Within the Bardasi caste, instruction was not an adjunct to trade but one of its primary instruments. The caravans were universities in motion, and the teachers who walked among them were neither tutors nor caretakers, but custodians of formation. A youth assigned to a Bardasi instructor did not merely accompany the caravan; they were absorbed into its internal discipline. Within Jantaran society such students were treated well, but never indulged. Comfort was permitted only insofar as it did not dull perception. Respect was granted, but never deference. A student’s value lay not in who they were, but in how quickly they learned to see.
Beyond the borders of the Jantaran Union, the status of these students changed markedly. They were no longer merely apprentices but living collateral, entrusted to the caravan under conditions approaching ritual sanctity. Reputable caravan lords and merchant-kings—those with the wealth, stability, and standing to bear such responsibility—accepted them as one might accept custody of sacred gems. They were housed deep within the safest folds of the caravan, protected not only by guards but by reputation itself. To harm a Bardasi student was to declare oneself unfit for future trade, memory, or record. In this way, whole trade networks became strange, rolling academies of coin and wisdom, bound together by the shared understanding that knowledge outweighed plunder.
The teachers themselves were carefully chosen. Not for warmth, nor for gentleness, but for evenness. A Bardasi instructor was expected to speak to youth without softening truth, to correct without humiliating, to permit failure without allowing collapse. They were often individuals who had mastered restraint until it became instinct. Their authority came not from volume or severity, but from consistency. Students learned quickly that these jackals did not lie, did not bluff, and did not repeat themselves. A correction given once was never given again. The cost of misunderstanding was borne by the student alone.