“I came by it at Solcintra Pilot’s Hall, on Banim-Seconday in the first relumma of the current year.” He had more than one cause to remember the day well, though very nearly a full standard Year had passed. Er Thom licked his lips, hands stringently folded upon his knee.

“Testing that day established me as a second class pilot. Master Hopanik signed the license herself."

‘“Testing that day’,” Master ven’Ducci repeated. “Yes, I see.”

Er Thom felt his face heat, his fingers tightening convulsively. He would be calm, he told himself sternly. He would.

Master ven’Ducci picked up Er Thom’s license and held it in his palm as if weighing it for merit.

“It is sometimes the case,” he said, in the mode of instructor to student, “that the exhilaration of the test itself will call forth heightened response from a candidate. The results of such testings are not invalid so much as misleading. It may well be, young sir, that your proper rating at this time is second class provisional. It is certainly true that your results at these boards, over the time we have been working together, falls significantly short of the results one is accustomed to receive from solid second class pilots.”

Er Thom bit his tongue, refusing to beg. If he was a failure, if he lost his license this moment and spent the rest of his life balancing cargo holds, he was yet the son of Chi yos’Phelium—of Petrella yos’Galan. He would not shame his Line.

“So.” Master ven’Ducci glanced at the license and slid it into the pocket of his vest. Er Thom’s stomach twisted, but he sat still, and, gods willing, showed no distress.

“I will consider the proper course to chart from this circumstance,” the master pilot said. “Attend me here tomorrow at the usual hour.”

“Yes, Master.” Somehow, Er Thom managed to stand, to make his bow and walk, calmly, from the inner bridge.