It took a day or two for Percy to piece together that, in fact, George had been in danger of his life. Even remembering his earlier conversations, he couldn't quite guess how much the possibility had scared Fred. But, nevertheless, the hostess—Madam Tonks—had used the sparks as a way to gauge the mood of the crowd, before sending out the fire as a sign that he should be Healed.

Coincidentally, that was just about how long it took for Fred and George to consider that, perhaps, they weren't that much better than the other percullors after all. Instead, the argument went, they ought to join the others by becoming known as "Freddie" and "Georgie," to match the disyllabic trend. George had been easy to convince. Fred was more skeptical. How were they going to swap names? "Greddy and Forgie just don't sound right at all!"

But, swayed by George's sentiment, he'd come around. "You lot in? Perc-y, I suppose you don't have much choice. Johnny?"

"We're not percullors," said John.

"Too right you aren't. Missing a trick, innit? You could be Percy the Percullor. It'd sound neat."

"I'd be rubbish."

"Come on," said George. "Johnny."

"Oh, why not," said John(ny). "Good to change your name every once in a while. Freshen things up."

Percy, having at last built up a certain adequacy at laps, instead turned to Brutus' book in the mornings, before sparring in the afternoons against the stake, or whoever else was within range. It made him feel awkward the first few times, pacing over to Oliver's room to borrow it while the others were outside. But Oliver pressed it on him. "I invite them week after week, but nobody else wants to learn from it. You're the best thing that's happened to them, really, as I don't feel the need to keep nagging at them quite as much. Just as long as someone wants it."

"Do they even know how to read?" Percy asked. "Maybe they need something easier, you know, to get started with."

"I've offered to teach them, just with something practical! And it never works. But here, chapters three and four are the ones you want to start with."

Paging through, Percy quickly saw why. The first chapter was full of brash epigrams for how percullors like George or Fred could best deal with petiatori, beginning with illustrations of men in maces thwapping the flying raptors out of the sky. The second, somewhat longer, contained advice for percullors fighting against janiti, the fighters with rounded shields like Jeffy. A blocky hand had scribbled in the margins, with crossouts every other page and distorted doodles wherever they could fit. Some spilled over to the edges of the pages, so that they could only be seen when the book was closed and viewed head-on.

Then came chapter three. As promised, it was a guide for percullors handling saecutors like himself, and Percy had to piece it together backwards. What were saecutors doing, that Brutus was trying to defend against? Slicing off mace spikes? Taking advantage of their height, raising their shields? Trusting to the innate magic in the short swords?

For that matter, Percy thought, squinting at another paragraph, could he be sure there had ever been such a person as Brutus at all? On one page the writer seemed to be addressing elite volunteers who'd been trained in ministerial life. "Do not waste energy. Fight as if you were discoursing in the Wizengamot with a hoarse voice, and make every stroke count." The next, he'd be mocking slender petiatori who were scarcely taller than the excitable women who flocked to them after a victory. Maybe it had been just one man putting together various pieces of advice he'd overheard from very different fighters—that would make almost as much sense. Besides, the others seemed to imply that percullors fought janiti most often, so how would one person have learned so much about fighting all three?

He spent so much time trying to make sense of Brutus' practical advice, and was still so exhausted after the physical training, that he almost forgot that Oliver had nagged him about reading the fourth chapter as well. Again, it started out in an elevated register, addressing fighters who seemingly cared about the military campaigns of the day, whether that was subduing the centaurs in the west or the rogue elven armies up north. Something or other about how fighters ought to be a good example for soldiers, someone they could learn from.

And then, someone quite different seemed to be talking. A nervous man, knowing all about the omens slaves whispered to each other, absent any other magic. "Perhaps you know that a wizard who is killed will be given the chance to return and haunt the world. Never do such a thing! For the old slaves know well that a slave who does not accept death will be chained forever, cursed to serve his master in this world without end. Just like a soldier killed by goblins who chooses to haunt the earth will never see the light of day again, but endure forever in the darkest caves. Rather, you must face your death without fear. Only then will you be made complete in virtue."

"This," said Percy, "is rubbish!"

"Now you're coming along," Freddie cheered. "How long did that take you to come up with?"

"Who's to say that dying makes you virtuous? If you're properly dead, you're not talking to anyone, are you? And whoever heard of a haunting in goblin caves?"

"Brutus," Oliver said mildly.

"Do you really think there was such a person? Just one man, writing all this advice?"

"I'm not sure. Does it matter?"

Percy hesitated but finally said, "Yes."

"How so?"

"Well, let's say it really was just one man. Then, obviously, he wrote it all before he died—oh don't you start, Fred!"

"It's Freddie," said Freddie. "Please."

"All I'm saying is, there could be hauntings, or he seems to think so anyway. So if someone, still an active fighter, was to write all this down, trying to give other people advice, he'd have wanted it to be read."

"There are...circumstances...in which people retire from active fighting. Manumission or otherwise," said Oliver. "But please, go on."

"It doesn't make sense, that he'd want everyone else to know his secrets, rather than keeping them to himself. So he could win."

"Well," Oliver said, smiling, "maybe he thought that helping everyone fight well—beautifully—was the most important thing he could have done."

"More important than survival?"

"One presumes."

"You're impossible," said Percy.

"Do you have any better ideas?"

"No, for some reason we don't have any books about people I'm likely to actually fight!" He thrust the book back into Oliver's hands and stomped across the yard, purposefully turning his back as he rummaged through the box for a sword. By the time he'd picked it up and was swinging at the stake, Freddie had joined him with a secretive smile.

The next morning, Percy made a point of not looking at the book, even running laps for a little while before sparring with JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie. By lunchtime, he was bored. At least as a clerk he'd been doing useful work. Someone had benefited from his tedious day-to-day life. Who got anything out of him running laps?

When he did at last work up the nerve to approach Oliver a few days later, Oliver didn't turn to look him in the eye, but he did mention, "You know, you might be right. About there being more than one person writing those first few chapters."

"Do you really believe that?"

"We can't know for sure. You might be. And if there's more than one person, well, that's all the more reason to be reading it, isn't there? Different people would have different pieces of advice." He forced a smile.

"...Right," said Percy. "Thanks."

That time around, he began reading at the beginning. Well, percullors fought petiatori. Maybe there'd be something he could learn, too.