19 July, Karad Tor

Visited the old examination hall today. The building is still in use, though half the original chambers have been converted into administrative offices. Young Dwarves sit their Final Examination beneath imperial stonework carved when the Empire still had borders extending to both coasts.

One of the candidates was sick in the corridor before the morning session, and nobody mocked him. That surprised me, though perhaps it should not have. Every adult Dwarf present knew exactly what the week meant. The result will follow him for the rest of his life, and it may open offices to him or close them permanently. He will be fifty years old and someone will still ask what he scored at nineteen. There is something cruel in that, and something Dwarves admire in it.

I spoke briefly with an examiner afterwards who told me the system was fair because it treated everyone equally. I asked whether treating everyone equally at one moment in youth was the same thing as treating them fairly for the next two centuries. He did not answer. I should not have asked. I was a guest. Still.