Chapter 173: 173: Academy Life Starts XXX

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John did not salute. He did not try a speech. "Storage room: half cleared," he said. "Disposal by authorized method." He did not say void. He did not need to. This was the disposal room. "Main floor: Sections One through Four scrubbed, rinsed, dried. Work rests while mana recovers. Ledger notes made. Door kept."

Warden Lutch crossed to a ledge and ran one finger along it. She looked at the finger. She showed nothing. She crossed to the drain, checked the grate, checked the trap. She checked the lamps, the oil fill, the way the cage screws turned. She checked the brush heads and the lye bars. She checked the ledger.

Fizz hovered absolutely still at shoulder height, paws folded in a way that said I am a statue and statues do not ask for cookies.

"Your hand," she said to John without looking up.

He showed her the peeling patch on his knuckle. She gave a small nod to say: you are not a fool; you are not bleeding into the work; good.

She glanced at Fizz. "You are the spirit who talks."

Fizz’s ears flicked up and then down because he could not control them completely. "I am Lord Fizz," he said in a very small voice that wanted to be big.

"Lord Fizz," she said, as if testing a spoon, "do you obey the posted rules of flame? I came because I heard reports that someone is using fire magic. You are cleaning using fire and water magic. Tell me about the rules."

Fizz snapped straight. "No fire on the floor," he recited. "No heat near the oil lamp. Lanterns only in cages or my paws. No fireworks even if the rhyme demands it."

"Good, you know the rules," she said. The corner of her mouth might have twitched. It could also have been a trick of lamp light. "Carry on. Be careful not to cause a fire. Otherwise you both will be punished. You, Lord Fizz, might be banned from the academy."

She turned to go, then paused with her hand on the latch. "If older boys push you again," she said, "write the jacket notes cleaner. ’Reedy’ is not a name. Count buttons. You will be surprised how many boys forget whether they kept them all."

"Yes, Warden," John said.

Fizz lifted a paw. "Warden Lutch," he said quickly, unable to hold the question, "if we finish by the fourth night... will you come smell the floor and pretend to faint from joy?"

"No," she said, twitching her mouth, and left. The door closed with a small, precise click.

Fizz floated in a slow circle with both paws pressed to his cheeks. "She is obsessed with rules," he whispered, thrilled. "She is like a law statue that learned to read."

"She is careful and responsible," John said, and picked up the brush again.

They worked another hour. They fed the egg once more, small. The number ticked.

[System notifications: Hatch Progress: 18%. Mana 43%.]

Fizz began to fade a little the way flames do when the log is too thin. He drifted lower, tried to sing, ended up humming a line that was mostly vowels and bravery.

"Rest," John said, not asking.

Fizz tried to protest out of habit. Then he yawned, did one crooked loop, and dropped onto the rag with a small thump. "Five minutes," he promised the rag, as if the rags love promises.

John did not stop. He did the low edges while the brush still bit. He cleaned the bolts. He scrubbed the drain rim with the small hand brush until the metal remembered it was metal and not old soup.

[System notifications: Mana 37%. Alert on approach at 25%.]

He stopped the moment he felt the edge of the cliff. He had learned that edge in the fight, and in the storage room, and he would not step over it here for pride.

He drank water. He ate half a carrot. He waited until the tight string inside his chest loosened one notch.

Fizz snored like a whisper saw. John let him.

The next day dawn came to the disposal room the way it comes to all rooms: by making the lamps look suddenly unnecessary and the dust suddenly honest. It slid through the little high windows and laid light in pale bars across the floor.

Fizz sat up the way a cat sits up when it remembers it is a person. "Is it morning," he asked the lamp that did not answer. Then he looked at the walls and made a small, delighted sound. "It shines," he said. "It shines like a serious bald forehead."

"We did ten percent of the main room," John said. "Half the storage. Today we clear the rest of the storage while we scrub by squares. At night we attack the far half. Next day: hooks, rails, vents. Night four: everything we missed. Ledger neat."

Fizz rubbed his paws together. "And egg?"

John touched his pocket. "Eighteen," he said. "It wants more. We feed it again after we eat something that is not pickled courage."

Fizz’s eyes went dream-soft for a breath. "We will be three," he said. "You, me, and a hungry little ant that eats the world’s feet."

John gave him a look.

"Kidding," Fizz said. "It will eat the right feet."

They locked the room, checked the latch twice, and climbed the back steps toward the quartermaster to return a chipped brush head and sign for more soap. The yard outside the work run smelled of wet earth and morning bread from the kitchen hall. The cat from the shed waited on the wall with a face that said "tribute." Fizz paid him with the crust he’d saved. The cat accepted and pretended he had not cared either way.

In the storeroom, the quartermaster stamped the return and slid them three new lye bars without comment, which was a compliment in her language. "You look like sleep," she said to John, which was another.

"Tonight," John said.