what the Nordlands have done,” Sir Frederick continued. “Look at the wonderful world they’ve created. No aristocracy! All men as equals! The Nordlandic cause is worth fighting for. Imagine this tired, set-in-its-old-ways country led into the new century by a man like Yurick Mors!”

Henry gave an involuntary shudder. He could imagine it, all right.

Imagine it the way he dreamed up nightmares the night before an exam, the way he dreamed up horrible things he wished he could forget.

“And we’re to be the sacrifice?” Henry asked.

“Of course not,” Sir Frederick said. “I’m protecting you the way I’d protect my own sons. If you stayed at Knightley, you’d have to fight. And surely Lord Havelock has told you what would happen then.”

Henry knew all too well what Sir Frederick was talking about.

“Commoners captured in battle can be killed or tortured, while members of the aristocracy have to be ransomed and treated according to their status,” Henry said, as though in the classroom, reciting back what Lord Havelock had taught them on the first day of class.

“I’m saving you,” Sir Frederick insisted. “Giving you the opportunity to come over to the right side before it’s too late.”

“It’s already too late,” Henry said.

“We could run a military hospital,” Sir Frederick continued. “On the front lines. We could save lives.”

“Whose lives?” Henry insisted. “Boys our own age who have been plucked from their classrooms and forced to fight by ancient conscription laws? Or an army of Knightley students, all commoners, all sent off to command their peers, slaughtered on the battlefield while their aristocratic schoolmates are captured and given feather beds?”

“The greater number of common students we have at Knightley, the easier it would be for a Nordlandic victory,” Sir Frederick urged. “Don’t you want to be part of it all? To tell your grandchildren that you built their world, that you abolished the tired aristocracy and had a hand in making all men equal?”

Henry and Adam exchanged a horrified glance—Sir Frederick was talking about killing Knightley students, about making it easier to kill them.

“Actually, sir, with all due respect, I’d rather not,” Adam said.

“What?” Sir Frederick asked.

“I’m with Adam,” Henry said.

“I can see to it that you boys make history,” Sir Frederick growled, “but I can also see to it that you wish you’d never refused my generous offer. I can ruin you so much worse than you could ever imagine. Make those acts of ‘sabotage,’ as you call them, seem like a holiday.”

Henry gulped. How could he have ever been so wrong about Sir Frederick? How could Sir Frederick be so wrong about the world?

“Go ahead,” Henry said bravely. “Do your worst.”

“Oi, watch it, mate,” Adam murmured.

“No,” Henry said. “Because I know that the Nordlands have got everything wrong, and that I would never in a million years of a million threats support them—or Chancellor Mors. Because the Nordlands may not have an aristocracy, but they still have a ruling class—men restricting women from reading and writing is a step backward, not progress. The Nordlanders don’t tolerate anyone who’s different. They’d call Adam and Rohan heathens and sentence anyone who tutored Frankie to three years’ hard labor.

“So,