Chapter the Fourth of Part the Fifth
In which the narrative recounts acts from the life of Mark Streeter in Assid City, Hooglaan.
When the Venerable Nemor Gray’s private train stopped in front of the Hooglaan Municipal Hall, Mark Streeter struggled to contain his own excitement because of his responsibility to keep the younger boys from bouncing off the train and the street.
“That’s where I filched my first silver coin,” Peete said proudly as he pointed to the street corner.
“That’s where I got my face clawed by a woman when I was little,” said Tormo drily. “It was years before I came anywhere near that place again.”
“And now we’re picking their pockets just by singing,” said Timmon.
“That’s what Mark did before he got arrested,” said Guerry.
“The only thing that’s changed is the clothes I wear,” said Mark, proudly looking down at the polished buttons of his choir uniform.
“I hope your singing is better for your many months of training,” said Fresnik.
“You just want to take credit for how good I am,” said Mark with a grin, as he knew full well that Fresnik had indeed taught him much.
The train came to a complete stop and the boys jumped up from their seats.
“Boys!” Fresnik yelled. “Line up! Tormo’s line first, then Mark’s line.”
Mark took his place at the head of his line and waited impatiently for Fresnik and Renssa to march Tormo’s line out so that he could follow them. Mark thought of the many times he had stood outside of the bright redstone building, looking for a pocket to pick or trying to catch somebody’s attention with a song. He had watched many people go through the large bronze doors into the municipal hall without ever going in himself or thinking he ever would. Now he was going to be on the stage.
When it was his line’s turn, Mark led his boys out of the train to the front of the Municipal Hall where lavishly dressed women and men eyed the boys curiously before mounting the steps. Outside, the air was warm with a cool breeze. Perfect weather for pickpockets, Mark thought automatically. His fingers hadn’t itched even once since he was taken to the Venerable Nemor Gray’s mansion.
“Tormo, follow me,” said Fresnik. “Mark follow Tormo.”
Fresnik led the two lines of boys to the side of the building where they entered through a side door that led to the backstage area. Renssa Reader, at Fresnik’s side, beamed at the boys. Guards stationed in various places saluted the boys as they marched past them. Back in the days when Mark was fleeing those men, it had never occurred to him that he would be saluted by them. In spite of the salutes, however, Mark found himself automatically mapping out escape routes from the guards in case he needed them.
“Boys, hold your places,” said Fresnik. The boys stopped and waited expectantly for their last words of encouragement. “Remember, you will be singing in a much bigger place than the chapel at the Venerable Nemor Gray’smansion. It would have helped if we had been given permission to rehearse in this place but it turned out to be a struggle to get municipal permission to perform here at all. I don’t know what all the wrangling was about, but it appears that we are drawing a large audience that should reflect well on the Venerable Nemor Gray and on yourselves. You will have to remember to project at all times. Sing with your chest out and stomach in. Imagine your tone floating to the back row of Hall.”
Fresnik went on to remind the boys of several spots in the music that were problems and he had the boys sing softly three passages where staying in tune was an issue. Then Tormo was instructed to lead his boys to one wing of the stage and Mark to the other. The Venerable Nemor Gray was already addressing the audience, telling them what a wonderful choir of boys and men he had assembled and how they were reviving a grand institution that had done so much for the culture of Hooglaan in earlier times. To be among those praised so highly had Mark thinking that he had risen amazingly high above his life as a cold, starving boy living on the streets by the speed of his fingers. At last, The Venerable Nemor Gray finished his speech and nodded to Tormo and to Mark. Mark sucked in his breath and walked on to the stage, feeling that he had entered the kind of dream he had when an overly empty stomach sent his head floating.
The applause was courteous. Fresnik Singer stepped out in front of the choir, bowed, and then turned to face the boys. The jewelry glittering on the women in the front rows almost blinded Mark and he had to restrain himself from calculating how many silver pieces he could get for it in the underhand market. As Fresnik made his funny faces to relax the boys, Mark saw that the Illustrious Metterling sitting in the front row, just a few seats away from the Venerable Nemor Gray and his wife. Mark also recognized the judge who sentenced him to the discretion of the Venerable Nemor Gray for the crime of singing on a street corner. The Illustrious Vincent Metterling did not look up at the stage with the same indulgent look of so many ladies and a few men who sat near him. This was no time to worry about the man who had him dragged to the judge on a false charge. Mark put himself in the frame of mind to sing the rousing Merchant Ship song that was to open this program and, when the cue was given, he attacked his first notes with gusto.
The whole concert went amazingly well. Even when some boys faltered in the middle of a song about a nightingale singing a child to sleep, Mark and Tormo kept it going until the other boys got back in it and they ended up singing the last lines with the best quiet touch they had ever given it. Tormo sang his solo like a building on fire that Mark found exciting and he drew a particularly loud applause, a louder applause than Mark himself drew for his more subdued solo towards the end of the concert. In one way, Mark was disappointed that Tormo had inspired this audience of leading citizens more than he had, but he also knew that the extra acclaim made Tormo less dangerous. Mark kept a wary eye on Illustrious Metterling and noted, with concern, that the man sat with his arms folded and never applauded. The boys concluded with a song about the sun dancing with children throughout the land that brought the audience to its feet. Fresnik Singer had the boys bow three times to the audience and then raised his hands to announce an afterpiece. But before Fresnik Singer could make his announcement, the Illustrious Metterling jumped up on the stage.
“I hate to dampen your appreciation of the concert just given here but there are some things about these boys that you must know. The terribly sad truth is that all of these boys standing here, who have entertained you with their songs, are street thieves!”
There was a low buzzing the audience.
“Whether or not you believe me is up to you,” the Illustrious Vincent Metterling continued, “but I suggest you take a close look at these boys who stand before you. Chances are you will recognize at least one boy who once approached you on the street with a sweet smile and afterwards you found your purse cut open. I can tell you that this boy right here was caught red handed stealing my valuable gold watch that had been passed down through my family for eight generations.”
Mark Streeter stiffened as the Illustrious Metterling pointed straight at him. The high feelings the concert had given him were dashed to the ground as if the man had used a revolver to shoot him down.
“The boy I am pointing at,” said Illustrious Metterling, “is one of four boys I personally recognize as boys that I had arrested for thievery in the treacherous streets of our once proud city. I tried to get that boy and boys like him sentenced to work in my factory, which would not only have been useful and productive work, but also the kind of work that makes a boy think twice about stealing valuable items on the street. But far from being put to productive work, this boy and all the other boys in this group have been sentenced to the Venerable Nemor Gray’s choir for boys where all they do is sing all day. What kind of punishment is that? If ever word gets out to our streeters that the only punishment they will receive for picking our pockets is a chance to sing in the municipal hall which was built at public expense, what is going to stop these children from robbing us in our own homes?”
Many members of the audience gasped at the implications of what the man was saying. Mark looked out at one stage wing and the other and reviewed the escape routes he had noted. One look at Tormo told Mark that he was thinking along the same lines. Meanwhile, hardly willing to sit idle during such a tirade, the Venerable Nemor Gray strode over to the steps that took him up to the stage and within dueling distance of the Illustrious Vincent Metterling.
“HOW DARE YOU TALK LIKE THAT?” Nemor Meyer raged. “What better way to reduce crime is there than to put children to constructive pursuits? You are looking at boys who have worked hard to present this concert. If I had not taken them on at my expense, they would be out on the streets picking your pockets this very minute! Can’t you see that I have made the streets safer for all of you?”
“You said it!” the Illustrious Vincent Metterling charged. “These boys are common street thieves! Furthermore, I will have you all know that one man who knows very well that these boys are thieving streeters is right at the front of the audience. The man I mean is none other than His so-called Fairness, the Exalted Carl Derringer!” The plump man blushed angrily as several people cried out against him. The Illustrious Vincent Metterling raised his hands for quiet. “Before you rope His so-called Fairness to the nearest street lamp, I want you to know that this man thought that singing on a street corner was a more significant charge than stealing a family watch that had been handed down through eight generations. I now challenge His so-called Fairness, the Exalted Carl Derringer, to tell us how many gold coins crossed the palm of his hand from the open fist of the Venerable Nemor Gray!”
When the cries of outrage became deafening, His Fairness the Exalted Carl Derringer stood up in his place and pointed a stubby finger at the Venerable Nemor Gray.
“That man threatened to steal my livelihood as a municipal judge if I did not assign streeter rats to his discretion when he asked for them!” the judge charged. “The only gold coins that crossed the palm of my hand were the coins of my rightful payment for a position he threatened to take away from me!”
“I threatened to petition the municipal council to relieve His Fairness, the Exalted Carl Derringer of his position as municipal judge because he was sentencing children unjustly to the factories of the Illustrious Vincent Metterling and his factory-owning cronies!” the Venerable Nemor Gray countered.
The audience became increasingly noisy, and many appeared ready to pounce on one man or the other, depending on who lost the furious debate. Guards from backstage were brought into the hall to join their fellows and restore order if order broke down. This maneuver was good for Mark and the other boys as there would be far fewer guards backstage to deal with if it became necessary to flee, and it seemed more and more likely that they would have to do just that. The only alternatives Mark could see were to flee to the streets or hope that Merithwell would open to them. Having had it with the streets, Mark decided that he was going to try for Merithwell, hoping it would not fail him and the other boys at the time of greatest need.
“Let me tell you where the ideas of the Venerable Nemor Gray come from!” the Illustrious Vincent Metterling yelled over the audience. “Did you notice that some of the songs these boys sang were derived from the Teaching of the Master? Do you remember that the First Preacher who introduced these teachings to this world came from a different world? Do you remember how the First Preacher enslaved this country for years? Do you want to destroy the freedom that has given us the prosperity our city deserves! Now that Hooglaan prospers, do you want to go back to the days when Disciples of the Master thwarted the free actions of men at every turn?”
“No!” “No!” several people in the audience cried out. The Venerable Nemor Gray tried to shout a response over the tumult, but angry members of the audience and the guards engulfed him.
Tormo caught Mark’s attention and Mark nodded. The situation was hopeless.
“Fft!” Mark hissed.
The boys, anxious and restless over the way things were going, gave Mark their attention and were ready to move.
“Follow me!” Mark ordered in a louder whisper.
Then he led the charge off the stage.
“Guards! Guards!” Illustrious Metterling yelled, pointing at the fleeing choir.
As Mark hoped, the guards backstage, thinned out by the riot in the hall, were slow to react to cries from in front of the stage. He ran straight to the wall where the distance between two guards was the greatest.
“MARK?!” one of the frightened boys cried out.
“Trust me!” Mark replied on the run.
“Merithwell, don’t fail me now,” Mark whispered as he braced himself for a painful encounter with the wall.
Proceed to Chapter the Fifth of Part the Fifth