“The ear I can explain. She was on the subs bench and—”
“Quiet, Russett.” Head Prefect deMauve closed the report and stared at me. “What in Munsell’s name did you think you were doing? Leading a legion of first-strike retaliators against a horde of marauding Riffraff?”
It was half an hour after the game ended, and Violet and I were in the prefect’s chambers to account for our actions. The game had developed into a violent free-for-all and gone rapidly downhill from there.
Daisy had broken Tommo’s thumb to retrieve her whistle, then blown it so hard and for so long that she passed out. Dorian had the presence of mind to take a photo, thus preserving the unprecedented event for all time, and the violence only stopped when I whacked the ball into the Green Room’s walled enclosure, where no one dared enter. Of the players, only those wise enough to have scattered avoided serious injury, and the damage was pretty evenly distributed between the teams, with Courtland accounting for most of it. He lashed out at anyone with whom he had a score to settle—which was almost everyone, it seemed—safe in the knowledge that I, as captain, would be called to account for his actions. He could have nobbled me, too, but he didn’t; I think he wanted to see me humiliated and demerited before he had his revenge.
I had Violet sitting next to me as codefendant. The girls’ team had also decided to ignore the rules and attack anything that moved—which was pretty much what they usually did, only with the legality of a whistle.
DeMauve was sitting on a raised dais, with the Council in a semicircle in front of and below him. As he spoke, they pulled long faces, shook their heads and gave out accusatory “tuts.” We were still muddied and bloody: I had got away with only bruising, and Violet had a hastily stitched gash on the back of her head. Her hair, which this morning had been so perfect, was now matted with blood.
“Puce’s femur may take a month to be completely right again,” said Turquoise in a sober tone, “and every day away from work is a day lost to the Collective. Finbarr Gardenia’s collarbone was pushed through the skin—he may be permanently lopsided. What do you say to that?”
“Pardon me?” I said, for I had been thinking about the wheelbarrow again.
“I was asking,” repeated deMauve in a testy manner, “how you felt about all the injuries?”
“It would have been a lot worse if I hadn’t introduced my priority queuing system,” I replied, feeling impulsive.
“We’ll get around to your queuing presently,” barked Gamboge, who had been glaring at me dangerously since the moment I walked in, “and remember where you are.”
“Violet,” deMauve continued as he turned to his daughter, “do you have anything you’d like to say?”
“The girls’ team was merely acting in self-defense,” replied Violet innocently. “The boys’ team went completely loco—it was all we could do to avoid extreme injury.”
“We will take that into account,” said her father, “but witnesses attest to both teams fighting after the whistle had blown—and your team did almost as much damage as Russett’s.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” she pointed out. “It wouldn’t be the boys-versus-girls match if we didn’t shatter a few shinbones and hand out a concussion or two.”
“That’s as may be,” said Prefect Sally Gamboge, who had been perusing the Rulebook to more fully understand the regulations regarding on-pitch violence, “but only as long as the ball is in play. As soon as you ignored Daisy’s whistle, you became personally responsible for your teams.”
“We are especially disappointed with you, Violet,” added Yewberry. “Russett here is clearly an irresponsible, oafish hub-dweller . You should have known better.”
I saw her fume quietly to herself. Both Violet and I knew who was really to blame, but the Rules were the rules, and Courtland was pretty much untouchable. We’d just have to take what they were handing out. I hadn’t fully understood why Jane had joined in the melee, but then I’d realized: Whereas Courtland had caused trouble to punish me, Jane had caused mayhem to get at the prefects. The incident would affect their end-of-yearreportand, more important, their Peace Dividend from Head Office. A year without any aggression could be worth ten thousand bonus merits, split on a sliding scale between the prefects and the village.
Turquoise asked us both to wait outside for a moment, and we stood, bowed contritely and trooped out.
“Pea brain,” said Violet as soon as the door was closed. “I am so going to make you pay for this.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked. “Ban me from the orchestra?”
“For starters,” she said, annoyed that I had thought of it first. “But I shall also instruct my many close personal friends not to cooperate with your chair census. Your stay here will be an empty, hollow experience without my kind patronage. And,” she added, “I am scrubbing you as a friend. I expect you are devastated.”
“I can think of at least eighty-seven worse things,” I told her, “beginning with yellowless custard.”
She narrowed her eyes at me and made a petulant harrumph noise. The door opened, and Mrs.
Gamboge told us we could return. We filed back in and sat when instructed.
“Do you have anything to say before we prescribe punishment, Master Russett?” asked deMauve.
“No excuses, sir,” I murmured. “I will endeavor to improve myself.”
“Miss deMauve?”
“It’s a plot to discredit me,” she blurted, pointing a finger at me. “I’m not a bad person. Everyone wants to be my friend. I would never have done anything that—” But even her father had had enough. He put up a hand to silence her.
“Violet deMauve,” he said, “we are deeply disappointed that you failed to control your team as soon as the game had ended. As a respected Purple, you are expected to be an example to others. However, we have also taken into consideration your abundant good works for the community and the pleas for leniency on your behalf by many worthy members of the Collective. You will be fined . . . one hundred merits.”
Violet looked shocked. I think she thought she’d get off without a scratch, and in many ways, she had.
She must have had twice as many merits as I did, and would doubtless have many opportunities to earn more. Still, dishing out a hundred wasn’t so bad—I’d still have enough for residency.
“Edward Russett,” said deMauve in the sort of voice one generally uses for announcing the onset of the Mildew, “we hold you chiefly responsible for this farrago. Your poor judgment, failure to properly control your team and inadequate leadership skills have led to the worst case of on-pitch violence this village has ever seen. You are fined . . . two hundred merits.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. It was bad, but I had almost thirteen hundred merits, so two hundred still left me eleven hundred—enough for residency. I would still be able to get married, one of the perks afforded those who prove themselves Worthy.
We should have been dismissed then, but we weren’t.
“In addition,” said Sally Gamboge, “we find your meddling with the gracious clarity of the queue lines here in East Carmine severely disturbing. The Rules often work in mysterious ways, and impetuous acts that seem to offer short-term benefit sometimes have unforeseen consequences that bring only disunity.”
“Luckily for you,” added deMauve, “you applied for a Standard Variable application, and according to the Rules, we cannot demerit you.”