A Fine Black Sky
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The last adventure had scuttled the calmness out of Kid. It was a determination of deepest confusion as to that which occupied his mind the most, whether it be the shadow, forever elusive, or the mystery of that abandoned room. The feathering upon the stonework and the delicate decor suggested, Kid hoped without unnecessary assumption, that the room had at one time been occupied by a girl. There were too many objects in order, not enough destruction to have been a boy’s room. Yet it occupied virtually all of his attention, even while the Tutor prefaced the myriad of sketches and plans that lay before the Apprentices on the many desks about the Classroom, with words of their origin, and the delicacy in which they were conditioned, to the history they beheld.
There lay work, as Kid could see, from Noble Vanxell the Doleful, Finity Stem, and even early works by Ryffa the Groam Eater - the once famous creator of the Tower Interiors, utilising nature within his extensive, and often quite insane drawings. Kid had read of them all, of course, and much before others had found their feet and learned to walk. There was not much that Kid had not read a little about. But here, now, he had an opportunity to study these works, not simply read about them. As the Tutor continued his oral accounts, Kid slowly relented the firm attachment of the girl and the shadow, safely compartmentalising them into a mentally ‘pending’ box, he turned his wide attention to the sketches themselves.
Precision was the key. Lubrication allowed such a precision to prevail. Lubrication came as an offshoot of the condensation of water and natural sap that came from the walls of the Tower themselves. The system was almost perfect, such that it could have only come under the tutelage of Gods. But these people were virtually more than Gods - at least within their occupational field. Years of dedicated service to the Machine, taking them apart, putting them back together, understanding their duty, their necessity - for every part was of necessity - they were wondrous things of wondrous minds, of Inventors with skills to see deeper than any other could, into a minuscule world of fine detail and finer art.
Yet there were those who dreamt their designs - from fevered minds did their creations come. Geometry, mathematics, physics, chemistry - the list of demands were endlessly fortified by the necessity of nature. Nature was the model, because nature worked.
Kid, as all had been instructed within the Classroom, began working on his own design. Function was his first thought, but quickly that thought crept away, substituted for an anthology of his lot. First there was the large cog, that being his Father and the North Tower, which was joined by two other, smaller, cogs, each turning with the first. Then above came the counter winder, with the cog attached, which turned contrary to the others. To this one, a complicated series of springs and flanges were placed, creating counter and contradictory movement, striking once in a while at a locked-in stopper, a cog that would not turn. Below, where the other two cogs were spun by the larger one, the least stiff cog turned a complicated series of other cogs, wheels and ratchets, which, in essence, did nothing but waste energy. The other cog would turn and turn, free wheeling, until it snagged upon another highly-wound cog and the teeth would snap off, until the cog was no more. The principle of Engineering was sound. The productivity and desire of the machinery was dubious. But it was meant as a metaphor, nothing more. Kid was about to turn the paper over and begin again, when he was interrupted, in the most disturbing of ways.
“Scum. Cripple. You can draw. Do mine.” It was Osseus Rivalis, with his cronies, naturally. The Tutor had become distracted, or was ignorant to the scene. Either way it made Kid’s skin crawl.
“I - I can’t do that Osseus. Otherwise how else will you learn?” tried Kid. His approach was that of logic, for logic had been his friends, his teachers and his education to date.
“You don’t understand. Obviously. Let me make a display for you. Do it, or I will beat him with a stick.” explained Osseus, pointing to a small child, marginally taller, but evidentially weaker than Kid.
“But Osseus - it’s dishonest.” insisted Kid. And a life lesson was about to be learned, one for which Kid was to be witness to and the cause of, indirectly. Osseus balled his fist and brought it smacking down on the other child’s face, which instantly turned red. The child began to cry.
Kid was stunned. He had never witnessed such directness as this before. Certainly he had witnessed the machinations of political consequence at his Father’s rug, even the financial dissolution of many a Noble Family, but this was the first time something he did or said led directly to another’s pain. He had received much himself, and he had known from his words or actions, such a reaction was possible, but the wanton act of violence upon another for something influenced by himself, this was the eye-opener Kid would have never seen coming. He would never have seen it, because he was never exposed to it. It was as simple as that.
Kid fell upon the paper Osseus thrust before him, creating a function of a machine with very little emotional content, but much anger and darkness - bred out of desperation rather than intention. The child Osseus had struck still cried. Blood dribbled from his nostril, which he sniffed up with each wracking breath. Something in the disturbance had awoken the duty within the Tutor, for he came toward the commotion. As he did, Osseus shot Kid a look.
“Not a word, Cripple. Not one. Or I throw young Perius there from an open window tonight. And don’t think I won’t.” There was such power to the words, such strength, such indefinability - that even if he was lying and would not perform such a heinous act, Osseus would certainly venture close to that edge, if not cross it - which would almost definitely destroy the poor young boy, the bloodied boy’s mind.
So Kid kept silent. Perhaps he shouldn't have. Perhaps he should have spoken up. But he was a boy. He was a child, and such a responsibility should have never been his.
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