The Academy's eastern dueling court had a rule posted in three languages: victory did not establish truth. Raze thought it an excellent rule, particularly because nobody seemed to read it. By the time he arrived for the morning's comparative combat seminar, two students were already arguing about whose kingdom had produced the finest swordsmen. A third had offered to settle the matter with a wager. Professor Merrow stood at the edge of the sand with the expression of a woman watching a predictable illness run its course.
Fedora joined him at the gate. "You slept?"
"Six hours."
"Seven was the agreement."
"I spent the first hour lying awake. Does that count?"
"No."
"Then six."
She studied his face, searching for the headache he had described. "How is it?"
"Better. I haven't tried to force it."
"That is progress."
"Everyone keeps saying that as if I've learned to walk."
"Perhaps you have learned not to sprint into walls."
