After a long nap and a cold beverage from the Emerald Palace’s restaurant, you’re feeling much better.
The only hint that there ever was a headache is a mild twinge near the back of your skull, but that’s bearable. You’re still not too enthusiastic about using any magic, but at least you’re able to think straight.
Now, you’re standing out on the cobble street again, Royal Riff’s note hovering in front of you. You draw the paper in closer and squint to try to decipher his untidy scrawl. You can make out the time easily, but you have to focus more intently to translate the actual directions. As you pass each word, you methodically memorize the street names and routes.
Still a little confused, but having caught the gist of it, you take a right and begin walking down the now-empty street. Even though it’s barely five-thirty, light is starting to fade over the dazzling city of Canterlot. Golden evening sunlight filters through the complicated gables and arches, throwing intricate puddles of orange on the sidewalk.
You’re thankful for the lack of hoof traffic. Now that you’re actually making your way towards the symphony hall, nerves are once again mounting.
You stop at an intersection, browsing your recent memory for the correct turn to take. A scrap of barely-legible hoofwriting floats across your mind, and you turn left. High rise apartments tower over you from both sides, blocking whatever sunlight was left. Ahead, you can see a pink and orange sunset, splashed over the jagged skyline.
A pair of ponies appear from another side road, dressed to the nines as always. They appear to be a couple—they’re walking much closer to each other than friends would. The stallion is white, with a wavy blue mane and neat mustache. The mare is much taller than average—she approaches the height of Princess Luna or Cadance. She, like her partner, is white, but with a pale pink mane.
You lower your head, avoiding eye contact. You pull Royal Riff’s directions out of your saddlebag pocket and pretend to study them. The distance between you and the couple is closing rapidly.
As you pass them, you raise your head and nod politely, as not to appear rude. The stallion returns the gesture casually, but his eyes seem to linger on your face longer than necessary. Luckily though, he passes on without a word.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You raise your head and quicken your pace.
“Excuse me?”
You stop in your tracks. So much for avoiding conversation. You turn to find the stallion looking at you curiously. “Yes?” you say.
“Now, I could be mistaken, but are you not the new pianist for the Royal Orchestra?”
“Uh, yes. I am.”
The stallion smiled. “Ah, yes. I just so happened to have bumped into Royal Riff earlier today, and he mentioned you. Spoke rather highly of your talents, in fact.”
“Oh, well . . .” you trail off. Royal Riff has never actually heard you play. The only pony within fifty miles who has actually heard your music is Vinyl Scratch. It’s a bit confident of him to spread word of a sensation he doesn’t actually know exists.
“So modest!” the stallion gushes. “I’m eager to hear you onstage. By the way, my name is Fancypants. And this is my fiancé, Fleur de Lis . . .” he gestures at the mare beside him, who nods.
You introduce yourself. “It’s an honor to meet you, Fancypants, but if you’ll excuse me . . .” you move to leave. “I have a rehearsal that I need to be at.”
“Of course! Of course!” Fancypants says. “Well, we won’t hold you up any longer, my friend.” You twitch inwardly; you’re not sure if you’re ready to be considered Fancypants’s friend. “Come along, Fleur, dear.”
Fleur de Lis shoots you a suspicious look before turning to follow Fancypants.
If this is the amount of attention before anypony has even heard you play, you have no idea what could be waiting for you after a concert or two.
****
In a matter of minutes, the concert hall looms over you. A massive golden dome, adorned with countless decorative arches. At the base is a curved plane of glass, dotted with door handles. Fountains and sculpted hedges are scattered around the front gardens, adding a sense of balance to contrast the giant structure ahead.
You shrink under the building’s shadow. Despite the builder’s attempt at making it look natural and flowing, the concert hall is still huge and imposing.
You push a glass door open and enter. Inside, the carpeting is a creamy white, and the walls are pale gold. Three gilded staircases at the back of the room lead up three stories, all overlooking the foyer. Between the staircases are short hallways that lead to double doors, which are closed at the moment. Presumably they lead to the actual hall that you’ll be performing in.
In the center of the floor is the most attractive feature, though. A massive, twisted glass sculpture that reaches up well past the second floor in a thin curling tower. It’s made up of thousands of colored glass tubes, making it look like it’s made of a writing mass of snakes. Upon closer inspection, you determine that the sculpture is actually animated; enchanted by a skilled unicorn. Each tube is independently worming its way to some unknown destination, and back again. Overall, the effect is hypnotizing.
Poised gracefully on a nearby bench is Royal Riff, a paperback novel in front of him. Propped against his seat is a very expensive-looking violin and matching bow. You clear your throat. Royal Riff looks up, placing a hoof on the page to hold his place. He smiles widely upon spotting you.
“Ah, you made it! I wasn’t sure if my directions were clear enough.”
“No, they were informative,” you assure him. If a bit hard to read, you add silently.
“Good, good.” Royal Riff stands, tucking his violin under a foreleg. “Now that you’re here, let’s introduce you to the orchestra, shall we?”
You take a deep breath. “I suppose.”
Royal Riff smiles sympathetically. “Follow me.”
You trail behind as Royal Riff trots over to the doors behind the stairs. He pushes one open and stands aside to let you pass. As you enter, your eyes widen at the sheer size of the hall.
There is easily seating for a few thousand ponies, in the form of royal red velvet chairs placed in dozens of uniform rows. The balconies above protrude out in tiers, the lowest sticking out farthest. The stage itself is about forty meters across, and floored by matte black tiling. The entire room is lit by a monumental chandelier—it spreads across about a third of the ceiling, but only reaches down about three hoof-lengths.
The hopeful applicants for the new position of pianist take up the first few rows of seating, talking amongst themselves nervously. A cream colored mare with a purple mane sits onstage, watching you and Royal Riff.
“That’s Symphony,” Royal Riff says. “She’s one of our finer violinists. A good friend of mine.”
“Right.”
“She’ll be conducting the auditions.”
“Okay.”
As you approach, the conversation among the hopefuls fades. Several curious looks are shot in your direction. Why is he with Royal Riff already? Symphony drops to the floor and trots up to you. She swivels so she’s walking beside Royal Riff and throws a foreleg around his shoulders. “It’s about time you’ve shown up. Now we can finally start!”
“Am I the last one?” you mutter.
“No, we’re still waiting on a few. But we might as well start now that the VIP is in the building!”
You look around nervously. Most of the other applicants are transitioning from curious to suspicious, or even to hostile. Thankfully, Royal Riff comes to your aide.
“We’ll definitely see about that, Symphony,” he replies, loud enough for his voice to be carried across the hall. Making sure everypony heard. “I have a feeling that this might be a close battle.” He gives Symphony a subtle look, which signaled for her to play along.
“Possibly,” Symphony says thoughtfully. “I haven’t actually heard your friend play, so this should be an adventure.”
An adventure. Not the first word that comes to your mind.
Here goes nothing.