Chapter One
"
–DSCH
A ruler will tend not to come out from his palace, as history observes and notes. One contented with the situation of power, be it good or evil. Zlaya was not like this, she was far from content, she was paranoid of risings against her widespread control. I think this was a silly fear; no sane creature would dare defy her. They knew the consequences prison or death. Her guards and soldiers could make no errors in enforcing such. Perhaps she feared, somehow, her subordinates were too stupid. I can testify if that was true that brute strength was all they needed for most. But Zlaya apparently felt she needed to check up on her "all for one and none for all" policy, that nobeast was gaining save herself. So she'd go on outings through her district, each town on agenda.
Traveling players seldom linger long, they're usually on the road between here and wherever. Stop for a show and go. Such a stop was made in my town one autumn, a new group to accompany. At the same time, Zlaya felt a necessity to make one of her own stops. I recall it very well, down to the warm golden sunlight filtering through copper-hued trees and acting as lighting for the show. A hare called Bolt led the troupe; his players were presenting an obvious parody of a vermin horde campaigning. Bolt himself presented a horrible imitation of a stoat warlord, much to the amusement of the crowd. I, less noticeably I'm certain, accompanied with improvised humor on old marching tunes.
The jangling sound I heard at some point I remember down to pitch, but it did not concern me at the time I heard it. One never knows what might be used in a show. The audience continued its roar; Bolt was "disciplining" a sorry soldier in a horrible mix of hare and vermin accents when the sound approached and stopped. I glanced over. A female arctic fox stepped off a bell-adorned cart onto the stage. She wore quasi-military attire, and it seemed somehow unfitting at the time. Cold midwinter blue highlighted her combed ice white fur, obsidian eyes fixed on Bolt. This still didn't match to me. I thought she was part of the troupe. So I kept on playing.
I'm not sure whether or not my course of actions was a good one. I couldn't have helped Bolt even with the hindsight I hold now. My switch to a minor key could have made the intrusion an actual part of the show, if only briefly. If the arctic fox would cooperate. A few sharp words were given to Bolt, and his reaction was out of character. His ears went down flat, he whispered between his teeth, "Tune it down, Mitya, ol' chap!"
Not louder, I wondered why, but I turned and saw. Actual soldiers had joined Bolt's players, held them while the arctic fox explained. "I don't approve. Such a farce degrades, insults, pokes at something. If you poke hard enough, things break. I can t let you poke. I can go harder."
The hare gulped, the other players did less. The audience and I shared confusion. Briefly again. That came to an end when fear set in. Those beasts poked literally, with spears. I can remember how, but I won't disclose it. I know you'll remember it too, and that would be an unfortunate situation. The end, though, I can tell you. I d not tried to slip away the ones resisting were handed worse problems. I sat at my piano bench, pawing nervously at my glasses. When two sturdy weasels found the sides of the bench, I looked down and occupied myself with a hangclaw. I didn't want to be watching them when they did what they might. I couldn't help but feel them breathing over me; that anticipation was bad enough. I wanted them to get it over with.
Something hissed in my ear, sounded like the drawing of a blade, but it formed words. "You. Fox. They called you Mitya, right?"
I looked up then, obediently, saw the arctic fox above me, her actual blade still sheathed. But her words might be arrows on her whims. "They call me Mitya Shostak. I have no title. No real title at all," I stuttered, repeated. "I make music, write songs..."
The two weasel guards snorted and rattled their spears.
"Very well, Shostak. You know me." She stated that. And I did know her. Her identity had become very clear as soon as she showed her intentions on Bolt's players. Zlaya Trudnaya continued: "Very well, then, what were you just playing?"
She meant for the troupe. Clearly. And she didn't like their act, also clearly. She wouldn't like the song, but I told her. I had to. "I was improvising, ma'am. Improvising. No composer." As I look back, I could have called myself that.
"Very well. And you improvise thus often?"
I nodded.
"Good. I need a new fanfare, new entertainment. The others are all fraudulent, treacherous, associated with those troupes."
I dared something then, a bit puzzled. "How do you know I'm not?" It was an innocent question, really, but I knew that it could be taken the wrong way the instant I said it. A fortunate thing my voice's intonation carried a clear note of fear. I recall that, too.
"The hare." A simple reply. I shifted on the bench and the guards looked away. Zlaya and I simply looked at each other. Her expression was an odd contortion of amusement, interest, and clear evil intentions. I must have appeared the terrified kit.
Finally, Zlaya sniffed, stamping a footpaw. "Come on then."
The whole situation, turn of events, felt random. I think I could find a better word to describe it, but that is what comes to me now. Just as what came to me then felt very mixed. I gazed upon the horror the makeshift amphitheater had become: the remnants of the audience, the sorry captives the troupe had been branded, the imposing order of the vermin soldiers. I was disgusted, no less than that. I wanted to be out of the scene, I wished I'd been far from even the sidelines. But my paws and legs trudged forward. That may have been fearful obedience to Zlaya's steel presence, but I think my own face would have scared me. My eyes must have been part shut, near glazed from what they'd witness, but my mouth–I remember how that felt–twitched in some involuntary form of a smile.