The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

The University at Fourwind Heights

It had sounded like heaven, once, to be in a fortress walled with books covering every topic imaginable. But that was when Able Houser had imagined himself up here alone.

In the enclosed chamber crammed with paper, bound and unbound, idle noises sounded like arrhythmic percussion. His coworkers turning pages. The senior copy editor sniffing back his drippy nose. One student whispering to another that it was time to leave for a lecture.

But no sound was more disruptive than Earnest Byway jeering from the doorway, "You've really done it this time, Master Actually."

"I highly doubt that," Able replied without looking up from the block of text framed between his fingers. He looked between his left hand on the empirical manuscript and his right on the treatise it was quoting, ensuring they were word for word identical. A task made impossible by the copy editors and working students clamoring for Byway to explain. Shouldn't they already know what this nickname meant?

As the director's secretary, Byway was tasked with translating Able's fact-checking notes into letters to the authors about required changes. Apparently, Able was prone to overusing one word. "The quoted person was actually referencing a different incident" or "these figures are actually these in the records" and such. Fair enough. Except whenever Byway called Able "Master Actually," he seemed incensed that Able had corrected anyone at all. So sorry for doing his job? Able took a bolstering breath before looking up.

Sure enough, Byway, his handsome face twisted into a sneer, had been waiting for eye contact. "Lord Orange sent a representative." How completely expected.

"Lord Stalwart Orange?" repeated one wide-eyed student whose mouth hung a moment on the O. "The one who's the chancellor at Whitecloud? The Lord Orange?" No need to hold the man in such high regard. If any of the chairs here at Fourwind Heights had been so intellectually dishonest, Able would have changed schools. Well—no, he probably couldn't have done that, as being enrolled was the only reason he hadn't been drafted into the war. But he would have made an effort.

"No, the other Lord Orange." Byway punctuated this with an eye-roll.

"I think we're all hoping there is some other one because not even Houser is that stupid." Staunch Claimer's face pinched into a scowl as his eyes found Able's. "What do you think you're doing?" By this tone, the senior copy editor still did not appreciate that Able answered to the director instead of him.

Able answered anyway, "I left thirty copies of what I was doing at the distribution desk two months ago." And sent ten times as many pamphlets to the universities throughout the Circle of Knowledge in hopes that people would notice and stand against Orange's self-interest. But there was never the certainty of any response, let alone the desired one of a changed mind.

"You think you can fish the scholar's world by baiting it," Claimer said, aiming yet another barb at Pa's profession. "Well, you've finally pulled up a real shark!"

Able couldn't hold back an amused snort. "A netted shark is usually dead by the time you pull it aboard. If not, give it a minute, and it'll get there."

"Yeah, well, you'd know." Goodness, Claimer actually thought that was an insult?

Able aligned a reading strip beneath the quote he'd be leaving unchecked. What should he say? Not a one of the students manning these tables came from a family half as wealthy as Claimer's. Like Able had, they struggled to keep this job in between their classes just so they could afford to continue attending them. Were their red-rimmed eyes on him now? Or maybe they were wise enough not to look to him for an example. He stood and shuffled past piles of books and used dishes, letting it go.