Project Boussh: Upper Octave
by Durandir

MENDELLIA: THE HIGH PALACE

It seemed a strange setup for an interrogation. An antique-looking
wooden desk, shelves of books and rows of file cabinets, ordinary
lighting. It reminded her somewhat of an office. Something like the
principal's office back in high school.

In light of that, maybe it wasn't such a strange setup for
interrogation, after all. Although she wasn't sure what she should find
intimidating about a principal's office. She'd hardly ever seen the one
at her high school, after all; in fact, the last time she'd seen it had
been when she had to interview her old principal for a college class
project. She'd been a good student, well behaved; why should a
principal's office make her nervous now?

Or maybe she wasn't thinking of a principal's office, but an employer's
office. Interviews. She hated interviews. Never can guess what they'll
ask, and it's so important to make a good impression--

But then, this time it wasn't about making an impression. She wasn't
here for an interview, but for an interrogation. The important thing
wasn't to impress Tede, sitting there behind the desk, with her
abilities, but rather to avoid telling him anything he shouldn't know
about the mission.

She'd never been a very good liar. Too quick to crack a smile as soon
as she knew her sister was buying whatever story she'd spun--and with
such a gullible sister, it didn't usually take long, so she'd never
developed much of a poker face. But she had a good imagination, and a
sharp intellect: perhaps she could avoid both lies and truths.

"All right, Durandir," Tede began as she dropped into the chair across
the desk from him--one of those lower-than-it-looks chairs, no doubt
meant to put the subject of interrogation--elsewhere known as the
interviewee--at a psychological disadvantage. She had a sudden memory
of George Bailey confronting old Mr. Potter in his den, and then Tede
went on. "Let us begin. You've said you are a student?"

This was safe enough ground, or so she hoped. "Yes."

"Would you care to expand on that? Your school? Your standing?"

"Oh. All right, then, I am a senior at Indiana State University,
majoring in English, minoring in French and Latin," she rattled off the
speech usually reserved for get-acquainted activities in student
organizations.

"Ah. Languages. Literature too, as I understood from your conversation
at dinner the other evening."

"Yes."

"But you've said nothing yet about your other, so to speak, identity."

"What?" Sudden fear set her heart pounding. How much had they been able
to learn of her involvement in Team Boussh?

"You're a musician, yes? A flutist?"

Oh. It was just that. "Yes. A flutist," she confirmed, trying to keep
the sound of her nerves out of her voice. "An amateur. Very amateur.
Though I was a section leader two years in marching band--but still,
I'm an English major, not a music major."

But then, how did he know about that? She didn't remember saying
anything to General Atner about being a flutist. They might have been
eavesdropping on her in her prison--but there she'd been reciting
Chaucer, not talking about music, not even after they put her with
Quiara and she actually had someone beside herself to talk *to*.

"It's sufficient," Tede replied, opening a drawer in his desk. And
pulling out--

A piccolo. What on earth? Maybe this was a new interrogation technique,
confusing the subject with non sequiturs until she would blurt out all
the most sensitive information. But it was definitely a piccolo, sleek
black-and-silver, and immensely tiny. He handed it across the desk to
her.

To her quizzical look, Tede answered, "Take it. There's nothing to
fear."

"It's not another remote thingy like your restraining collar?" she
suggested, but lightly, not really expecting anything of the sort, and
she accepted the instrument even before he answered.

"No, of course not. Have a look."

"Ooh," she breathed as she spotted the name engraved on it, "a Haynes.
Very nice. Very pricey."

"The General's policy--only the best. Can you play it? Perhaps a C
scale, up to the high C?"

Was that what this was all about--testing to see if she really were a
flutist? But then, why, since it was Tede who had first mentioned her
musicianship? "Um," she answered, "does it have to be a C scale?
Couldn't it be B-flat? I've always had a hard time getting out a high
C, even on flute; I hardly ever play picc, and that's even harder to
get out--"

"No. A C scale, if you please."

Odd, such insistence. "All right, then. Though I really should've
warmed up first." She aligned her fingers on the keys--a bit of
adjustment necessary since she really did hardly ever play piccolo--
jiggled the keys a bit getting the feel of them, admiring their
responsiveness, then set her lips to the mouthpiece in the tightest
embouchure she could manage and squeaked out a rather thin C--high, but
not the highest.

"I *really* should've warmed up first," she grumbled, reset her
embouchure, and tried again. This time she managed to get out the whole
scale--save for the high C. It just wouldn't come out, not even on such
a marvelous instrument as this proved to be. She wasn't much surprised.

"I've always had trouble with that note. I don't think I can get it."

"Perhaps with practice," Tede said. To her surprise and
incomprehension, there seemed almost to be a note of disappointment in
his flat voice and on his impassive face. Had he been hoping to
disprove her musicianship? Whatever could it mean?

"Want me to play something else? I'm very good at the school fight
song. I've had lots of practice," she grinned. "We have a good
basketball team."

"No. The scale will suffice."

"Your loss. Beautiful piccolo, though," she sighed. "I always wanted a
picc. This one--it's real wood, I think, not plastic? It plays too
sweetly for plastic."

"As I said, the General demands the best."

"It's marvelous. But Tede, what's the deal with the piccolo and the
scale? Did I just audition for the Mendellia Symphony Orchestra or
something?"

Not the slightest hint of a smile. He really was the most humorless
person she'd ever seen, more impassive even than her eighth-grade
geography teacher had been. It was exceedingly baffling. "No," said
Tede. "The scale was necessary for other reasons."

"Oh. Sure."

"You'll return to your cell now. But take the instrument with you. It
would be good, I think, if you practiced more at that high C."

And with that, he marched her back through the Palace to the cell. She
was surprised, when they got there, to find it empty; while Tede had
been interrogating her--if you could call it that; it really seemed the
proper word would be "auditioning"--Quiara had apparently disappeared.
Probably to an interrogation session of her own; or else perhaps they'd
moved her elsewhere in the Palace. Becki turned to ask Tede--not
expecting any more answer than she'd have got from a stone, but it
didn't hurt to try--but the man had already closed the cell door on her
and disappeared himself down the hallway.

She sighed and sat down on her cot, looking at the piccolo. Why was
Tede so insistent on the high C? Maybe the thing was rigged somehow, so
that when she did hit that note--but no! By Jubal the father of all who
play the flute, if the instrument had been tampered with in any way,
she'd know. It would throw off the balance of the keys and alter the
sounds of every note--and anyway, she pulled the headjoint out from the
body, looked into the thing from every possible opening, and it was
quite definitely an ordinary piccolo. If ordinary was the right word--
it was certainly extraordinary in quality.

Well, then: enough of looking the gift horse in the--ah, mouthpiece.
She'd always wanted a piccolo; might as well make the best of this one.
After an hour or so of the fight song and every other song she'd ever
memorized, maybe that high C would come out after all. And then maybe
she'd find out what was so important about it.