CHAPTER 165: 165: ACADEMY LIFE STARTS XXII

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"Twenty people couldn’t scrub it in a day," he said, not in complaint, just in fact. "How can I do it alone in four days?"

"You will find out," Warden Lutch said. Her tone had a stone in it now. "Or you may take a different weight: expulsion for a semester. You will leave the grounds by sunset today and re-apply in spring. Those are the choices. Clean the room. Or carry shame for a term."

John’s jaw tightened. He breathed once. "I will clean the room."

"Outside help is barred," she said, each word a step. "No classmates. No hired hands. No friendly cleaners who ’just happened’ to be passing with brooms. You may use your contracted spirit. That is your only aid. And while you work at night, you also keep the door, you keep the ledger, you keep the rules. No one goes in without a slip. No shortcuts out the back."

John nodded. "Understood."

"If you fail to clean the ruler. There are point penalties." She said to John.

He lifted his chin a little. "What are the point penalties, exactly."

Warden Lutch nodded once, as if he had finally asked the only smart first question. "The academy runs on points. You earn them by class, service, tests, and work we assign. Eighty-five (85) points pass a term. Less, and you repeat.

"For a first curfew offense, you take a make-right task. If you fail that task, you begin the term at minus one hundred (-100) points. If you complete it, you start even at zero. No prize for doing what you should have done already."

"So," John said, steady, "this task decides if I start at zero or at minus one hundred."

"Exactly. Start at minus one hundred and you must climb to one hundred eighty-five to pass. Few climb that hill. Some do. Most fall and blame stairs."

"That is fair," John said.

"Nothing about this is fair," she answered. "It is a school. I am not here to be fair. I am here to be useful. Do you accept the task."

"I accept it," John said.

"Good." She slid a thin slate across the desk. "Duty tag. It will open the disposal room doors for you after dusk and mark your hours. Do not lose it. The quartermaster downstairs will give you keys to the supply closet, fresh lye, new brushes, and a ledger. You sign for everything. You return everything that still has bristles."

John took the slate. The mark carved into it was a small skull under a line — grim, plain, honest.

"Two more things," she said, stopping him with a raised finger. "First, there are reasons we keep that room shut when the sun is down. The reasons do not walk. They only stink. But you will not open to laughter or to dare. If older boys try to make sport of you, you do not swing. You write names in the ledger. You tell me in the morning. I know how to end a sport.

"Second," and the stone in her tone eased a finger, "you were honest here today. Most boys lie first and only later try the truth. That is why your punishment is not worse. Do not waste that."

"I won’t," John said.

"Dismissed," said Warden Lutch.

He stood, took the duty slate, and left the office.

Fizz was perched on the arm of a long bench like a king on a small throne, tail flicking, fur at last free of cake. He sprang up at once. "Well? Did she grind your bones for bread? Do I bite her chair? Tell me where to bite."

John showed him the slate. "Beast disposal room," he said. "Four days and nights. Guard and clean."

Fizz blinked. "Ah," he said, drawing the sound out. "The perfume palace."

"No outside help," John said. "Only you."

Fizz folded his arms and looked fierce. "Good. Outsiders slow us down. We will wage glorious war against stink. We will make the floor so clean a priest will cry on it. We will eat on it to prove a point. Not soup — crumbs. But still."

"If we fail," John said, "we start at minus one hundred points."

Fizz’s ears shot straight up. "Minus a hundred? That is not a number. That is a riddle. That is a pit with an extra pit inside."

"Then we do not fail," John said.

Fizz thumped his own chest. "We will not fail. I will declare a clean crusade of bubbles. I will summon the ancient art of... scrubbing. I will insult grime until it leaves out of shame."

John slipped the duty slate into his inner pocket. He could feel its hard weight there. He breathed once, and the line inside him stayed straight.

"When do we start," Fizz asked, already buzzing.

"Now," John said. "We need supplies. We need a plan. We have four days. Nights are for work too. Daylight is for tools, soap, and smart thinking."

Fizz rubbed his paws. "I will also compose a victory song. It will be called: Ballad of the Bristle."

"Sing it after we win," John said.

"Fine," Fizz huffed. "No art in this house. Only labor."

They turned down the stairs to the quartermaster. The steps smelled faintly of chalk and old rope. A tall woman with sleeves rolled past the elbows and a scar on her knuckle glanced up as they entered the storeroom and took in the slate in John’s hand.

"Disposal room," she said. Not a question. She set a bundle on the counter: long-handled scrub brushes, short stiff hand brushes, two buckets —one wooden, one tin— bars of lye, a pouch of rough soap flakes, rags, oil for hinges, and a little tin of chalk powder for marking sections already done.

"Ledger," she added, sliding a book over. "You write what you take. You bring back what is left. If you break a brush, put the head in the looped bin. If you break five, I will suspect you of making puppets of them."

Fizz put a paw over his heart. "We would never make puppets," he lied piously.

"Good," the quartermaster said dryly. "Puppets frighten the night staff." She added a small tin lantern. "For corners. Use the wall lamps for the rest. Do not set anything that burns on the floor. It remembers."

John signed the ledger. He hefted the brushes. He tested the buckets’ rims. He thanked the woman. She grunted in a way that meant: you used your eyes, fine.

Outside again, Fizz bobbed over the load like a helpful, very opinionated halo. "We will clean until the stone shines," he said. "We will make the warden eat her words off the floor."

"We will do the work," John said.

They crossed the yard toward the back runs, where the quiet doors lived. The sun tilted west and laid long bars of light between the buildings. Somewhere a bell rang the hour. A few older students glanced their way, saw the tin lantern and the scrub brush haft, and nodded with the kind of respect people reserve for the unlucky.

At the end of the run, set into a thick wall, waited for them a double door of dark wood. Only one half had a handle. Over it, a small metal plaque read: Disposal. It made no effort to be polite.

John took out the duty slate. It warmed in his hand. The lock plate hummed once and clicked. He pushed the door in.

A breath of air came out like something exhaling after a long hold. It smelled of old blood, old earth, and the vinegar tang of cleaning done badly by men who didn’t mean it. Lamps were set in iron cages along the walls. A big drain ran down the center. A gutter ringed the floor at the edges. Hooks high up held nothing now, but the hooks knew what they were for.

Fizz wrinkled his nose so hard his whiskers almost tied a knot. "Oh no," he said in a tiny voice. "This room ate many beasts and then ate the smell of the beasts and then ate the memory of the smell and burped it back."

John set the buckets down. He marked the room in his mind like a field to plow: rows, corners, edges, drains, lamps, ledges. He opened the chalk tin, dipped two fingers, and drew a small square on the near wall with the number 1. He drew another across from it with 2. He kept going until the room had honest sections.

"We start here," he said. "Top to bottom. Hot water if we can. Dry as we go. Every bolt. Every crack."

Fizz lit the tin lantern with a neat spark and held it like a knight holds a torch in a picture. "I am ready."

John rolled his sleeves. No battle now. No void. Just a different kind of fight. He dipped the brush, tested the lye with a careful finger, and began to scrub.

Outside, the sun slid another hand toward the rooflines. Somewhere, Warden Lutch wrote in her book: assignment given, duty accepted. Somewhere, a bell tower checked its gears and decided to be on time again. In the long room, a boy and a small bright thing started their war with dirt.

They would be there a long time.