The practice yard rang with the thudding of wood against the thick, sun-hardened leather padding on the practice posts. At the head of the yard, drillmaster Sir Karel called the standard strokes that were being practiced.

Five third-year cadets, under the direction of Sir Morton, an assistant drill instructor, moved among the boys, attending to the detail of the basic sword strokes: correcting a wrong movement here, changing the angle of a stroke there, making sure another boy's shield wasn't dropping too far as he struck.

It was boring, repetitive work under the hot afternoon sun. But it was necessary. These were the basic moves by which these boys might well live or die at some later date and it was vital that they should be so totally ingrained as to be instinctive.

It was that thought that had Rodney watching Horace now. As Karel called the basic cadence, Rodney had noticed that Horace was adding an occasional stroke to the sequence, and yet managing to do so without falling behind in his timing.

Karel had just begun another sequence and Sir Rodney leaned forward attentively, his eyes fixed on Horace.

"Thrust! Side cut! Backhand side! Overhand!" called the drillmaster. "Overhead backhand!"

And there it was again! As Karel called for the overhead backhand cut, Horace delivered it, but then almost instantly switched to a backhanded side cut as well, allowing the first cut to bounce off the post to prepare him instantly for the second. The stroke was delivered with such stunning speed and force that, in real combat, the result would have been devastating. His opponent's shield, raised to block the overhead cut, could never have responded quickly enough to protect uncovered ribs from the rapid side cut that followed. Rodney had become aware over the past few minutes that the trainee was adding these extra strokes to the routine. He had seen it first from the corner of his eye, noticing a slight variation in the strict pattern of the drill, a quick flicker of extra movement that was there and gone almost too quickly to be noticed.

"Rest!" called Karel now, and Rodney noted that, while most of the others let their weapons drop and stood flatfooted, Horace maintained his ready position, the sword tip slightly above waist height, moving on his toes in the break so as not to lose his own natural rhythm.

Apparently, someone else had noticed Horace's extra stroke as well. Sir Morton beckoned over one of the senior cadets and spoke to him, gesturing quickly toward Horace. The first-year trainee, his attention still focused on the training post that was his enemy, didn't see the exchange. He looked up, startled, as the senior cadet approached and called to him.

"You there! At post fourteen. What d'you think you're doing?" The look on Horace's face was one of bewilderment – and worry. No first-year recruit enjoyed gaining the attention of any of the drillmasters or their assistants. They were all too conscious of that thirty percent attrition rate.

"Sir?" he said anxiously, not understanding the question. The senior cadet continued.

"You're not following the pattern. Follow Sir Karel's call, understand?" Rodney, watching carefully, was convinced that Horace's bewilderment was genuine. The tall boy made a small movement of the shoulders, almost a shrug but not quite. He was at attention now, the sword resting over his right shoulder and the shield up in the parade position.

"Sir?" he said again, uncertainly. The senior cadet was getting angry now. He hadn't noticed Horace's extra moves himself and obviously assumed the younger boy was simply following a random sequence of his own devising. He leaned forward, his face only a few centimeters away from Horace's, and said, in a voice far too loud for that small amount of separation: "Sir Karel calls the sequence he wants performed! You perform it! Understand?"

"Sir, I… did," Horace replied, very red in the face now. He knew it was a mistake to argue with an instructor, but he also knew that he had performed every one of the strokes Karel had called.

The senior cadet, Rodney saw, was now at a disadvantage. He hadn't actually seen what Horace had done. He covered his uncertainty with bluster. "Oh, you did, did you? Well, perhaps you might just repeat the last sequence for me. What sequence did Sir Karel call?"

Without hesitation, Horace replied. "Sequence five, sir: Thrust. Side cut. Backhand side. Overhand. Overhead backhand." The senior cadet hesitated. He'd assumed that Horace had simply been in a dream, hacking away at the post any way he chose. But, as far as he could remember, Horace had just repeated the previous sequence perfectly. At least, he thought he had. The senior cadet wasn't altogether sure of the sequence himself by now, but the trainee had replied with no hesitation at all. He was conscious that all the other trainees were watching with considerable interest. It was a natural reaction. Trainees always enjoyed seeing somebody else being berated for a mistake. It tended to draw attention away from their own deficiencies.

"What's going on here, Paul?" Sir Morton, the assistant drillmaster, sounded none too pleased with all this discussion. He'd originally ordered the senior cadet to reprimand the trainee for lack of attention. That reprimand should have been delivered by now and the matter ended. Instead, the class was being disrupted. Senior Cadet Paul came to attention.

"Sir, the trainee says he performed the sequence," he replied. Horace was about to reply to the implication obvious in the emphasis the senior cadet placed on the word says.

Then he thought better of it and shut his mouth firmly.

"Just a moment." Paul and Sir Morton looked around, a little surprised. They hadn't seen Sir Rodney approaching. Around them, the other trainees also came to stiff attention. Sir Rodney was held in awe by all members of Battleschool, particularly the newer ones. Morton didn't quite come to attention but he straightened a little, squaring his shoulders.

Horace bit his lip in an agony of concern. He could see the prospect of dismissal from Battleschool looming before him. First, he seemed to have alienated the three second-year cadets who were making his life a misery. Then he had drawn the unwelcome attention of Senior Cadet Paul and Sir Morton. Now this-the Battlemaster himself. And to make matters worse, he had no idea what he had done wrong. He searched his memory and he could distinctly remember performing the sequence as it had been called.

"Do you remember the sequence, Cadet Horace?" said the Battlemaster.

The cadet nodded emphatically, then, realizing that this wasn't regarded as an acceptable response to a question from a senior officer, he said: "Yes, sir. Sequence five, sir." That was the second time he had identified the sequence, Rodney noted. He would have been willing to bet that not one of the other cadets could have said which sequence from the drill manual they had just completed. He doubted that the senior cadets would have been any better informed. Sir Morton went to say something, but Rodney held up a hand to stop him.

"Perhaps you could repeat it for us now," he said, his stern voice giving no hint of the growing interest he was feeling in this recruit. He gestured to the practice post.

"Take your position. Calling the cadence… begin!"

Horace performed the sequence flawlessly, calling the strokes as he went.

"Thrust! Side cut! Backhand side! Overhand! Overhead backhand!" The drill sword thudded into the leather padding in strict timing. The rhythm was perfect. The execution of the strokes was faultless. But this time, Rodney noticed, there was no additional stroke. The lightning-fast reverse side cut didn't appear. He thought he knew why. Horace was concentrating on getting the sequence correct this time. Previously, he had been acting instinctively.