Form and Dysfunction

In the murky, dim light that streamed through the large window, the young teenage boy sitting on his tall stool hunched over his desk and, with his quill, scratched out a few more lines on the parchment that lay before him. Damn, but he hated trigonometry. Absently, he chewed on the feathered end of the quill while he listened to the rain and sleet clatter off the glass of the window. A glaze of ice distorted the image of the outside world, the city of Gregminster. Not that there was much to see. The city lay shrouded in an unnatural, unending twilight of gray clouds.

A sharp rap at the door caused the youth to juggle his quill in surprise, getting ink stains on his fingers. It was only then that he realized how cold they were. He clapped his hands together, trying to warm them up. The door to his room opened, the bottom scraping against the floor where it had warped slightly over the long ages that the house had been occupied.

"So you are in. I see that you are working on your studies, which is commendable. However, ignoring a summons is not. It's time to go." The voice that spoke was gruff and demanding, expectant of instant action without debate.

The teenager sighed, setting down the quill. "Yes, Uncle Leon. Just let me collect my stuff."

"You should've been ready half an hour ago," Leon Silverberg declared. "And why is there no fire in this room? Do you intend to catch your death of pneumonia, young man? I shall have a word with the maids about this."

Mathiu Silverberg swung around on the stool - one of the few joys in his life - and jumped off. He nearly twisted his ankle on the landing, staggering across his room and catching himself against his bedpost. He shrugged into his overlarge, yellow coat before he answered the question. "I'm sorry, uncle. I didn't want to bother the maids. They seem to have so much to do these days without me pestering them."

Leon's expression didn't change from his usual glower, but Mathiu could tell that his response had raised his uncle's ire. "You didn't want to pester them? You'd rather waste away from some disease that you could've avoided, all because you didn't want to pester them?" He shook his head. "I promised my brother I'd raise you three to be upstanding members of the family. Try not to undo my good work through sheer stupidity. Now come, we're going." Without another word, Leon Silverberg turned and marched down the hall.

Mathiu paused long enough to stuff a red scarf between the collars of his coat and then jogged out of the room after his uncle. He heard Leon sniff when he caught up to him in the hall. As they continued on, neither man spoke, and the only sound was that of their footfalls on the lush carpeting and the rain pounding on the roof. Mathiu's eyes strayed to the portraits hanging on the walls. Grim-faced men and women, mostly with red hair, stared back. He suppressed a shudder as they passed the faded visage of Elenor Silverberg, painted before she'd been exiled to the Island Nations.

Once, Mathiu had made the mistake of comparing Uncle Leon to Elenor - they had the same glower, after all. Leon's expression hadn't changed, it never did, but he had answered, "You compare me to that failure? I'll warrant you that we've got the same mouth, but that's where the comparison ends. Now you, my boy, are likely to challenge her for the position of ugliest Silverberg. You've got her forehead, without a doubt."

That had been the last time Mathiu had broached that subject. He did have that forehead, and there was nothing he could do with his brown hair to disguise that fact. Truth be told, he hated his body. At fifteen, he was already taller than his uncle, but he didn't seem to get any advantage from it. His arms and legs felt long and ungainly, with oversized hands and feet perched on their ends. He often found himself tripping over his feet, or spilling inkbottles at inopportune moments. He was secretly in fear that his uncle would force him to attend one of the palace balls, where he'd be required to dance.

They came out of the long hallway and began to descend a set of broad, carpeted stairs to the ground level. Mathiu nearly lost his balance, but caught himself against the banister. He glanced at his uncle to see if he'd noticed, but Leon merely continued onwards. Mathiu was sure that his uncle had noticed and was probably marking a point against him on some mental scorecard, but Leon never stopped to find out if his nephew was okay.

At the bottom of the steps was the head butler, with Leon's brown overcoat in his hands. Leon took the coat and put it on, then asked, "Where is that neglectful son of mind?"

"I am sorry, my lord. George has become exceptionally good at hiding when responsibility comes around."

"I seem cursed to be the last Silverberg of merit. Undoubtedly my grandchildren will be great failures too. I know where he is." He started off in the direction of one of the doors. "Mathiu, don't move from that spot."

Mathiu didn't. He knew better than to cause his uncle trouble, for his uncle assuredly would cause him much more in return. There were only twelve years between them, but it might as well be twenty or thirty. At some point in the past, Leon Silverberg had decided to accept no equals.

Mathiu had just started to become bored when he heard the quick patter of feet behind him. He didn't bother to look behind him as he heard a little girl shout, "There you are, brother! You didn't stop by to say hello this morning. I wanted to show you my new dress."

Odessa Silverberg, all of six years, with a blaze of red hair crowning a face that others said was "simply adorable," jumped around in front of her brother. Mathiu calmly clasped his hands behind his back and turned to avoid looking at her. He secretly envied her red hair, as he envied all the members of his distinguished family who had that hair. He was certain that if he had the red hair, girls would do more than simply laugh in his general direction.

Odessa jumped in front of him again. "Come on, Mathiu, tell me how my dress looks! Tell me, tell me, tell me! Doesn't it look good?"

Mathiu stared imploringly at the chandelier, sighed, and said, "It looks good."

"You're not even looking at me!" Odessa complained. "Look at me and tell me how good it looks."

"It makes your ass look as wide as the back of a carriage," a new voice commented. Mathiu looked down to see George Silverberg coming in from one of the doors, his father following behind him.

Odessa shrieked in outrage. "You take that back! Uncle Leon, tell him to take that back!"

Leon paused for a moment of consideration. "While my son's word choice leaves something to be desired, I do believe the general gist of the statement is true. I'm going to have to remember to fire the maid who allowed you to dress in such an atrocious fashion."

Odessa began crying, but managed to find the breath to scream, "I hate you, Uncle Leon! I hate you!"

Leon quirked an eyebrow. "Really? By my count, that's the seventeenth time you've expressed that particular emotion this week. Perhaps one of these times you'll actually mean it when you say it. Until then, you shouldn't say what you don't mean. It only confuses the stupid."

Odessa glared at him. Mathiu decided she might as well try glaring at the ice coating the windows. When Leon turned away from her to speak with the two boys, she stuck her tongue out at him and ran off towards the kitchens. Mathiu noted that Leon nodded as she left, possibly marking her down on his mental scorecard. Then he spoke to George and Mathiu.

"Now then, we're going to court today. Do either of you know the primary topic of discussion for the meeting?"

Smoothly, Mathiu answered, "Allocation of grain to the provinces during this unusually long winter."

"Indeed. I want you both to pay careful attention to the debate today. I expect you to be able to write an analysis of the strengths and weaknesses of each point for my perusal. George, I expect a much better effort out of you this time. Your cousin's analysis was much more developed and detailed than yours."

George Silverberg glanced at Mathiu with open hatred in his eyes. Mathiu sneered right back. George was five years his junior, possessed the flaming Silverberg hair, and, when driven to anger, had a frightening temper. The maids kept him placated with sweets and toys. Mathiu feared that in a couple years, George might become strong enough to take out his rage on him physically.

Even so, Mathiu had the advantage, for he was the favorite of Leon, the putative heir to the legacy, and both of them knew it. The age difference had nothing to do with the choice, nor was George lacking in intelligence. It was simply that fact that Mathiu had devoted himself to his studies, while George showed no intention of ever following the Silverberg profession.

Leon stepped between the confrontation. "Enough. We're going."