Chapter Two

Chapter Two

"I don't like to be patted on the head...I like to be treated with respect."

–DSCH

Emotions layer. They may give the impression of dominating one another completely, but they really just surge back and forth like different levels of waves over a sandbar. That's what's happening to me now, as I document this. No experience feels all one way. As Zlaya Trudnaya and her guards led me upon the grounds of Mtsensk, her domain, awe dominated in me. High towers reached toward the skies, capped with dark onion domes. Intricate work of artists and sculptors adorned each corner, were carved on every wall. The great hall I was led to was cavernous, equally decorated; it seemed to echo with something one couldn't actually hear. The grandeur was enough to make me forget I was in a place of evil.

The town where I'd grown up consisted of both what one calls vermin and woodlanders. Our alignment wasn't split–we were all dirt poor together under Zlaya's system. I guess we had something over the other little towns in the district, a certain air of intelligence is what I can describe it best as, though I mean not to degrade other villages. It was by that factor, though, that managed to get me the musical knowledge that brought me to where I was. The lessons were a fortune, as I fondly reflect. At the time, I considered being taken into Zlaya's gilded circle a good fortune. Emotions on the spur of the moment tend to swirl harder and frothier, more confusing and illusional.

I must clarify somewhere that I do not like to be put on display. That is, I like to be noticed when appropriate but never flaunted. For the troupes, I was an aside, I sometimes got a tip, which was good. That's why I'd offer my services, mostly. My general nature is one away from the spotlight. When I followed Zlaya's entourage into Mtsensk, therefore, currents of self consciousness rilled under general awe. Uniformed buglers stationed down the length of the main hall heralded their chief's entrance with a bright martial fanfare. I remember also my own subconscious bubbling on how their blowing wasn't a bad tune, how the meter was something interesting enough to reconsider later. Their intonation could have been improved upon, but there's always something a musician can improve upon in his playing.

Zlaya approached the end of the hall, turning and silencing the buglers with a swift motion of a paw. My subconscious troubled itself momentarily over how that had been a very bad time to stop for phrasing, but my apparent attention–my conscious attention and my eyes considered only Zlaya. She frowned near the point of a snarl upon her buglers before announcing, "You can give your noise a break. I have fresh paws, new notes. I give you Mitya Shostak."

I moved slowly and awkwardly to turn and face them, but I know I was still smiling somewhat. Awe was still holding out against self consciousness. In either, though, I found no voice. I stood, facing the buglers blankly until Zlaya ordered me to, "Come here, young fox. You've been introduced. I know you heard."

I had indeed heard very well, and I looked back at Zlaya to show it. She in turn looked to the side, all she needed to do to indicate a large, expensive-looking piano just off from front and center against the far wall of the hall. I didn't need to ask questions about that. I probably would have been disciplined had I said anything. Approaching the polished wood bench, I stared at it before finally sitting down and running a paw down the keys. I'd never had the chance to play on such an instrument before. I should have sat down and played enthusiastically through every piece I'd ever learned or written, or I should have sat down and improvised until they made me go to bed. But at that point, rather unfortunately, creativity was not especially active.

What could I do, then, with the infamous, all-powerful dictator of every part of the countryside I'd seen to that point standing behind me, breathing down my back, wanting to hear what I could do again? I had to play. Placing both paws on the keyboard then, I started picking out the melody and harmony of the fanfare I'd just heard.

Zlaya hissed almost immediately, placing a paw rather heavily on my shoulder with a clear intention to make me stop playing. "I've brought you here so I don't have to listen to that anymore. Play something else, something different!"

I nodded dumbly, adjusting my spectacles before repositioning paws on the keys. I had to do something different, but still something grand and martial. I couldn't use the bugle call, couldn't use any of the melodies I'd parodied for Bolt's troupe earlier. Blinking down at the keys a few times, I finally brought my paws to play a few loud triads. A simple sequence, stalling for time so I could actually think. Throwing a quick glance back at Zlaya, I read her face as pleased and relaxed a bit, continuing to vary and stray from that strain of chords.

Zlaya knew nothing about music. I discovered that soon enough, almost immediately. To be pleased with the mere beginner's exercise I started out with is something only an unfamiliar ear can accomplish. When I did have idea enough to really start making something from what I was playing, she'd interject at times that made no sense to me. She'd make suggestions that did nothing for the music and often went against any theory a teacher could tell you. But I did it anyway. One can't be too careful when dealing with dictators. I found that out, certainly. I realized soon enough that I was a servant, but I kept trying to play the right notes for Zlaya until the very end of the matter.