“Remember, head bowed, elbows tucked against your sides, palms up and level,” Takamoto said for what was perhaps the third time that morning as he led Yipachai up the gentle rise to the gate of the School of Breaking Waves.

  After the Banqilun had returned to Yipachai outside the School of Heavenly Flame the previous night—without Karu, who had already been shown to his new quarters—Takamoto had found them lodging at an inn. Then he had set to coaching Yipachai on how to speak and act when they went to deliver the other blades Harato had forged.

  Perhaps he felt guilty that the School of Heavenly Flame had rejected Yipachai, but it seemed Takamoto was determined to help him get accepted into a dueling school. Yipachai hadn’t asked why, but had eagerly taken in Takamoto’s teachings.

  The first time.

  Just when Yipachai had thought Takamoto was nearing the end of his lecture, Takamoto had begun again with nearly as much fervor as he had at the beginning.

  “I know, I know,” Yipachai said. “Sit back on my heels, don’t make eye contact, and speak only when they ask me a direct question. I’ve got it already.”

  The cart shuddered as it rolled over a dip between paving stones, and Yipachai reached out a hand to study the bundle of blades in the back.

  Takamoto opened his mouth to respond, but paused and gave Yipachai an approving look. “Very well, then. Let’s see how you fare.”

  The south wall of the School of Breaking Waves rose before them, similar to the wall at the School of Heavenly Flame, but it and the roofs of the buildings behind it had been painted a deep blue. Altogether, it was perhaps slightly less elaborate.

  Two sentries stood outside the gate, their robes a lighter shade of blue. In the courtyard on the other side, Yipachai could see a group of perhaps a dozen students practicing sword forms, moving in time with one another in response to the commands of an older instructor.

  “What’s your business?” one of the guards asked as they approached, his voice serious, but less gruff than Yipachai had expected.

  “We come to deliver blades for masters Dachi and Shiasawa,” Takamoto said.

  “Oh, you must be Master Takamoto,” the second guard said. “They told us we might be able to expect you soon. If it pleases you, I will go fetch the masters for you. No outsiders allowed, you know?”

  Takamoto nodded graciously and folded his hands behind his back to wait. He gave a gentle nod to Yipachai. So far, everything was going according to plan. At least they hadn’t dismissed Yipachai outright. Or insulted him.

  Before long, the guard returned with two other Banqilun men in tow. Their beards were a little longer than the guards’, their robes a slightly deeper blue. One had the typical dark brown skin and mossy green Banqilun hair, but the other’s skin was lighter even than Yipachai’s, his hair a brilliant orange-red.

  “Kitoku Dachi,” the red-haired one said. “At your service.”

  “Nata Shiasawa,” the other echoed. “At your service.”

  Takamoto bowed, and Yipachai followed, keeping his hands to his sides. The Banqilun way.

  His performance had officially started.

  “A pleasure to see you again, young masters,” Takamoto said. “Master Harato sends you his best. Yipachai, fetch them their blades, if you would.”

  Yipachai tried to ignore the feeling of so many pairs of eyes on him as he bowed again and went to the back of the cart. Just like they had planned, Kitoku’s blade was the easiest to reach. He quickly unwrapped it and returned, not even pausing to admire the master work he held in his hands. The sword was beautiful even while it remained in the scabbard.

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  Before the masters could say anything more, Yipachai knelt and bowed his head, proffering the sword just as Takamoto had taught him.

  “You trained a Hetanzou?” he heard Kitoku ask shortly before the flame-haired man was in front of him, drawing the curved blade out of its scabbard with a flourish and holding it up to the light to admire the sinuous pattern that shimmered along its length.

  “Indeed,” Takamoto said. “He learns quickly, and is stronger than he looks.”

  Yipachai’s hands shook with the effort of not saying anything, of not acknowledging the compliment or the young masters that were talking about him.

  “Interesting,” Kitoku said, returning and collecting his sword’s scabbard from Yipachai. “Your turn, Nata.”

  Yipachai rose on silent feet to retrieve Nata’s blade, then returned and repeated the process of kneeling, bowing, proffering the blade to the Banqilun man.

  Then, they seemed to forget about him. Both Kitoku and Nata had begun swinging, slashing, and stabbing their new swords through various sword forms, their movements fluid and balanced.

  His role fulfilled for the moment, Yipachai sat back on his heels and watched the masters. He thought he could see something of the ocean in their moves, as if the sea itself had taught them. School of Breaking Waves, indeed.

  At last, the two Banqilun swordsmen sheathed their blades.

  “They’re excellent,” Nata said. “Tell Master Harato that he has outdone himself. I’ll go fetch your payment.” He turned and jogged smoothly back inside the walled school grounds, his topknot bobbing as he went.

  Sensing that the ceremonial part of their time had ended, Yipachai stood and returned to Takamoto, who had already begun chatting with Kitoku.

  The latter turned to him as he approached. “And where did you get your blade, Hetanzou? It also looks well-made.”

  A direct question! Yipachai nearly heaved a sigh of relief at finally being able to speak, but tried to keep his voice smooth and respectful. “It was a gift from Master Harato.”

  Kitoku’s eyes widened. Like the rest of him, they were lighter than most Banqilun’s—almost golden, rather than the typical dark brown. “And did he teach you how to use it, too?”

  Takamoto answered for Yipachai, putting a huge, knobby hand on his shoulder. “This young man aided Master Harato in forging your blades, and the master deemed him worthy of a blade of his own.” Those spindly hands squeezed Yipachai, communicating a fondness Yipachai hadn’t expected to feel. “But as you know, the master does not practice the art of the sword himself, nor does he teach it.”

  Kitoku nodded along appreciatively, but then cocked his head slightly to one side and stroked his beard. “Then what will you use it for? Will you sell it? It should still fetch a hefty sum, even if it wasn’t made for anyone in particular.”

  Yipachai glanced up at Takamoto, asking permission. The older Banqilun nodded and released his shoulder.

  “It was made for me,” Yipachai said, then reassumed the posture Takamoto had taught him—kneeling, with head bowed and palms facing upward in front of him. “And I wish to put it to use. I wish to learn the art of the blade. Here at this school, if you will have me.”

  He’d recited it perfectly. Just as Takamoto had drilled it into him the previous evening and on their way to the school. They had to let him enroll after such a performance. They had to.

  “A Hetanzou blade disciple?” Yipachai hadn’t heard master Nata return, hadn’t seen him there just inside the gate, holding two large purses that must have been full of coins. “Kitoku, you’re not seriously considering it, are you?”

  Kitoku whirled around to face Nata, then back to look at Yipachai, then to Takamoto. Then his eyes returned to Yipachai, and a look of pity and—was that guilt?—crossed the red-haired Banqilun’s face.

  This can’t be happening, Yipachai thought. Not when he was so close. He had done everything correctly, never once deviating from the script Takamoto had prepared for him. It should have worked.

  “No,” Kitoku said, then coughed once to clear his throat. “No, we were just talking about master Harato when he suddenly asked to enroll.”

  Yipachai’s heart sank.

  Nata strode past the gate guards, still clutching the purses. “Good,” he said, then turned to speak directly to Yipachai. “Dueling is a sacred Banqilun tradition. If you want to learn to use that blade of yours, you’d be better off finding yourself a master outside of one of the schools.”

  There was that word again. Outside. Perhaps this master Nata Shiasawa meant well. But he’d just clearly told Yipachai, in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t belong there.

  Yipachai nodded and refused to meet Nata’s eyes. Or Kitoku’s. He couldn’t let them see that now-familiar sense of disappointment in him. That shame.

  So he looked to the only one who hadn’t rejected him. To the one who had helped give him the best chance of being accepted. Maybe Takamoto would say something, do something that would get them to change their minds.

  But Takamoto just shook his head. Time to move on, that look said.

  So they did. And for the whole walk back to their inn, the only sound between them was the sound of those squeaking cart wheels.