Part two of Chapter One

(Again, self explanitory)

The cleaning process was tedious and interrupted constantly with Heath-cliff shoving Nathanael around. But eventually the work wore him down and the tables were scrubbed with painstaking perception. After assigning the other seventeen trainees to less laborious tasks Flinch returned to inspect the boys. One speck of porridge and they had to start over. Not even Bradshaw dared to defy Flinch, as it would result in his expulsion or worse.  It took the better part of the morning, and by the time the sun was halfway up the sky they finished.

 

"Hmm," grunted Flinch. He obviously wasn't satisfied (probably wanted to torture them some more, thought Nathanael) but couldn't find anything wrong and dismissed them with a wave of his hand. "Go to your Arts lessons."

 

They didn't need to be told twice. Nathanael rocketed up the stairwell to the dormitory. He had just enough time to slip into a clean (well, cleaner) robe and snatch up his viol case, running up the stairs to the attic along the way. Miss Lavinsky did not like late pupils.

 

Nathanael gasped and leaned on the doorpost. Miss Lavinsky didn't look up. "You're late, Nathanael." Her singsong accent was stern as she shuffled through her papers.

 

Katia Lavinsky was a slim, attractive woman with ice grey eyes and golden hair that was normally braided back. Her nose, prominent but not too large, was often buried in a large and (to Nathanael) unnecessarily boring volume. She could play most any kind of instrument and was the music teacher for Hardy. She also seemed to severely admire Rupert Heather, a musician from Finley. He was popular among young women, for some strange reason. Nathanael sat down in the chair opposite her, set his music up on the stand and, gasping for air, took out the viol and began tuning it.

 

"So, Nathanael," she mused. "I heard that you started a fight at breakfast today."

 

Nathanael didn't reply.

 

"It is not good for a musician to be loud and noticeable. It is not good for their mind. It does not help you play smoothlier. Look at Rupert Heather! Quiet as a stone!" She glanced at him over her folder. "Have you been practicing, Nathanael?"

 

Nathanael was again silent. They both knew the answer.

 

"Practice is key, Nathanael! If you don't practice you will never get it right! You must practice a thousand times! Then you will get it right. You don't practice-" She slammed her palms together. "Ker-splat! You're finished! Rupert Heather practices at least five hours a day, and listen to his music!"

 

"Alright, alright! I'll practice more often!"

 

Katia didn’t believe it (Nathanael didn't believe it, either), but they moved on. "What did you do this week, then?"

 

"Um, Winter Wind, Minuet in C Minor and the Hardy Anthem."

 

"Okay. Begin."

 

He began. Miss Lavinsky immediately ordered him to stop. "No, no, no, no, no! Your winter wind sounds like the cry of a dying mockingbird! Smoothlier! You must let it flow. "

 

Nathanael stumbled through it again. Katia Lavinsky frowned. "Satisfactory," although it clearly wasn't. "Move on."

 

The rest of the lesson went like that. Nathanael would play to be halted by Miss Lavinsky to provide helpful tips: "You must be steady! If people dance to this they will trip!" "Pay attention to dynamics, Nathanael!" "No, no, no. That's a C sharp, not an F."

 

When all three songs had been finished, the sun was high in the sky and Nathanael had to rush to lunch. He sat beside Lionel Carpenter and stared, not hungry, at the loaf of bread that that been laid in front of him. Lionel was tearing off bits of his. "S'pose they didn't want something too sloppy, right?" Nathanael was silent. Lionel's attempts to cheer him up were feeble. He sighed. "So how did Miss Lavinsky react to your being late?"

 

"Better than I expected." Nathanael bit into his bread and discovered that it was filled with onions and meat. "What did Flinch make you do?"

 

"Slop the pigs and scatter ash among the garden. 'Twas simple.  How was cleaning?"

 

"Was that rhetorical?"

 

"Good point."

 

They continued in silence. Nathanael threw down his bread. "I don't understand. I just don't! Why did I have to clean the stupid cantina when it was Baker's fault?"

 

Lionel took another bite. "Well," he began cautiously, "you did call Over-Bridge a liar."

 

"But that was none of their business!  Over-Bridge should have come himself!"

 

"'Tis the weak who hide behind the strong. Don't you understand Nathanael?'Tis obvious that Over-Bridge offered them a heavy reward!" He jabbed his thumb towards a table behind them. "Behold!" Timothy Over-Bridge was swaggering out the door. The money bag slung around his waist jangled, sounding considerably lighter. Across the room Bradshaw of the wood and Heath-cliff' hands held lumpy bags and greedy gleams devoured their eyes. Heath-cliff's fixed Nathanael's, and they stared at each other for a few seconds before Nathanael turned away. He shook his head, disgusted.

 

"I don't believe it! I  did all that work to earn Baker and Bradshaw a few Pieces."

 

"They suffered, too."

 

"Oh, shut your mouth, Carpenter," Nathanael explained exasperatedly. "Just leave me alone."

 

Lionel's eyes flashed. "I am not antagonizing, Mister Smithy. I am merely attempting to understand the problem that you seem to be facing with the Military Trainees. It is common knowledge that they don't care a piece of straw for anything or anyone, much less Over-Bridge. It's not as though they would be beating you up out of the goodness of their hearts. When you deal with Trade you have to see both sides of the issue." He stood up abruptly, grasping the sides of his plate. "I will be in the dormitory." So he put the plate in the dish barrel and marched swiftly out of the room. He even managed to shoulder aside Alfred Taylor (who was no small boy).

 

"Lionel!" Nathanael cried. "Wait!" He scrambled up and out the door.

 

"'Ay!" Jared Marksmen called after him. "Smithy! Ya forgot yer plate!" But Nathanael was already too far away.