Hard physical labor.
If he had to pick one to do, he'd take the one that also let him learn magic too. If he had to take beatings to be allowed to learn that, he'd do it with a smile, any day of the week. Well, not really with a smile, more like a lot of wincing and trying not to rub the sore spots, but he'd still do it, which had to count for something.
Building spells took work too, obviously, or everyone would be doing it, but it didn't do much for the body. At least this way he wasn't turning fat, or into a no muscle stick man like some of the other students had in the last years. That he'd paid for it in sweat and more than a little blood was inconsequential. At least Kolb always said so just before he assigned him some nearly impossible task. Generally things that hurt.
A lot.
There was only one other student, a first year by the looks of the boy, about as tall as Tor already and heavier set with muscle, doing his laundry at the outdoor washtubs when he got there. The poor kid didn't seem to be having an easy time of it, apparently not having any wash powder with him. Instead he tried to make do with elbow grease, scrubbing hard at the student browns in his hands. Having had to do that a few times himself in the past, Tor could sympathize. Setting up his own basket next to one of the wooden wash barrels he grabbed a corrugated metal board that didn't seem too dirty, glad that there weren't a lot of people out today. Some of the boards had rust on them, which didn't hurt the brown clothes too much, but could ruin the nice silks and velvets that some of the rich kids had.
The washing, something that he'd been tasked with since childhood, went quickly with only two people's clothes to get clean. At home it had always been an all-day project, one that he'd done at least once a week. They all took turns at it, since his parents were fanatical about them always wearing clean clothing. Fanatical for Two Bends. Here, he found, that level of cleanliness was actually normal. At least it didn't take him unaware like some of the other scholarship kids. The idea of only wearing clothing for one day at a time had been the regular thing for him and he hadn't had to bear ridicule for weeks before he'd figured it out.
He worked with a will, wanting to get to the drying as soon as possible, which was the point after all. The water made suds and nearly boiled as he worked the brown canvas on the board, excitement making the task more interesting, if only a tiny bit. The water was cold, of course, but the weather was warm enough so that his hands didn't freeze. It was early in the spring half, only a week into the new term, which meant first the nice, and then the way too hot, weather would be on them in the months to come.
Perfect baking weather. Or at least it would be in a week or so. Right now was just a bit too cool for dough to rise quickly without heating the room it was in or using a proofing box. Tor got a laugh from the fact that his mind had turned to baking of all things. He didn't hate the family business, actually he kind of enjoyed baking truth be told, but the shop really didn't need five or six bakers. Not in Two Bends, which only had about three hundred people.
Just as he finished he noticed that the younger boy, who stood a ways off, looked to be nearly in tears for some reason. His browns, the ones the kid held, looked new, and still had that stiff quality about them that normally didn't fade for the first year or so, the heavy material not softening until the fiftieth washing or thereabouts. Tor didn't really want to waste time talking, but knew it wouldn't do to leave the boy in tears either. If it was his kid brother having trouble he'd want someone to help him out, wouldn't he?
“Alright there?” He asked, half hoping that the boy would just say yes, so that he could get back to his real work and test the new field build sitting next to him. He smiled, trying to be kind about it though.
He could spare a few minutes he reminded himself. He'd been the new kid once too and no one had been overly helpful back then at all. It had made everything so much harder. Change had to start with you, or it usually didn't happen. His mother said that all the time. It sounded pretty close to right, at least in a situation like this.
The boy shook his head, letting it drop, his limp brown hair falling into the blue eyes below, round cheeks looking flushed and embarrassed.
“I...”
The kid started as Tor waited patiently, then just didn't speak for nearly half a minute. All that meditation, he realized, had been good for something other than field building after all. He could wait without difficulty now. Great. Well, one thing he could be certain of, life would make him wait for things. It was a handy skill to have, if a little boring.
“I've never washed my own clothes before... At home we have servants that do it. I never even gave it a second thought, I mean, you put clothes in water and rubbed them on a board, how hard could it be? But no matter how hard I rub, I can't get the clothes clean and...” Pointing as if blaming the water or the tub he grimaced. “I can't make it frothy! What am I doing wrong?”
The words were so plaintive that Tor had to fight back a smile. It wouldn't do to make the kid feel bad, especially if his family had been the kind that could afford servants. Magical creatures those, that he hadn't even believed really existed until he'd come to school here. The closest thing Tor's family had to servants had been... him and his older sister Terlee. So instead of mocking the poor kid, he decided to actually take a few seconds to be helpful.
“Well, you're not doing it wrong really, but some wash powder would help a lot. You can buy it at the school store, just ask at the counter and the man there will make sure you get the right kind. It looks like you're doing browns and under things today? So, you can just borrow some of mine until you get your own. You need a special kind if you're going to wash silk, velvet or nice materials like that. Again, you get it at the store, unless you don't have any money, and then you very politely beg it from your friends that do.” Tor smiled at the thought. He could afford to be a little generous with this particular washing powder, since Rolph had paid for it. He didn't feel too bad about doing it either, first because his roomie would have done the same thing without hesitation, and second because Tor had just washed half a week's clothes for him. It seemed a fair enough trade.
The kid looked down, as if expecting a reprimand for being stupid, which either said something about his expectations in regards to schooling here, or his upbringing. A lot of the rich kids had situations like that. Everything had been done for them all their lives, but they were treated harshly almost at random and not knowing how to do something basic could be punished pretty severely or so he'd heard. That they wouldn't, possibly even weren't allowed, to have a clue about some things, like cooking or washing clothing, didn't seem to matter. When the time came for them to know, they'd better. Or else.
Tor showed the boy how to use the light brown powder, scrubbing the material together to get at bad stains and how to use the friction on the board to do the rest. After a few minutes the boy was doing a decent job on his own, so Tor moved to the drying lines and draped the wet material over without using the wringer first. Avoiding wringing was half the point after all. It always seemed to take longer than the washing itself, and was his least favorite part of the whole process. It wasn't hard; it just bugged him for some reason, and always had.
It took him about ten minutes to hang up everything on the line and to bring one of the low folding tables, slightly green colored faded pine wood, to set the sigil on. After Tor took pains to make sure it wasn't under any of the wet stuff, he hit the top of the paint, and stepped back. For the first ten seconds nothing much happened, there was dripping, but there already had been some of that, it was sopping wet, so of course it dripped. He held his breath and felt his heart start to pound. Had he screwed it up somehow? Even a tiny mistake could potentially make all the work he'd done be wasted time. Nearly thirty hours in deep focus carefully building the energy pattern for this. Not good if it didn't work...
Then, all at once, water suddenly ripped out of the cloth, making a huge splash on the hard packed bare earth below. Nothing splashed back up at least, so he wouldn't have to rewash any of it. Yay. He moved forward and tapped the black lines again to turn the field off and then moved to feel the clothing. It was, obviously, dry. He knew that. What he didn't know was if he'd managed to strip it so bare of water that it would turn to dust when touched. Poking a pair of brown pants carefully he tested to see if he had to buy a bunch of new clothes. Or more to the point leave school in shame, because he only had five coppers to his name right now. Nowhere near enough for new clothes.
It was perfect. Totally dry in an instant, leaving the clothing soft and pliable, not even as stiff as it would be from sun drying.
A bubbling feeling of joy rose inside him. Yes! True, drying clothes faster wouldn't win a war or even get him a girlfriend or something impossible like that, but it would get him a good grade in his novel building class. He knew that it would take more than just one solid build for him to do that, being the youngest person in the class by several years, but this was a good start. A very good one.
His glee turned to dread when he turned to find Dorgal Sorvee picking up the wooden plate with the sigil on it. The black haired boy had swarthy skin and hadn't ever worn a student's browns, opting for tan colored silks instead. His father was a wealthy manufacturer, and something like the local mayor where he'd come from. That was fine really, a lot of the rich kids didn't wear regular browns, they weren't that comfortable and apparently if you could afford silk, none of the teachers wanted to risk alienating you by telling you to go put on heavy canvas instead. Who could blame them? You don't poke a bear with a stick, and you don't challenge the rich and powerful. Everyone knew that.
Dorgal however wasn't just a rich merchant kid, having branched out on his own into personal areas of endeavor. He was also an accomplished bully. His parents would be so proud of him, no doubt.
Being rich there wasn't much someone like Tor could do about it either. Sure, he could offer to fight the boy, or call him names... and find himself out of the school the next morning, if not going off to jail. From the way the dickhead held the drying sigil it was obvious to Tor that he wouldn't be getting it back easily.
He sighed.
Life had been easier at home. Sure there had been a couple of bullies at the village school, but being the baker's kid meant that he had five brothers to help him out in a fight if it came to it, more than anyone else's family by far and a certain amount of prestige. His family wasn't wealthy, but they did alright, always having enough food to eat and a good roof over their heads. Some of the villagers didn't always have that. The bullies had largely left him alone even if they did think he was a little strange.
Here, people like Dorgal could get away with murder, practically at least, so they did whenever they felt like it. The boy's face held a snotty and malicious grin as he got ready to tap the sigil and activate it.
“What have we here? Some kind of present for me?” The boy, nearly a man in truth, meaning he should know better than to activate an unknown bit of magic, started to do just that. Moron. For a second Tor almost hoped it would backfire and strip the guy of all his body's water. It wouldn't of course; he'd built in safeguards against that. Still, Tor reflected, he could dream.
A low rumbling chuckle came from behind Tor, making him spin, ready to fight if he had too. He didn't want to be kicked out, but he didn't want to die for some wealthy person's amusement either. When he turned he had to look up to see who stood there. And up. Standing over seven feet tall, a wall of blond muscle hulked a little closer to him. A light colored head on top of a deep red silk shirt. After a few seconds Tor figured out who it was.
Count Thomson.
Freaking hell. The guy wasn't just a giant, but one of Kolb's best fighters. If he decided to beat Tor to death, not only could he get away with it – legally even since he was a Count – but there was nothing the much smaller Tor could do to even slow him down, much less stop him. Even running away could be against the law if the man claimed he was under arrest for something.
Instead of grabbing him, or opening with a devastating backhand blow, the large noble carefully stepped around him and moved gracefully to the low table.
“Hmmm,” he said softly, his voice rumbling. “What do we have here? I saw the splashing a bit ago, so decided to come see for myself. Some kind of water removal system? Fascinating.”
The giant actually seemed interested and took the wooden square from the very surprised bully gently, then turned to speak to Tor directly as if Dorgal wasn't even there.