Chapter Nine: "Three, Two, One … BOOM!"

Lord Wyldon stared out across the band practice room, and shook his head sadly: this could never work.

In the flute section, the four flautists were giggling and making crude comments about the implications of the word "pianist", while the resident piano player rolled his eyes and made an act of wringing out his hands and cracking his knuckles. The clarinetists were fighting over seats – and not just regular band placement. Cleon and Neal had stooped to a fist fight over who would sit next to Keladry – who was quite happy in between Kalasin and Coram.

In the row behind them, the trumpets were having a game of "sword in the stone", as they struggled to pull out the mouth piece Merric had successfully jammed into his trumpet, while the saxophones looked on. Owen had begun a rather amusing – although painfully lacking rhythm – drum solo on the kit, while Myles was strapping together his new xylophone: of beer bottles.

"Attention, every one!" Lord Wyldon cried out vainly over the group.

No one was paying any attention.

"Listen up!" He tried again to no effect.

Numair, however, looked up at his conductor. "May I?"

The former training master nodded, and with a last wringing of his hands, the mage placed his fingers gently on the polished keys and blasted out a flawless performance of Franz Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody #2 in C# minor. A particularly amazing feat, considering his utter lack of classical training, (or any training.)

Instant. Silence.

Taking advantage at the sudden lull in the noise, Wyldon lifted his pointy conductor's baton. "Alright," he announced, back in his element, "Today we're going to learn how to play each individual instrument. If you'll please take note –" He reached forward and pulled the trumpet out of Merric's hands, easily sliding the mouth piece out as only a band director can do.

"He pulled the mouth piece from the trumpet!" Owen shouted, "That must make him our true conductor!"

There were collective gasps issued from around the room, and the ex-training master groaned. "Yes. Sure. All right. Fine." He held up the trumpet, reclaiming the Tortallans' attention, "Now listen. This is a trumpet. It has a three buttons. Three. You – Lioness," he beckoned towards Alanna, "Play a note. Any note."

She blinked up at him. If he'd told her to fight a dragon, she could have done it easily. But this, this was beyond her. "How?"

"Press one of the buttons," He replied, his patience waning, "buzz your lips and blow through the mouth piece."

"Uh. Sure." Holding the trumpet to her lips, Alanna quickly brushed a tendril of auburn hair out of her eyes and – somewhat impatiently – blew through the instrument, instantly hitting a sour note.

Lord Wyldon winced, and opened his mouth to make a comment about the sharpness of what had the potential of being a Bb, when he was cut off by a voice…

… a voice that was coming from out of Alanna's trumpet.

"This trumpet will self-destruct in ten…"

"ALANNA!" His eyes widened in shock, "What did you DO?"

"… nine, eight, seven…"

Alanna stared at her trumpet, dumbfounded. "I don't know? I guess I the wrong button?"

"… six, five…"

Wyldon's mouth flapped in disbelief, "What wrong button?"

She shrugged, "The fourth one?"

"There – are – only – three – buttons – on – a – trumpet!" He spoke through gritted teeth, watching the instrument warily as the countdown continued/

"… four, three, two…"

"Alanna! Put down the trumpet!" George had discarded his saxophone and was lunging for his wife.

"One." The voice had finished, and with an all-too-pleasant tone added, "Have a nice day!"

With a shower of colorful confetti and a loud bang, the trumpet in Alanna's hands exploded into a flash of bright light – leaving the knight nowhere to be seen.

"ALANNA! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" George fell to his knees, his eyes wide with horror and loss.

"She's gone, George," commented Raoul. Where he should have been dismayed at his friend's apparent death, he beamed. 'Now Jon has to make me King's Champion!'

"Come along, George, let's go get some frappuchino."

The Baron allowed himself to be led from the practice room by Numair, his eyes bloodshot from the horror of it all. Alanna was gone. Gone? No! She couldn't be! She had to be somewhere – somewhere near, and he would find her. He would devote all his time to getting her back! He would not sleep, he would not eat, and he would not do anything until Alanna was back, safe in his arms…

… but first he was going to get some frappuchino.

Authoress's Notes: There was like, this one time at band camp, where a girl's trumpet exploded because she pressed the wrong button!

True story.

Seriously.

Mmm, frappuchino.