MERKUS:
The sector bell rang for the second time that morning—three loud clangs that marked the end of sunrise. I sat at our modest dining table, smiling in anticipation, my half-eaten breakfast gladly forgotten.
As unconcerned by the echoing dins as she might be a brash and petulant child, my mother, Adeenas—or Addy to those few who could use the name and keep their lives—leaned over the fireplace and observed the burnt patches on Farian's tunic with a glee that deafened her to the pervasive chimes.
A mumble of complaints more indistinct than quiet announced Farian’s approach long before he ducked under the doorway and entered the room. My father looked at us in turn, his countenance promising conflict and humor capriciously, fluctuating between the confusion of his creased brow and the merriment of his raised cheeks. He was sniffing the air, trying to identify the mingling scents of singed fabric and burnt eggs, when his gaze came upon his charred tunic, and his furrowed brow came stuck. A single, loping stride ate the distance between him and Addy.
“Woman!” He reached past her, snatched his tunic from the drying rack Addy had purposefully set too close to the fire, and inspected the damage. “How could you?”
Addy stared up at Farian, so unperturbed as to be jaunty. “Please don’t dismiss my talent for destruction, else I might begin to feel unappreciated.”
Farian jabbed a calloused finger in her face, close enough to poke the tip of her aquiline nose. “Do not play with me, woman. Do you aim to displease? I expect a clean home, two meals a day, and my clothes washed and dried without damage. Can a man not expect this from his wife? Must I abstain from hiring help, spend all day attending to my duties, and then come home to domestic drudgery?” Farian was a simple man. Not the dull-witted simple of a fool, but the obstinate simple of a man who viewed the world in antiquated patterns of propriety. To his constant frustration, my mother took every opportunity to disenchant him of what she saw as a flawed perspective.
Addy crossed her arms. “I’d watch my words if I were you, dear.”
“Am I wrong?” Farian asked. “Do I not deserve a hearty meal and a clean home after a day's labor? Are you not my wife?”
“Are you sure you are not mine?” Addy retorted.
“Preposterous!” Spittle flew from Farian's mouth, his frustration clear to see. But the giant of a man, a paragon of stoicism, maintained a deep well where he kept such things. One slow breath later, his anger was gone, buried by an assertive tranquility.
“Your earnings are feeble against my own,” Addy said. “A pittance, really. Your role as The Bark’s reeve only goes to keep you busy—we do not need the coin or reputation it provides. Now, you overgrown halfwit, I suggest you apologize.” Addy delivered her insult flatly, her mischievous smile offsetting her harsh words. She was calm. Always. Rarely in expression but invariably in composure.
Farian’s arms fell to his side, and the last dregs of his will to contest his wife bled out of him. The entire scene was oddly reminiscent of the puppet plays I used to see performed for children in The Roots: the big, bad antagonist falling to the cunning machinations of a physically inferior but whimsically guileful adversary. It's funny how deceptive appearances can be.
With my parents’ antics nearing an end, and so too my entertainment, I made to leave, just about in time to be as late as I wanted to be.
***
The preparatory academy had moved from beside the sector office to a new site nearer The Roots. Built with taller windows and paler stone, a custom that aggravated imitation into parody and painted The Roots and The Bark in a dissonance of brown shades, the new building was a stark contrast to the old. Clean lines separated the bricks of its cobbled courtyard, the stone unbroken by the thistles and weeds that had cracked through in the old site. Symmetry ruled, each detail reflected upon its central axis. There was a deficiency about the new place, some adherence to structure and order that deprived it of character and warmth, as if it were sculpted in the mind of a cold, soulless being.
Upon entering the academy grounds, across the courtyard, I spied Aki limping up the steps, slow and steady and wincing as he went. The old boots I‘d given him the past week were gone, one foot bare to the morning chill, the other wrapped in a bloody strip of cloth. He was late. Not by much, but our society set stringent statutes for those of his stratum, particularly one admitted to the academy through merit alone—a scholarship of sorts where the city itself sponsors your attendance—who had even less leeway in matters of infringement. As such, Aki’s tardiness likely spelled his expulsion. I’d not let that happen. I was a little late on purpose; I would be a little later for his.
The ascending arc of the sun’s trajectory was near its end when I barged into the classroom. Heads spun. Sunlight fell in through the tall windows, and, for a moment, my absent ego allowing, I thought some god or other might’ve been shining a light on the impending spectacle.
Mistress Leahne stood at the head of the class, disdain spoiling her otherwise comely features. “Finally decided to show yourself?” She began to walk in my direction, threading past the seated students with all the paradoxical grace an affluent courtesan turned chaste zealot might possess. “Has no one ever told you the importance of being on time? This academy, granted to you by the graciousness of our beloved gods, is a privilege.” She grew closer and louder, each advancing step and ascending word meaning to batter against my will to resist her authority. “Do you know what you squander? No, you can’t. Of course, you can’t.” She came to a stop, her closeness another facet of her phantasmal attack. “Now tell me, without your usual propensity for fanciful trimmings, why you are late.”
I was ready for this vocal landslide. Mistress Leahne had used a similar ploy against Janus, a lanky boy born to one of the wealthier families in The Roots. He had crumpled under her assertive barrage, his jovial jests beaten into nervous sputterings. Leahne did little to hide her perverted delight when he had somberly returned to his seat, the light in her eyes further marking her lazy scowl a forgery. Aki and I had lost a friend that day. Little wonder; our seditious conduct had a way of isolating us. Well, mostly my seditious conduct. Mistress Leahne had tried to antagonize me into espousing her fanatical beliefs ever since she had joined the academy. I was less than receptive to her efforts. Worshipping godlings felt wrong. More than that, I was incapable of even trying, the mere consideration so repulsive as to be antithetical to my thoughts. My only choice was to halt her attempts at indoctrination. She had her blind faith. I had my stubborn perseverance. We would see which held victory.
I let silence take hold, let its dull hum mature into tension, and let the tension coax forth eager anticipation from my audience. And then, when the tension nearly pushed Leahne into action, I spoke.
“I am always late on principle, Mistress,” I said, my confidence giving a tune to the smirk dancing on my lips. “The principle being that punctuality is a thief of power.”
Leahne’s jaw tensed. Nostrils flared. A thick vein on her temple bulged with every beat of her quickening pulse. Behind her, murmurs broke out among my fellow students, who, unaware of the hidden jest, were more receptive to her reaction than to my act of rebellion. Janus, my once acquaintance and the last victim to fall to the lashes of her tongue, stared with shocked awe before a raucous laugh broke his stupor. Edon, the last surviving member of my social group besides Aki, looked about, unsure of what was happening. A haggard Aki smiled at me knowingly, the only one besides the mistress to gauge the depths of my insult.
“You!” Leahne elongated the word. “Out!”
The room fell silent.
“Might I inquire as to why?” I asked.
“Out!”
I shrugged and stepped out into the hallway.
It wasn’t long before I heard Headmaster Pakur's approach. Traversing the distance from his office, which was nearly the breadth of the entire academy, took him far less time than his sizeable weight had any right to allow, though being a Named—those commoners whose talents and skills elevated them beyond the second plateau—explained the phenomena well enough. Pakur squelched down the hallway towards me, utterly indifferent to the repugnance he inspired; sweat stained his underarms, fat rolled out of his tight cuffs and buttoned collar, lechery burned in his eyes, and the waft of his odor stung my senses.
“Merkus Au Farian,” he called. “I’ve you to thank for this, I see.” Despite his chiding tone, I suspected his gratitude was sincere.
“A simple misunderstanding, Headmaster.” I bowed, high enough to have a whiff of disrespect, low enough he would consider it unworthy of comment. “My interpretations of subjects greater than my station occasionally spawn predicament I am too lowly to foresee.”
“One of the many reasons for your education, young Merkus.” Pakur turned away and opened the door that separated him from his infatuation. “You called, Mistress Leahne?”
Leahne smiled stiffly. “Headmaster Pakur, I beg your pardon, but may I ask you to spare me a moment to end the lecture.”
“Yes, of course,” Pakur said.
Students soon filed from the room in quiet disorder, ambling down the hallway and toward their next class. Aki limped past us, the last of them. From the tired smile hiding his frustration, I knew he knew the why of what I’d done; so often did he consider my help a failure on his part.
Headmaster Pakur shifted into the doorway just after Aki passed, forcing Mistress Leahne to press against him as she followed. Hints of the disgust I knew she felt crossed her expression, the brittle visage of politeness she wore beginning to crumble.
Leahne faced me but addressed the headmaster. “I’m reaching the end of my patience with Farian, Headmaster. He is indolent, has little to no respect for his betters, and, worst of all, grows ever closer to crossing the line into heresy. I wish for him to be removed from my class and subjected to an early assessment.”
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“Tell me of his offense,” Pakur said. “If it merits what you seek, I will consent to your recommendation.” He stepped closer and murmured into her ear, unconcerned that I could hear his every word. “But remember, my dear Leahne, Merkus is the son of Adeenas. The council will have both our heads before they offend an adjudicator, least of all one who represents House Lorail.” Pakur ran his hand down her arm like a man caressing his lover: soft, delicate, and utterly without shame.
“I think it best we continue without his presence,” Leahne said. “I see no reason he should be here for the deliberation.”
“If I may, Headmaster,” I said.
Pakur raised a hand. “Mistress Leahne is right, young Merkus. It is unseemly for you to be privy to discussions regarding your punishment. Run along to your next class. I shall ensure word of my decision reaches you in due time.”
“I simply—”
“Merkus,” Pakur cut me off again. “Leave.”
“As you say, Headmaster,” I said, giving him a lesser bow than my last.
***
Students erupted, eager to escape the ennui of education. Aki, Edon, and I waited for the room to empty before we made our way out.
“Why do you feel the need for provocation?” Aki asked. “You might placate her merely by remaining silent.”
I observed my friend more closely. He was a sickly boy. I called him ‘boy’ because he was a year my junior and looked younger still. Dangerously emaciated and more than a head shorter than I, he was often mistaken for a child—an observation he cared little for. And I called him ‘sickly’ because he was afflicted with the violence of a broken home. Covered in scars, scaled in dry blood, and limping in pain as he was, the affliction he suffered rarely abated.
“You say that is if you do not know me,” I said, stepping into the quickly emptying hallway. “I only attack to defend.”
Aki looked away, embarrassed and, to my surprise, a little angry. I’d rarely seen him angry. Somehow, despite how the compelling impetus that was his life might’ve driven anyone else to the heights of wrath, Aki possessed an uncanny degree of equanimity.
“She isn't so bad,” Edon said. He rummaged through his satchel and withdrew a loaf of sweetened bread. Golden flakes of the baked confection drifted over him, his bag, and the floor. He paid the mess no mind. “I’d say she’s one of the better instructors.”
“Good enough you’d resist finding humor at her expense?” I asked.
Edon burst into laughter. Any hint of the incident that befell the Mistress the past season always trapped him in a fit of mirth. Granted, the way her clothes clung to her lithe form was a sight to behold, but hilarious? And after a dozen retellings? I thought not. Aki and I only laughed because he did; Edon had that deep, rhythmic roar of a laugh that persuaded others to follow.
“How long are you planning to keep this up?” Aki asked, his injuries muting his amusement. “It’s all getting a little out of hand.”
“Did you not see her expression? The surprise? The rage?”
“I understand,” he said, and I knew he did as surely as I knew who set the trap that left the mistress indecent. He’d spent a fortnight accumulating enough sensus to power the matrix. “And quoting from The Old Queen’s speech was a nice touch, I’ll give you that, but you’re just so needlessly pugnacious with her.” He ruffled the back of his head—a chronic symptom of his irritation.
“‘Pugnacious’?” Edon mumbled through a mouthful before swallowing. “I swear, Aki, whenever you speak, if I close my eyes, I’d swear I was listening to one of those learned fossils who roam the libraries in The Branches.”
Aki spared Edon a wry smile. “Laudation or criticism?”
“Whichever the better one is,” Edon said, then took another bite of his bread.
Aki shook his head in amusement before turning to me. “So?”
I shrugged. “I don’t remember your question.”
“Ah, forget it,” he said, knowing I was being deliberately obtuse. For the most part, Aki was a sort of verbal pacifist, always more inclined to retreat than to advance.
“That’s why,” I said.
“What’s why?”
“The answer to your question. Or at least part of it.”
“Just a part?”
“One of three. Our conversation alluded to the first. You see, I am quite comfortable with irritating you for the sake of my own amusement. Now, taking into consideration the gaping realm between my opinions of you and Leahne…”
Aki chuckled, each burst of air succeeded by a pained moan. “I’m surprised she’s still alive. And the second part?”
“A study on my favorite pastime.”
“Anarchy?”
“Close. Eliciting offense. There are two prime ways to go about it. Either you create the unexpected, or you divert the expected, which might sound the same but isn’t. Both I enjoy, but the latter—which inherently involves the former and is, therefore, the greater of the two—is like a succulent slab of boar meat to the hunger that is my boredom.”
“Quite a lengthy explanation for something that amounts to, ‘I get bored.’”
I shrugged. “Boredom is life’s torture.”
Aki barked a laugh cut short by a wince. He leaned forward, a hand on his chest.
I stepped closer. “Are you well? Do you need—”
Aki waved me back. “Most would say pain is life’s torture, but I suppose pain is a symptom of the mind, and no mind is alike, least of all yours.”
“Indeed,” I said, chuckling at his disguised insult. Or as close to one as he would come. He’d called my sanity into question and made it seem like a compliment. That’s how deftly smart he was. Prodigiously talented and surprisingly stubborn, enough to spite his age and upbringing, fortune had given him a mind like no other, then birthed him in The Muds with a less-than-useless father as if to balance his boons.
“And the third?” Aki asked.
“The third is simple. She irritates me. It’s only right I repay the favor.”
“Why does she irk you so? Better yet, how?”
I shrugged, unwilling to answer. I had long since abandoned the notion of dispelling Aki’s respect for gods—his determination hinged on the forsaken dreams of a man long dead, and I did not care to collapse the boy’s fortitude.
“Fine,” Aki said. “But soon, the cost of your actions may be more than you’re willing to bear.”
“No, my friend, you are thinking about it all wrong. Remember my first reason? It is better to mention price than cost. Cost is a matter of sacrifice; price is a matter of value.”
I took off my boots at the bottom of the steps. Aki raised both hands as though to protect himself from my intention.
“Too stubborn to accept another gift?” I asked.
“Too proud to accept more pity.” The look in his eyes dared me to question him. I did not.
“Think it a loan then, if you will,” I said instead. “And we are friends, are we not?”
Aki looked down at his feet. “Yes, I suppose we are.”
“And as a friend, you would do the same for me, would you not?”
“I would.”
“Then?”
The embarrassment he felt as I put them on for him put color back into his pallid complexion, and though he let me, no words could rid him of his blushing.
We went our separate ways then, Aki east to The Muds, Edon west to The Branches, and I to the keeper’s station to face my punishment. The keeper's station was little more than a shack of worn brick nestled in a corner of the academy grounds, tucked away and out of sight lest it diminish the the academy’s cloak of respectability.
“Back again, I see,” Old Roche croaked in that spry and jovial way he had. Old as the academy’s caretaker may have been, pock-marked and hunched, Roche was quick with his duties and quicker with a kind word.
“It appears the weight bands and I are destined,” I said. “How goes it?”
“Well enough, my boy.”
“So, what's the news on my sentence? I presume I’m looking at daily standings for the rest of my time here?”
“He’d settled on a fortnight.”
“I was expecting—”
“But that’s not all.” He leaned out of the window of his station and waved a slow hand to usher me closer. “He said you’ll be attending to your standings in Mistress Leahne’s room and under her supervision. The man was drooling as he said so, laddie. I swear it.”
I laughed. “No need to swear it, Old Roche. I believe it as easily as I would’ve if I’d witnessed it myself.”
Old Roche bent down below the ridge of his window, pulled up a band of wood, and laid it on his counter. I picked up the instrument of my punishment and headed to my punisher’s room, which, for the frugality of space, was the very class she taught in.
Leahne sat at her desk, staring out the window and watching lanterns flicker across the academy walls as night descended. She wore muted colors cut and tailored to extenuate her delicate curves, the small accents of blue in her clothes and the golden earrings dangling behind her dark hair the only distinction against her otherwise dour attire.
I shook my head and reigned in my roaming eyes, exasperated; I didn’t much like it when my body told me things I’d rather not hear—especially when it was too loud to ignore. As much as her zealous beliefs repulsed my humble sensibilities, the revulsion accompanied an undercurrent of desire that sometimes abated and sometimes flowed into my aversion, a cyclical thing whereby my attraction fed my dislike by its unwelcome presence, seeking to trap me in a blending sequence of disgust and yearning.
I entered and took position near the front of the room, putting the band down next to me. Leahne cast a glare my way, her animosity bared naked in the absence of witnesses.
“Put the band on, Farian,” she said. “You are here for a standing.”
“The hourglass, Mistress.”
“Are you refusing to follow my command?”
I could kill her, I thought, but the sensible part of me weighed the consequences and hushed the urge. In the end, I decided I’d fight the battle within the bounds of rhetoric.
“Headmaster Pakur had conceded to your request to supervise my punishment,” I said, “but he made no such concession in regards to the punishment itself. I find it rather odd that you expect me to follow your commands when you so flagrantly dismiss those of your superior.”
She smiled. “Some progress at last. At long last, you’ve come to understand that I am your superior.”
“I’ve long since accepted that you think you are.”
There was no outburst, no outward explosion of fury, just a blank look where a smile had been. She reached down and pulled an hourglass from below her desk. I put the horseshoe-shaped band of wood around my neck, and no sooner had the contraption touched my neck than when her sensus flooded into the Pondus matrix carved within, causing the weight to grow exponentially. She paused before turning the hourglass. She waited even longer when she had to turn it again halfway through my punishment.
When the last grain of sand from the second turn fell down the hourglass’ throat, Leahne released her hold on the matrix and walked around her desk, pronouncing her sensus into an aura of persuasion, unaware I was immune to her rustling Tunnels.
“Do you know why I dislike you?” she asked.
“I—”
“Your dissidence is sickening. It infects all your thoughts, darkens all your actions, makes you… less. Your absolute disregard for our rules, our customs, and our gods appalls me. You have no reason to be the way you are but for the childish need for rebellion. On the precipice of adulthood, past it even, yet you cling to such infantile notions. Why?”
I kept the truth to myself. Blasphemy in the presence of the pious is never as productive as one hopes.
“Tell me, what do you wish to take away from your time here?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“That is very short-sighted of you.”
“That’s a matter of perspective. Assuming academies are here to prepare us, I reckon I know enough to get by.”
“Why get by when you can excel?”
I shrugged. “I was trying to be modest.”
My answer earned me a snort and no more; she knew better than to deny my claim.
“Have you ever heard the story of the father and son and their mule?” I asked.
“Is the story an answer to my questions?”
“Of a sort. Are you familiar with the tale?”
Leahne shook her head.
“Long ago, before the gods descended, there was a father and son who lived on a farm. One year, as they prepared to bring their summer haul to the city for trade, a haul more abundant than any before it, they discovered only one of their mules was free to ride, the others too burdened by the goods they wished to transport. The father, a good father, kind and loving and generous, offered his son the seat.
“As they traveled, they came across a group of fellow farmers. One of the farmers asked the son, ‘How can you ride the mule and leave your poor father walking the journey in his old age?’ The son, a good son, dutiful and reverent, was struck by guilt and implored his father to take his place upon the mule.
“Again, they started back on the road to the city, and again, they ran into a group. This group asked the father, ‘How can you ride the mule and make your poor son, who’s not yet a man, bear the hardship of walking such an arduous journey?’ Left with no other option, both father and son walked beside the mule as they continued.
“Once more, they came across a group of fellow farmers. The men asked them, ‘How can you have a mule you can ride and not ride it?’”
“Is that to say you do not care what I think?” Leahne asked.
“No, not at all. It is precisely because you are wrong that I care what you think.”
And with that, I took off the band and departed.