Outclassed

Professor Sir Sedgwick Ivers paced around the room, lecturing passionately about the importance and complexity of taxes. He climbed the stairs to the lectern, standing on the raised platform that put him a sold three feet taller than he stood on the floor. It was the warning sign that he was about to launch into the Socratic method.
 
“Ms. Milensoryu, what are the three types of taxes?”
 
Nel stands up from her large desk in the back of the room.
 
“Um…Proportional – when everyone pays the same percentage in taxes; Progressive – when rich folk pay a bigger percentage in taxes than poor folk; and Regressive – when poor folk pay more and rich folk pay less. Sir.”
 
Professor Ivers smiles. “More plainly put than in the textbook, but correct. You don’t have to stand when I call on you though.”
 
She sits and can’t help the excited smile. Her hours studying the past couple of nights had paid off. She pretends to not hear the derisive laughter.
 
“And what are the advantages of each of them? Let’s start with Regressive. Lady Bauer?”
 
The young lady smiled prettily and answers:
 
“Regressive taxes take a higher percentage from the lower classes, stopping them from throwing away their money that would most likely only be used on drink or gambling or other immoral or even illegal pursuits. Meanwhile, the productive class – the nobility, the business owners, the House of Lords – pay a lower percentage, freeing up more of their money to employ the lower classes and contribute to society.”
 
Nel bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood and furiously scribbled notes in case the material was on the test.
 
“Now, Sophia, you don’t need to guess at what the lower classes do with their money. We have an expert. Milensoryu, what did you spend your money on when you weren’t sponging off your betters?” asked Baron Neumann, a 20-year-old useless lump of arrogance and smirks in expensive clothing.
 
A million answers flashed through Nel’s mind. There was, of course, the truth – keeping kids fed and off the streets as best as she could. Then there was the smart answer – to ignore him and focus on why she was there. But the part of her that had learned quick – in the orphanage, in the streets of the South Ward, in the Syndicate, and in prison – that keeping your head down only worked until a bully decided to make you a target and then they won’t stop until you make them – won the day and she said, almost without thinking:
 
“Flowers and chocolates for your mother, Baron Neumann. She were especially keen on the ones with the caramels in the center.”
 
A lot of laughter and a few scandalized gasps rang out through the classroom, while Baron Rainer Neumann scowled.
 
“How dare you talk about my mother, you gibfaced hedgecreeping vazey?!”
 
“Enough!” said Professor Ivers said sharply, raising his voice. “I was unaware my class was full of schoolchildren.”
 
Nel winced, inwardly kicking herself for letting him get a rise out of her. She reminded herself that she had more to prove than the rest of the class and that 500 ursans were counting on her to learn to speak the language of the nobility. She would need all of the lessons at the AC, both in the curriculum and from interactions with students in order to help make sure the ursans had what they needed and to track down the nobles who sold them to slavery in the Wastelands.
 
“Apologies, Sir,” she said to the professor. “Won’t happen again.”
 
“See that it doesn’t,” said Ivers, who then raised an eyebrow at Baron Neumann who only smirked back. The professor shook his head in disgust at the useless, spoiled baron.
 
“Baron Neumann, perhaps you can tell me which types of taxes are used in Eisen?”
 
…
 
Nel hung back after the lecture and approached Professor Ivers.
 
“Sir, I want to apologize again. What I said weren’t called for.”
 
The dwarf laughed. “Yes, it was. But you still need to not do it again.”
 
Nel nodded. “Yes, sir.”
 
“What are you doing here, Miss Milensoryu? Of all the places to study, why choose the one full of people who want to see you fail?”
 
“Because there’s 500 ursans in Ruskovich who been trapped and enslaved in the Wastelands until a few months ago. Princess Orlov gave helped free ‘em and gave ‘em land to farm and homes to live in and put me in charge of making sure they got what they need and they pay taxes and obey the laws and I need to do right by ‘em. So I’m here to learn the things I need to know – the stuff in the books and also how to deal with people like Baron Neumann. Cause if I can’t handle the likes of him, I got no business looking into Rus nobles who already hate and fear me just for being ursan and unead until I find out which of ‘em sent my kin to the Wastelands in the first place. Or even just making sure the ursans are happy and safe.”
 
Professor Ivers was quiet for a moment, then said, “That is no small thing. What degree are you pursuing?”
 
“None, sir. Just taking the classes I need to get up to speed so I don’t accidentally screw my kin over somehow – sorry, that probably ain’t the proper way to say that.”
 
The professor chuckled. “It was clear. For my class, that is enough. But did you know there’s a betting pool on how long it’s going to take you to quit or be kicked out?”
 
His expression grew serious and he continued. “Most people *want* you to fail. You being here is making all kinds of people clutch their pearls about falling standards of admission. They could not bar you from entering, not with a letter of recommendation from a princess. But they can certainly find reasons to make you leave. So you can’t let Baron Neumann or the others goad you into insults. It won’t matter that they started it. It will only matter that you gave them the reason they were looking for. Do you understand?”
 
“Yes, sir, I do.”
 
“Good.” He nodded. “Keep studying. Keep your head down. You’re here for a better reason than most, and it’s obvious to anyone with eyes and ears that you’re working hard. Don’t let them provoke you into throwing it away.”
 
Nel nodded. “Yes, sir – I mean, no, Sir – I won’t lose my temper again.”
 
“Good,” he said again. “You can go.”
 
Nel thanked him and headed for the door.
 
“Oh, and Miss Milensoryu?”
 
She stopped and turned back around to face him.
 
“I have 20 gold on you finishing this semester. Don’t let me down.”
 
Nel grinned. “I’ll make sure that investment pays off, sir,” she said, touched, and hurried off to her next class.