“Like your name!” I exclaimed, realization dawning on me.
“Like my name,” he agreed. “The Master Morau you knew was holding onto my real memories and name. That's why I couldn't recall who I was or where I came from. The person who stole those from me gave them to the plantation owner, so he thought he was me. And that wasn't all she stole. I remember who I am, but there are talents and powers of mine that were ripped from me and still out there, and other people might be using them. That's what I'm going out to find.”
“Why are you letting me come with you now, though, when you were going to make me stay before?” I asked. Hawke hesitated, squirming a bit before answering.
“In truth, I'm bringing you for selfish reasons,” he admitted, looking away from me. “Your undeveloped talent is fascinating, and I would hate for you to waste your life doing something so mundane when you could train your power and do something great with it.”
I had no idea what a “mundane” life was, but any excuse to stay with Hawke longer was fine by me.
“Just stick close to me while we travel, and I'll protect you,” he promised, “but remember: when you feel like using your talent, always remember the Sandwich Man.”
I swallowed and nodded solemnly. The last thing I wanted to do was get in trouble for something I did so often without thinking. I vowed at that moment to always think before I picked, or something along those lines.
By the time our conversation about powers and essence had ended, the sun had already dipped away and given the sky to the stars. The driver assured us that the carriages would ride through the night, and one of the stewards for the caravan showed us how to convert the seats into a bed that filled the whole cabin. Hawke hopped out and let me have the bed to myself, even when I offered to share.
“I don't need to sleep much,” he assured me. “I'll just walk alongside the carriage until you wake up.”
He gingerly pulled the covers over me and tucked them in, but as he turned to leave I grabbed his robe.
“Hawke, can I ask you something?” I said.
“Sure.”
“When you talked about the person who stole your essence, you said 'she' did. Do you know who took it from you?”
Hawke paused for a long time, looking at nothing in particular. When the silence between us threatened to become deafening, he finally broke it.
“Goodnight, Micasa.”
And without another word he closed the carriage door.
Chapter 4: The Musical Man
The next few days we spent on the road, Hawke dedicated it to trying to teach me the basics of using my power. He had me lock and unlock the padlock he'd given me what must have been a thousand times, each time with a different twist: make the key work, don't make it work, try to lock it so a different key worked.
It wasn't long before I was so frustrated I would've ripped the lock to pieces if I had the strength. When at last I had had enough, I simply forced the lock so badly that I doubted I could ever undo it and chucked it across the cabin. Even that seemed to please Hawke, though.
“Pushing your limits like that will make you grow more in the long run!” he tried to praise me, but he clearly could tell I was at wit's end.
“I'm tired of that lock!” I whined. “Can we do something else please?”
When I wasn't working with that stupid lock, he tried his hand at more basic things. True to his word, he started working on teaching me to read, which was much easier than I had expected it to be. Near the end of our trip, I was almost able to read The Sandwich Man by myself. To be fair, I had heard it so many times by then I probably could have recited it by memory.
What interested me more than reading was the music that constantly played in our cabin. Hawke had told me he paid extra coin to get a carriage with a phonograph inside it. For me, phonographs were practically sacred. Our old master had one, him being a collector of pricey and often gaudy trinkets, and though he did occasionally play it, I was usually forced to clean something far away from him as he enjoyed the music. Getting to experience the beautiful noise firsthand was yet another perk of the freedom I never knew until recently.
“I'm glad you like it,” said Hawke, “because where we're going, there's one of the only theatres left in the world. We're going to go hear a live performance there!”
I was both excited and confused at the prospect of hearing live music. Hawke did his best to explain how instruments worked, but it was practically as confusing as essence to me. He finally just shook his head a little and promised it would make more sense when I saw it.
He spent the last leg of the journey leaning back in his seat, one leg crossed over the other and eyes closed. His suspended leg jittered in time with the music, and I was left to my own devices: namely, trying to sneakily pet the horse without raising the ire of the coach driver.
As we approached Sapir, I got to see for the first time just how different two towns could be from each other. Where Changirah had been surrounded with high sturdy walls and the gates guarded by fearsome armor-clad warriors, Sapir had little more than an archway that declared entrance to the city. What an arch it was, though: I was able to read the name by myself, but the fancy and overindulgent font they'd chosen to use for the welcome sign was almost impossible to decipher. The archway itself was a masterpiece carving, apparently made from a single piece of wood hewn with the utmost precision.
“Sapir is a city of artisans,” Hawke explained as he leaned close to look out the window with me. “People come from all over the land to see some of the greatest art, eat the finest food, and listen to the best music mankind has to offer.”
A soft tune was playing through the air, and as the caravan continued down the street, it swelled until we found the source as a man cranking a handle on a large box. As the cheery ditty played, two monkeys on leashes danced a jig around the man. I cackled in delight, and Hawke even gave me a handful of change to toss to the performers before we passed them by completely. From that moment, I was on the edge of my seat to see just what other wonders this strange town had to offer.
“Aren't they afraid of demons attacking with no walls or guards, though?” I asked as our coach began to slow down near a central square.
“Those types of attacks are fairly rare this far inland,” he said. “Most of them occur near the coast, when they wash up on the shore. Bandits would be a bigger threat, but Sapir is plenty safe, don't worry. They have their own form of protection.”
I wanted to ask him what he was referring to, but we got caught up in the caravan unloading its haul and shooing us on our way. I quickly forgot my question as we moved through the town to find a place to stay.
The bazaar in the central square wasn't quite as large as Changirah's, but the streets were lined with cobblestone rather than packed earth so the overall appearance was much less of a dirt storm, and the curiosities were even more curious. Trinkets chimed and shook and spat and gave off pleasant aromas as we marched through the throng of people wearing robes of every color imaginable. The buildings came in many shapes and sizes, their unique architecture noisily clashing with one another as if they were all fighting to be the most eye-catching on the streets.
“Yeah, the Sapirians have a taste all their own to be sure,” Hawke agreed when I asked him about the buildings. “Like I said, this is the place to be if you consider yourself any sort of artist. It's a rather cutthroat world, to be honest. A lot of dashed dreams and sad endings line these cobbled roads.”
He caught sight of a particular merchant and led us to the stall, where he began to speak to the man in fast, hushed tones. I caught sight of the same black line under this merchant's eye that Fern had, and figured they were probably friends, so I took the time they were talking to rummage around the table for anything interesting. The man gave me a rough look, but Hawke vouched for me and no more was made of the matter as I continued to sniff around for anything interesting.
The best I could find was a ball that spun wildly in
the holder's hand while giving off a wonderful whirring noise, and several beautifully crafted music boxes that I entertained myself with, laughing at the noise made when several were opened and playing simultaneously.
Hawke finished talking with the man as I was toying with locking and unlocking a particularly sparkly sapphire colored one. He pulled me away from the stand so quickly I had no time to unlock it as it tumbled from my hands back onto the table.
“We have a couple things we need to pick up before we hit the inn,” he told me as he led me to the other side of the bazaar. “Namely, some nice dress robes for the concert. I thought we'd have a day to prepare, but we're behind schedule it seems.”
We spent the next few hours bumbling between clothing stalls, trying on various robes with different fancy sashes and chains on them. Owning several sets of robes was exciting enough for me, but I had never even dreamt of getting to wear the extravagant types of dress robes my former master's guests would wear during visits to the old estate.
When Hawke finally helped me pick out one with a rich forest green color and a shimmering lighter green sash that crossed my shoulder, I felt my eyes start to water.
“Micasa, is something wrong!?” Hawke said with concern. “Is the sash too tight?”
“Hawke,” I whimpered, “is this fair?”
He startled a bit. “What do you mean?”
“Is it alright for me to be this happy? With all the other slaves still stuck at the manor, is it fair for me to get new clothes and a shinestone and get to travel and see so many things with you?”
I didn't cry. Crying was one of the easiest ways to earn a brutal punishment at the estate, and I had learned that lesson early. But the emotions welling up in me were threatening to overwhelm that conditioning. I didn't dare get anything on the beautiful clothing I had on, so I instead planted my face in my bundled up plum robe and hastily rubbed my eyes dry.
Hawke's expression softened as he knelt down next to me. “I'm sorry we couldn't bring them with us. It would've taken too long and put all of their lives and ours in a lot of danger. It's not your fault, though, Micasa. Don't blame yourself one bit. You have every right to be happy.”
I nodded and sniffed a few times, even though I wasn't completely convinced. Hawke smiled and ran his fingers through my hair, which helped me feel a little better as he went to pay for our robes. He had chosen a dark maroon one with a chain belt.
Again with the bloody color, I thought, seeing how it matched his kilt, but I shook the thought from my head.
The rest of the afternoon, Hawke tried to divert my attention with various street shows around the town, yet even with all the musicians and puppet shows we passed, I couldn't help but notice the uneasy way Hawke started carrying himself. He was getting extremely fidgety and never stayed at one performance for more than a few minutes before ushering me towards some new distraction.
It didn't take long for him to dismiss every show on the street and whisk us away to the inn down the road. The common room through the entrance was similarly quaint and well-furnished, like the one in Changirah, but boasted the added benefit of music being piped through the ceiling as well as several gaudy paintings lining the walls. No matter how hard I stared, I couldn't make heads or tails of a single one, and when I asked Hawke what they meant he simply shrugged and gave a noncommittal grunt.
We had just reached the rooms when a distant bell sounded seven times, striking the hour. “Damn, I completely lost track of time, we need to get moving,” Hawke muttered as he tossed most of his belongings on the bed and shot to a side room with his new robe. “You change here, just let me know when you're done so we can be on our way.”
I had more trouble getting into the robe than I thought I would. The robe itself was simple enough, but I never worn the type of flourishing sash it came with before, and it required a level of finesse I wasn't accustomed to. Fortunately, Hawke was well-versed enough to get it straightened in almost no time, but I didn't even have time to appreciate how I looked in the mirror before he was whisking me out the door.
“C'mon, we don't want to be late!” he said breathlessly, barely able to hide the excitement on his face. “Oh, could you give the lock your special touch on the way out? I feel our stuff would be safer that way.”
With a simple twist of the lock, our room was as secure as it ever could be, and Hawke practically carried me down the main street towards the most impressive building I had ever seen in my life at that point.
A great gilded dome covered the top of the enormous structure, with flags poking out every so often on the rooftop, creating a sort of crown around it. Already hundreds of people were milling towards the massive gold doors that stood at least twice as tall as even the considerably lanky Hawke, and we wasted no time in queuing up behind them to enter.
A surly looking man and a bored looking woman waited at the entrance, in resplendent robes of lavender and emerald respectively. As we approached, I saw that they were checking tickets for everyone else, and wondered when Hawke had taken the time to buy ours during our busy day. When we reached the doors, though, Hawke scratched his left cheek and murmured something to the two. They returned the gesture, bidding us to enter afterward, and I couldn't help but notice the same line under their eye that the merchant from earlier and Fern had. As we entered a massive foyer, I finally asked Hawke about it.
“Oh, you caught on to that?” he gave a slightly forced smile. “Yeah, let's just say that they're part of the same family, and I'm well acquainted with them.”
“So they're like your brothers and sisters?”
“Not quite, it's more that we help each other out, and…oh!” The lights started dimming at that moment. “The concert's starting, let's get to our seats!”
I was struck speechless at the sight of the auditorium, packed full of patrons waiting for the show to begin. There must have been hundreds of people seated, wearing robes of satin and velvet so rich it made my old master's wardrobe look shabby in comparison. Even more people were seated in balconies high above ground floor, some using small binoculars to get a better view of the stage far below. Hawke marched me down the center aisle straight towards the front row, and more than a few heads turned and appraised us with sneers and snorts of disapproval. Even with our dress robes, it appeared we were woefully underdressed for the occasion.
Right in the front row, two more rough looking bouncers with the line tattoo had taken a couple of the best seats. They rose as we approached, nodding and scratching their cheeks, and as they left, Hawke bade me to sit.
Afraid of seeing the looks of disgust likely aimed at the backs of our heads, I tried to make sense of what was about to happen. The stage was so large it made up a third of the massive room and rose so high I almost couldn't see what was set on it. Dozens of chairs were placed in a semi-circle pointed towards the audience, and in front of those was a single wooden podium, standing ominously alone.
Before I had a chance to ask what was going on, two concentrated lights brightened to illuminate the entire stage. Thunderous clapping filled the auditorium as men and women began to file onto the stage from behind the drawn curtains, each one dressed in black satin pants and vests and carrying an instrument. Hawke whispered the names of them as they walked in: violin, clarinet, flute, cello, tuba, trumpet, and oboe. Three men wheeled in three massive drums Hawke pointed out as tympani.
When all were in their place, a lone woman Hawke identified as the conductor paraded onto stage, the only one on the stage wearing a white vest. She bowed to the audience, and instantly an expectant hush fell over everyone watching. The conductor turned, raised her baton into the air, and brought it down.
The first note the orchestra played made me jump. Listening to music on the phonograph did nothing to prepare me for what live music offered. I was spellbound by the magic they wove with their instruments, their play flawless as they complimented each other's sound to create something more than the sum of their whole.
A
s the song swelled louder and louder until I almost wanted to cover my ears to keep from going deaf, the entire orchestra stopped suddenly. I thought it over, but after the slight ringing in my ears subsided, I heard a single violin cut through the silence, its note high and sad. I looked around to see who was playing, but the sound seemed to be coming from offstage. As the note continued to linger, a figure stepped forward slowly, his violin bow pulling so slow across the strings you might have thought it wasn't moving at all.
The player was more boy than man, young and smooth-faced. His auburn hair was artfully tousled, and though he wore black like the rest of the orchestra, there was fine gold filigree that lined the seams of his clothing. He stepped forward, past the rest of the players and even striding by the conductor, until he stood in front of the podium looking over the room. All the while, his lonely note wafted without faltering.
Then he began to play.
I want to stress that the rest of the performers were quite good, and by themselves, they put on a decent show, but the entire song changed when that boy tore into that violin. The orchestra didn't miss a beat as they picked up the song right where they left off, but now they seemed to only exist to support the young violinist. The conductor worked valiantly to keep them in time, but the boy needed no guide – standing at the forefront, there was no doubt that he was setting the pace that everyone else had to keep up with.
When he struck that final tumultuous note at the end, it shivered in the air for a lifetime. As it faded, it was as if I had lost a dear friend and ached for more.
The applause that followed shamed the applause from the beginning of the concert. A few people whistled, and I swear someone in the balconies screeched, “Give me your children!” The boy paid no attention to any of it as he strode to one of the trumpet players and handed them his violin. The trumpeter exchanged instruments and rushed off the stage as the boy took the podium again.
The song began at the conductor's mark, but it wasn't long until the boy was blowing away at his new instrument. Unlike the soft melancholy of his violin, his trumpet was fast and electric, playing notes so fast he might have been mistaken for playing two instruments if you weren't watching.
Broken Soul (The Scholar's Legacy Book 1) Page 5
