//------------------------------// // Musician and Fraud // Story: The Court Musician of Equestria // by GrassAndClouds2 //------------------------------// “Good evening, princess.” “Good evening.” Princess Luna’s voice definitely had more of a spark to it than when Octavia had spoken to her last. “How are you tonight, Octavia?” “Well.” Octavia rose from her bow. “Did you have a good trip?” “A productive one, in any event,” said Luna, smiling wryly. “But I did have the chance to visit a few old friends, ones whom I have not seen in many years… so yes, I suppose it was a good trip.” She inclined her head slightly at the horizon. “Ready?” “On your mark.” Luna’s horn glowed, and again she took care of her nightly task. The sun descended, and after a brief moment of utter darkness, the stars and the moon rose and spread across the night sky. Through it all, Octavia played, a tune that started out soft and calm but grew in power until it was strong and mighty as a swiftly-flowing river, a melody that welcomed the night and the power that dwelt within it. ‘This,’ the music seemed to whisper, ‘Is the domain of Luna Equestris, ruler of Equestria. These lights above us, shining over the entire world, are the representation of her power and ability. Behold.’ The moon settled into its proper place, and Octavia finished with a perfect authentic cadence to complete the work on a solid, strong finish. She glanced up at the stars briefly, then bowed again. “Thank you,” said Luna. “Your music was superb.” “You are welcome.” “It sounded… resolute,” said Luna, taking a moment to examine the constellations. As she did so, she frowned slightly, and then gestured slightly with her horn. A few stars exchanged positions. “I don’t suppose you have anything special planned for tonight?” “Not exactly,” said Octavia. She wondered what exactly to say, not wanting to get Luna’s hopes up in case Metail’s work did prove to have some flaw. “I plan to analyze a certain work, is all. It has given me some difficulty, but I feel it is my duty to see it through.” “Hmm.” Luna looked at the night sky again, then nodded, apparently satisfied. Then I won’t keep you any longer. Best wishes, Octavia.” “Thank you, princess. Until dawn.” Octavia packed up her instrument and began to trot off the balcony. Seeing the princess, seeing her manipulate the night sky as she did, only furthered her drive to figure Metail out. The princess was an artist, one who worked on the largest canvas imaginable and pushed herself to create the most beautiful images conceivable. Octavia could scarcely do less. She would go back to her quarters without delay, and she would study Metail’s work. She would analyze that music, despite her unfamiliarity with the genre, until she could understand it and determine why she loved it so much. She would evaluate if Metail was good enough to merit her recommending his work to ponies high and low, to everypony who would be willing to take a chance on his genre. She would, in short, see to it that Equestria, Canterlot, and Luna Herself had access to the best music they could have. For she was the Court Musician of Equestria, and that was her responsibility. Flush with determination, Octavia entered her room and locked the door. Resolving not to leave her room until she’d solved the problem, she took out a few sheets of paper and her quill. It was time. Nothing would stop her now. Three hours later, Octavia had to concede that she may have underestimated the difficulty of the analysis. She stared, blearily, at a sheet of paper, almost as empty as when she had removed it from her desk. A few words were scribbled on it, all struck out – ‘amazing’, ‘epic’, ‘divine.’ There were a few nouns as well, along the lines of ‘drums’ and ‘guitar.’ Not one substantive thought lay among them. Octavia stretched, but it didn’t much help. None of her usual tricks to get her out of a rut or improve her focus – getting up and pacing for a few minutes, drinking a cup of fine tea, playing a short prelude, listening to a short piece – had worked. Every time she tried to think about Metail’s work, every single time she tried to break it apart, she found herself lost in it all over again. Her mind would touch on a particularly beautiful chord or stunning drum solo, and she would be helpless to resist reliving the concert and luxuriating in the gorgeous sounds. And when she came back to herself, ten or twenty minutes later, she knew no more than when she’d started. The cellist scowled and shoved the paper away, spilling it onto the floor. “This is absurd,” she muttered. “I can’t think about the music for five seconds without getting lost in it. Something’s not right.” She began to pace again. As she walked, she passed her cello. She had considered trying to solve the problem by transcribing Metail’s work and playing it herself – after all, if she could play his music, she would have to know how it actually worked – but she couldn’t focus on it for that purpose anymore than she could for actual analysis. She’d tried, picking up her bow and everything, and then when she managed to stop fantasizing about his private concert for her, she’d found that she’d just been tapping her bow on the table in time to the music. That was no good. “Maybe he’s playing again tonight,” she said to herself. “I could go and listen to him with fresh ears.” That often helped her when she had a sticky piece to analyze. But she wasn’t sure it would work in this case. If she went, she knew she’d find it irresistible to get sucked back in to that sweet, sweet sound he was capable of producing. She’d wind up a screaming member of the audience again, and while it would undoubtedly be exquisite – while part of her yearned to throw out her stupid paper and quills and dash off right that minute for precisely that purpose – it wouldn’t help her do her job. Besides, for all she knew, he didn’t have a concert scheduled for that night. “I could listen to one of his records,” she continued. Paperweight, she remembered, had told her that his recorded music tended to be weaker than his live shows. While Octavia didn’t normally seek out sub-par music, if she could hear some of his pieces that weren’t so… alluring… that could help her to dissect even his best ones. Besides, she would need to be familiar with his full opus if she was going to recommend him to the Court. The problem there was that it was nighttime. Octavia wasn’t likely to find an open record shop. The castle library was open, and they had a music section, but she doubted they had metal. In fact, hadn’t Viscount Blueblood pitched a fit when somepony had accidentally left a ‘pony pokey’ record lying around? He’d yelled that the music was ‘commoner filth’ and ‘unfit for noble ears’ and such. Given that he hadn’t yet collapsed of apoplexy, it was safe to assume that the castle library didn’t hold anything less ‘noble’ than the classical works and folk songs that most of the nobles enjoyed. If shops and the library were out, that didn’t leave much. Most of Octavia’s musician friends were, like her, classical aficionados. The only one she could think of that might have one of Metail’s records was Lyra, and she was hours away in Ponyville. Octavia blinked as a thought occurred to her. Why restrict herself to just musician friends? Octavia checked the page roster and found that Night Light had requisitioned an extra helper to assist in getting a big dining hall set up. She made her way to the hall accordingly. “I want the table set in the Latigo style.” Octavia heard Viceroy Night Light’s brisk, commanding voice as she approached the room. “Forty places. Any questions?” “No sir!” said three ponies. Octavia noted that Paperweight, as usual, was the peppiest pony in the room. “Very good. Once you’re done, wait here until I get back with further instructions.” Night Light trotted further back into the room, and then out the back door. One of the pages that wasn’t Paperweight groaned theatrically. “Forty places… bet you half of them aren’t used.” “Yeah,” said the other page that Octavia didn’t know. “And Night Light’s crazy picky too. Everything’s gotta be just right, from the napkin folds to the distance between the dessert fork and the tea plate.” She sighed. “We’ll have to do each one a few times, trust me.” “Not if we get them perfect on the first try!” chirped Paperweight. “Hey, I know – let’s make a game of it! I’ll bet you both three jangles I can do more of them than you!” Octavia smiled at that and settled down to wait. She was anxious to return to her own work, but she wouldn’t dream of interrupting Paperweight’s job. Not only would such be unfair to Night Light, but Paperweight herself wouldn’t like it. As hyper as she could be, she worked hard to do a good job with whatever Night Light gave her. Therefore, Octavia would do the right thing and would wait for Paperweight to finish before asking for her help. Indeed, she heard the sounds of Paperweight trotting all over the room, setting up glasses and forks and plates with clinks. “Hurry up, girls!” she laughed, as she dashed across the room again. “I’m beating both of you two-to-one!” “You’re just too good at this,” drawled the page who had complained about Night Light’s pickiness. “We don’t stand a chance.” “Hey, don’t be like that! I’ll bet you could catch up real fast!” Needless to say, Paperweight won. “Yippee!” she said, as Octavia heard the other two digging jangles out of their bags. “Better luck next time!” “Next time? Think she’ll keep letting us pay her a few jangles to do our work?” Octavia heard one of the lazy pages whisper to the other. Annoyed at that, Octavia went to the door and knocked briskly. “I—“ “Oh, Viceroy!” said one of the losing pages, hurrying towards the door. “We just finished! In fact—“ But then she got the door open and saw Octavia. Her face fell, probably due to the mare’s irritated glare. “Who are you?” she asked. “Octavia Philharmonica,” said the cellist. “Paperweight, do you have a moment?” Paperweight grinned. “For a friend? Always! Did’ya hear the awesome job we did with the table?” Octavia examined it. “It’s not really my forte, but it does look well-appointed.” There had to be at least twenty different items at each seat – plates, cups, silverware, and a few that Octavia couldn’t name. “Although… it appears a few napkins here have the napkins folded counterclockwise, unlike the rest.” Paperweight blinked. “Whoops. Didn’t even notice that. Still, I can get it fixed in a jiffy! Just you watch!” Octavia did so. Paperweight worked with quick efficiency, putting her restless energy to use getting the napkins sorted. The other two pages watched, neither making a move to help, even though Octavia would bet a substantial sum that it had been one of them who had messed up the napkins in the first place. Octavia found herself secretly wishing Night Light would come back in to see their lassitude, though he remained absent. “There!” said Paperweight, once done. “What’s up, Octavia?” “I was hoping to borrow a record or two from your collection.” “Sure, help yourself.” Paperweight dug around in a small saddlebag that she’d stowed in a corner of the dining room, then tossed Octavia a key. “Anything in particular?” Her eyes widened. “Such as… say… that pony who had that awesome concert a couple days ago?” Octavia was a bit relieved that Paperweight hadn’t named the artist. “Precisely. Thank you. I’ll let you get back to your work now.” “Okay, see you later!” Octavia heard the two other pages begin to whisper and gossip to each other as she left. She paused and glanced at the table again, then swung by them. “When I was outside,” she said, in a conversational tone, “I heard what sounded like silver clattering on stone tile. It was like somepony had dropped an item of silverware on the floor. But I don’t see any set aside for washing…” She let her voice trail off. “I don’t suppose one of you two used that dirty utensil to set a place?” One of the pages, the one who had complained about the Viceroy’s pickiness, blushed. “I would advise that you replace it,” said Octavia, conversationally. “Well,” said the page, “See, we only brought exactly enough silverware and stuff…” “The castle dishwasher room should have plenty more,” said Octavia. “Unless you seriously plan to ask the Viceroy or one of his guests to eat with it?” The page’s protest died in her throat, and she left to begin the long trek through the castle. Octavia waved goodbye to Paperweight, then left as well. Back in her quarters, Octavia put one of Metail’s newer records on her record player and began to play it. As with his live music, there was guitar, and drum, and voice on top of it. In fact, it heavily reminded Octavia of his live stuff, and she had to force herself to stay in the present instead of fantasizing about the concert or his private recital for her. But it was, in fact, different, and it didn’t seem to have that weird allure that his other performances did. That said, Octavia still couldn’t make heads or tails of it. She just couldn’t grasp what Metail was doing. Instruments came in and out at weird times, the melodic lines wandered all over the place, and in a few places she heard what she would have called wrong notes, if a musician of Metail’s caliber would allow wrong notes into a studio recording. She played the record twice, keenly aware by the end that the night was already more than half over. The first time, she listened all the way through; the second, she broke the music into several portions. But whiles she could focus on the music, she still couldn’t grasp what was going on. It’s like there’s no structure… but that can’t be. I wouldn’t fall in love with nonsensical music. What am I missing? On her third play through, Octavia decided to solve the problem with brute force. She took a ream of staff paper, marked the first line of the first page with clefs and a time signature, and began to transcribe the music as she played it in very short bursts. This would be slow, painfully so, but it would also let Octavia look at and ‘hear’ large portions of it all at once. If there was a structure to it, she’d be able to tease it out from that. Another two hours passed as Octavia transcribed the record. By that point, she yearned for something melodic and classical, but she forced herself to stay on target. The only sounds came from her record player, which brought her the screeching of guitar and drum, and her quill, which scratched across the page. It was painful, but by promising herself that she would listen to something nice when it was all over, Octavia was able to move through it. By the time four in the morning rolled around, Octavia had a completed transcription. She looked at it, frowning as she rifled through it. She even played a few bars on her cello, tapping her foot to simulate drums. “I don’t understand,” she said. “This… this isn’t good.” “Okay,” said an exhausted Octavia, sitting at her desk because she was worried about falling asleep if she lay down. “What do I know? The recorded music is terrible, the recorded music is similar to the live music, and the live music is gorgeous.” She let her head thump onto the table. “This can’t be possible.” The music made no sense. Metail had a few sequences he could play well, and another hoofful that he could mostly get through, and he just kept repeating them. The drums got in the way of the guitar and didn’t have any interesting rhythms; they were basically large metronomes except when Metail devoted himself to a solo. And his voice added little. It wasn’t bad, not exactly, but it certainly wasn’t at the level Octavia would have predicted. “He’s a mediocre musician. Why do I love his music so much?” She chuckled mirthlessly. “Maybe I just got swayed by the crowd… no, I loved his private recital for me too. Maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s just…” She paused, thinking. It was a fact that Metail’s music, live, wowed Octavia, and recorded, failed to impress her. And Paperweight had even said that his live shows were a lot better than his recorded stuff. There was another thing too… Crescendo. One of Metail’s few critics. Hadn’t she implied that she hadn’t been to his live performances since he returned from his hiatus, but had only heard his records? Was that why she could evaluate his music correctly, instead of being bowled over like Octavia was? “But he plays the same music at his live shows that he records,” said Octavia. “Half these records say ‘as heard live’ on them. What else could be different about the shows? The energy of the crowd? His presence? The effects? The light spells? The…” Her eyes narrowed. Hadn’t she signed a waiver about those spells? “I don’t believe this,” she hissed. She had hurried through Canterlot, finding the few clubs that were still open in the wee hours and demanding to see any sort of legal papers that they made their patrons sign. Most clubs didn’t even have such notices, the few that did were very general. “Don’t sue us if you hurt yourself dancing,” that kind of thing. But two of the clubs she visited had hosted Metail, and both still had copy of the waivers he brought with him. Octavia had taken those underneath a street light, not bothering to return to her quarters in the castle. The air was chilly, but she was warm anyway; what she read produced such a white-hot anger that she would likely have been ignorant of a sudden blizzard. All she could focus on was the papers in front of her. “The signer agrees,” she read through clenched teeth, “To allow the artist to cast limited-duration evocation spells in the venue, and to waive all recourse of lawsuit should the signer be affected by such spells…” She had read this before, at the concert, but hadn’t thought too hard about it. Now she understood what that meant. Thrash Metail was casting spells on his audience. He was casting spells, and sure, it might be legal thanks to that waiver, but he was giving the impression that he was some great musician when it was all smoke and mirrors and unicorn powers. He was lying to his audience, the public, and the entire music community. And he had lied to Octavia, using his fake, gimcrack music, and tried to get her to tout him to the Court and Luna… so that he could try to deceive them too. Before she realized what she was doing, she found herself trotting briskly towards Metail’s hotel. She was going to give that pony a piece of her mind. “Yo,” called Metail, from inside his luxurious quarters. “Busy now. Come back tomorrow, whoever you are.” Octavia glared at the door and raised one hoof to slam it again. She would knock the door off its hinges if she had to, but she was going to talk to Thrash Metail. After several slams, the last of which began to splinter the door, Metail finally yelled that he was coming. A minute later, he opened up, clad in an expensive silken robe. “Octavia? What are –“ Octavia pushed her way inside, slammed the door behind her, and pointed a hoof at him. “Magic. That’s what it is. You’re using magic to make yourself sound better.” Metail’s face went almost white. “I… come on, Octavia, really? You know that’s not—“ “I’ve listened to your records. I’ve transcribed them. I probably know your repertoire better than you, at this point.” Octavia took a deep breath. “You lied to the whole world, and you asked me to lie for you. When I wouldn’t, you cast your spell on me to trick me into doing it” “You can’t prove that,” said Metail, quickly. “I certainly can. All I need to do is play your music, without using spells, and show the world how mediocre it is. The only explanation for your surge of popularity is that you are utilizing magical assistance.” The two stared at each other for a moment before Metail, apparently having decided that Octavia wasn’t going to throw him out his window, smirked. “Why do you care? What’s it to you if I’m making ponies happy with a spell instead of a symphony?” “Had you advertised yourself honestly, I would have no issue with you. It’s not my business if other ponies obtain happiness through means of some happiness spell—“ “Euphoria,” corrected Metail. “Fine. Euphoria spell. If that was how you labeled your shows, that would be another matter entirely.” She glowered. “But you call yourself a true musician. Half of Canterlot thinks you have incredible technique, that your popularity and fame are due to your musical talent. None of it is true. You want the prestige and popularity that comes with being a master of your craft, but rather than obtain that mastery, you cheat, use a spell, and lie about it.” Metail shrugged. “Music, spell, who cares? You think any of those ponies would care if they found out it was due to a spell?” “I care,” snapped Octavia. “And I would imagine that true fans of the genre you have ostensibly mastered care. They spend money and time to see a virtuoso musician. You defraud them. You shame yourself and your craft.” “So… what, you came here to whine?” Metail’s smirk had returned. “You can’t call the Guards on me. I haven’t done anything illegal.” “I suppose that, technically, the waivers will cover you in that regard,” growled Octavia. “And I can’t directly prove that you cast magic on me during our private talk.” “So there’s no problem, then.” Metail chuckled and stretched; his guitar was a foot or so behind him, resting on top of its case. “Unless you came back for another concert? I—“ Octavia crossed the distance between them in the blink of an eye. “If you touch that guitar,” she whispered, “I will make you very sorry.” Metail gulped. “You are correct that I cannot have charges brought against you. But I will never recommend you to the Court, and I shall let every Courtier who cares to listen know that you know nothing of music. Additionally, I will make it known in the city what you are doing. Any future audiences you obtain will want you for what you can really do, not what you can fake.” Metail’s mouth dropped. “You – you can’t do that!” “Watch me.” “You’ll ruin me!” “I should let the citizens of Canterlot subsidize your lies instead?” “I played for you!” insisted Metail. “You have to like my music. You have to!” “Have you never dealt with a real critic before?” Metail looked angry, and Octavia wondered if there was something she still wasn’t seeing. He sounded like he felt he was… entitled… to her support. Surely even he couldn’t be that deluded, though. “I’ll pay you,” he said at last. “Fifty percent of my ticket sales.” “No.” “Come on, that’s gotta be more than what Luna pays you!” Octavia didn’t dignify that with a response. “I’ll play for you, then!” His voice had recovered something of its former confidence. “As long as you want. I’ve got another place in the city; we can go there and I’ll serenade you day and night!” Octavia felt a part of herself beg her to say ‘yes.’ She felt her mouth opening, and clamped it shut before she said anything idiotic. “No,” she managed, through gritted teeth, once she had herself under control. “I love music. Not… your cheap simulacrum thereof.” “You still love it,” said Metail. “Even you can’t deny that.” “Part of me does,” conceded Octavia, after a long moment. “It doesn’t count. I will not lie. Especially not for something like this.” She turned on her hoof and left, slamming the door behind her. “How did the analysis go?” Luna asked. Octavia considered the question as she checked over her cello. “I studied the work,” she said, at last. “It… wasn't what I thought it was. It wasn’t good.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Luna. She glanced up at the sky, but seemed content to let the night last a moment longer. “You mentioned that this was from a new genre… will you listen to other music from that genre?” “Yes.” Octavia nodded. “I am planning on listening to another noted artist in the genre later today, in fact.” “Good.” Luna seemed a bit pleased by that. “Well, shall we?” Yes, thought Octavia. She’d go see Crescendo’s show, even though her study of Metail’s work was over. She had two main reasons, besides keeping the promise she’d made to the pegasus. First, now that she knew Metail was a fraud, she wanted to hear real metal music. After all, many ponies seemed to like it. Surely, then, there was something to it. If there were new, interesting sounds, Octavia wanted to discover them. And second… Octavia had a feeling that she hadn’t seen the last of Thrash Metail. She knew this was ridiculous, that she’d soundly thrashed Thrash and that his only smart move was to abandon his career or flee the city, but she hadn’t gotten that vibe from him. He’d be back, she guessed. And if she was to continue to oppose him, him and his all-consuming Euphoria spells, she had a feeling she’d need to know a lot more about his ostensible genre than she did. “Impossible!” growled Thrash. “She was supposed to love me! They all do!” He had canceled his press conference for that morning. He was pacing furiously in his hotel room, horn crackling and popping with anger. “Every one of them!” He shook his head. “I got sold a bill of goods. She doesn’t even have magic and she fought back… what if a unicorn saw it coming?” He shook his head, his mane cascading about. “I should just book it somewhere far away…” But he couldn’t leave. He wasn’t done yet. Wasn’t he supposed to be the best? The one that nopony could resist, that all would love? Wasn’t that what he had put so much of all he had into achieving? He glanced at his guitar, then went over to it and began to play. As he did, the tension seemed to leave him. He calmed slightly and lay back on the couch in his room. “Alright, hang on. Don’t lose my cool. She’s tough, sure. Probably got special power-ups from Luna or whatever.” Metail snorted, playing another few bars. “No matter. I just gotta be more thorough. Hit her harder. But she won’t come to another live show…” He worked out the problem, playing the guitar as he did so. Everything seemed so much simpler when he played. It was a good instrument, he thought. Worth all that he’d paid for it. “Got it,” he said at last. “I can catch her ear again. And this time, she won’t stand a chance.” He grinned. “And then… the Court. They’ll all love me, the rulers and leaders of Equestria down to the lowliest servant.” He finished his improvised work, firing off a cadence and thrust the guitar aside. “I promise.”