CHAPTER 100: 100: THE ACADEMY TEST X

---

"I am Fartray the third son of the Aqua family," he said, and he made each word a little step up a set of stairs he expected everyone to notice. "One of the Ten Count Houses. Second Circle at eighteen. One step from Third. I am a genius mage. And you... You are a slave spirit. You are a trick. You are beneath my boot. You will beg and you will be cleaned off the ground."

Fizz stared at him, then covered his mouth with his paws to stop his laugh. But he couldn’t hold it in, and finally he giggled. "Your name is Fart," he said, bright as bells. "Did you come out of a butt hole?"

A small ripple ran through nearby people like wind through short grass. A few tried to cough to hide their laugh. One noble person did not hide it. He snorted and then covered his own mouth fast. His friend, another noble, stepped on his foot. He did not mind.

Fartray’s ears went red. Fizz pressed on, because mercy is not in his first pocket. He is a master of roasting.

"Look," Fizz said, turning his head left and right and pitching his voice just enough to carry to a dozen strangers. "A living fart. A living fart standing in front of me. It learned to wear a shiny coat. Quick, someone light a match — oh no, do not attempt it, the yard will go boom."

By the way, "I am Lord Fizz. That’s what a cool name sounds like. Not Fart or whatever."

"Lord Fizz," a girl near him whispered, shocked and delighted. "So cool and cute. But you shouldn’t insult a nobel."

Fizz put a paw to his chest. "I am trying to be good. It is very hard to hold yourself when you hear a living fart talking."

Fartray’s jaw clenched. He lifted his hand again, higher now. The air got wet. He did not spin a thin ribbon this time. He pulled and pulled and made a tight, clear ball the size of a football. It floated above his palm like a glass ball. Light bent through it. The skin on the back of his hand whitened where his fingers pressed together to hold the shape.

Fizz’s eyes narrowed a fraction. He lifted two inches in the air and drifted left, putting open air behind him. He did not want a boy with a glass ball and a temper to have a wall to smash it on.

Two of Fartray’s friends shifted to the sides to make space. One hissed, "Not now." The other did not hiss. He smiled the way boys smile when they think they are watching a short story with a nice end.

On the stage, Master Venn said, "We will pass study materials at the north table after this. We will—" and then he glanced over because a different sound had been born two dozen paces away. It was not a shout, yet. It was a shape of sound that meant "watch."

John kept his eyes on the boards. He did not turn. He made himself listen to the last notes of the rules. He set the times in his head. He told his feet not to move yet. He had learned this: do not run to a fire until you know who started it and where the water is. He wasn’t aware that the fire was started by his loving pet Fizz. He was the water who could put out the fire.

Fizz met Fartray’s gaze and found nothing warm in it. "You should stop," Fizz said in a soft voice only three people heard. "This is the yard. There are rules. I don’t want to beat the shit out of you bullies."

Fartray smiled and showed good teeth. "Rules are for those who cannot pass," he said. "Show me, how will you make me shit myself."

"The rule sheet said no harm," Fizz answered. "Number seven. You can read, yes. Since you are a noble and all."

Fartray’s eyes stayed on Fizz’s face. "First you bumped into me. Then you threw mud. Now you are telling me I can’t read. You got guts, lowly bug."

Fizz opened his paws in a wide, innocent arc. "Did I. Or did the earth greet your cheek and ask why it had never met you before."

Fartray’s fingers twitched. The water ball shivered. He drew his arm back an inch.

Around them, a small circle had opened in the press. People stepped back because people like to be near trouble without being in it. A boy near the hedge grabbed his friend’s sleeve and pulled him out of the line. A girl with a good jaw moved two steps to the side and angled her body between a younger child and the center of the trouble without making a show of it.

Fizz edged left again. He made space. He made sure there was nothing behind him to catch a splash.

The water ball did not break yet. Fartray was not a fool. He was a bully with training. He held it. He wanted a clean shot. He wanted to land it on the small bright thing that had disrespected him. He wanted to make the small bright thing cry to death.

Fizz’s voice rose a hair. He smiled like a boy who knew the joke and would tell it even if it cost him. "I will say it again so your noble ears can hear it. Fart - ray. Your name says what you are. Did you come from a butt. Do you need to go back? Is your house crest a toilet?"

Someone barked a laugh. Someone else said, "Shh," out of habit, not command.

Fartray’s face smoothed like ice that was about to crack. The water ball stretched a thread toward Fizz, then pulled back. Not yet. Fizz watched his wrist, not his eyes. Wrists tell the truth. Wrists act before faces decide.

"Enough," said a brown-haired proctor near the rope, but the word did not carry far. He started toward them. He would not reach them in one breath. He did not run. He could not run in this yard and still keep his job.

John heard the shift of the crowd now. It was a kind of hush that had teeth in it. He turned his head half an inch, then a whole inch. He saw the ring of people. He saw a pale coat with a blue line. He saw Fizz float at the center, small and very bright. He did not see mud. He saw a boy with a water magic near his hand.

He moved.

He did not push people. He did not shout. He stepped around bodies and used small gaps and straight lines. He kept his shoulders narrow. He kept his mouth shut. His eyes were open and very clear.