A section of the wall began to sink into a cavity beneath the courtyard, revealing a small storeroom with a ramp, leading below the earth. The passageway contained a path was barely wider than Bosck’s chair, and there seemed to be a mechanism on the left side to provide resistance to his chair as it made it’ way down, ensuring he would not go careening down the ramp. … Too bad.

“Come, boy. I believe it’s time to discuss terms.” Bosck began gently wheeling himself into the archway. “Grab the guitar case on the way down. You’ll find it disguises it fairly well.”

The case was a long rectangular wooden box with shoulder straps. It was modeled to look like the display case of a travelling merchant, but distressed enough to make passersby question if the carrier had been robbed. It had pewter clasps and a few burns and scuffs near the corners, padded cloth shoulder straps with pewter rings to adapt the length to the wearer. Upon opening it, I discovered more brilliance. It had plush black cushioning and a small cubby hole with a hinged door covered in grey tweed. Such a cubby was intended for keeping picks, small wire cutters, and spare strings. Tucked within the cubby was a small pitch pipe, and a worn but pristine, padded leather strap. At the bottom of the case, set in the cushioning was embroidery, displaying the same image that was impressed upon the wall. Even the thread color perfectly matched the gems placed into the stone of Bosck’s courtyard. It was incredible. This camouflaged case was truly and indisputably a master’s craft.

I rested the relic of a guitar inside the case, which fit as snuggly as two lovers’ hands. My fingers traced the shape of her strings again and made a silent promise to play her soon. Closing the pewter clasps, I then drew the straps over my shoulders and found them adjusted to the perfect height. I marveled at how rich this day had already promised to make me, and then took my first step down the ramp.

It twisted round for longer than I had expected until I reached a stone archway lit by on either side by the warm yellow luminance of lightning lamps. Electricity was still relatively new to this section of the city. Naturally, Paultine’s empire had claimed it for the governing districts and a few of the favored traders. It was spreading throughout the rest of the city at a snail’s pace. To see it here, below this old man’s shop, was unexpected to say the least. I dragged my fingers across the glass of the enclosures and found it only slightly warm. I decided I needed to know how this works… but not now.

I stepped through the archway to see Bosck blanketed in the yellow glow of the bulbs peppering the circular room. Truly staggering.

Bosck milled about a stone-topped island with drawers and cabinets wrapping nearly completely around it. He dug through dusty old bins atop it and then turned away, discouraged and began searching what seemed to be hundreds of shelves lining the walls.

The ancient shopkeep hunted through boxes, jars, and drawers, cursing at every failure. It seemed he searched through every nook and cranny before shouting, “Holy golden pecker of Csaba, finally! Boy, get over here!”

My eyes scoured what seemed to be a long-forgotten laboratory on my path to old Bosck. He produced a reasonable sized coin pouch and what resembled the guise of a poor and disheveled merchant. “Strap on the suit, kid. It’s show time.” He pointed to a curtain in the corner and shooed me towards it.

___

Moments later I returned wearing a long, weathered, stone grey leather coat held closed by a zipper to one side of my chest. Around my neck rested a stiff, yet light cowl that could be pulled forward as a hood. Two forearm length black leather gloves covered my wrists. The right glove seemed to bear some wiring within it and had a black hand imprint on the curve of my wrist. Below the jacket I wore sturdy dark canvas pants under knee-high boots with black laces and pointed steel toes. Above the coat, a black leather belt and two-gun holster with several pouches sewn into the outside of the pewter-clasped holster. I slid my pistol into the right holster but tucked Shariah’s nine-gun into the folds of my jacket and looked down. Though every piece was weathered, and likely as old as I am, it genuinely felt as if it was tailored specifically for me. Fitting to every curve, accenting every flattering edge, but providing room to obscure any paraphernalia I wished to keep from scrutinizing eyes. I couldn’t have asked for a better suit.

“Extraordinary!” Bosck said nearly breathless. “The resemblance is uncanny…”

“Resemblance?” I cocked an eyebrow.

“It’s nothing. Come lad, Take this coin and we will chew over your task.” Bosck produced a stool for me to sit near the island in the middle of the room. I sat as he wheeled himself across and slid a hand over the surface of the counter, sweeping all of the items atop of it onto the floor. I laughed as he stretched a piece of parchment between us and brought forth what looked like a small, blunted quill, shaped in a metallic tube, with no feather upon it’s back. I hadn’t seen Bosck dip into any inkwell.

I snatched the tool from his hand and thrust it towards his time-eroded face.

“ENOUGH!” I shouted with youthful ferocity. “Enough mystery! Enough intrigue.” My hand lowered, letting the point drift in line with his heart. “I am a miserable vagrant, you have no investment in me. You fill my moments with wonders. You speak cryptically. You dress me in fine clothes and speak of an enigmatic quest. You woo my past to mind and steal my consciousness with my own song. I may not be a brilliant man, but I have my wit, codger! Be plain! Speak truth or I take my leave!”

It should be clear that I had no intention of leaving without what I wore on my back now and the guitar to which I had already lost my heart. I made a man’s best effort to steal… but I was a tramp… and we were not above occasional theft.

The man’s eyes seemed to fill with the fire his chair had expelled. His spirit seethed within his failing body and I saw an old, undeniable strength there. He snatched the quill from my hand with blinding speed.

I felt my weight shift, preparing to grab the guitar and run to whatever dark corner I thought the eyes could not find.

The man caught the slight change in my posture and the fire went out with a whisper of smoke. It was pity. It was fear. It was empathy.

His face turned downward, seeming to gather his thoughts into a heap upon his lap and dig the proper words from the pile. Moments passed. He finally spoke in a whisper.

“I remember youth, son.” The murmur cut through the room like a bolt from a ballista, pinning me where I stood. “I remember the fire of adolescence. I remember how the heat became like that of a forge as I was shaped into a man. I used it to mold ambition, will, and the double-edged dagger of pride.”

The man’s eyes rose sharply, seeming to reach into my own and grip the roots of my mind with an undeniable grip.

“And much like yourself, I failed to form a part of myself for many years… that hollow was filled with a lot of heartache and blood.” His eyes squinted and his sharpened words into razors. “So take a moment to better yourself where I did not. Take your curiosity, your sense of adventure, and heat it within the fires of your spirit, let it melt down and reserve it for a moment. I ask that you now scour your mind for your sense of duty, for I know myself enough, from a life not unlike your own, to know that have collected little of it in your days. Gather it, melt it, again for reserve. And the last ingredient, something that allowed you to survive until this day, take your fear of the unknown, you will find it blanketed by your cleverness, protecting you from yourself. Abandon this notion, this fear has a new purpose. Take this, again, and melt it for your cache. These three ingredients you are to shape into an alloy. This will provide you the strongest element, one in which you should armor your spirit. “

His eyes never left mine but he now reached down and turned the wheels of his massive chair of his own accord, showing absolutely no strain. He drew himself close and took my hand in his, his grip was nearly unbearably strong.

“You know your own spirit well enough to know that you have already made your choice. The spectacles I show you are the theatrics you would place in the story you will tell of this later. I only make them true.” His eyes seemed to shimmer with the allusion of tears. “I’m afraid was is not the catalyst for your story.” His eyes finally faltered. His grip did not. “But I suppose it does seem to be the beginning. You have many choices before you. I know what I ask of you… what I need of you. So I will give you as plain of a choice as I can, knowing what you are to choose.”

His glistening eyes caught hold of mine once more. “I can tell you little. You may face dangers of which I am uncertain. You may face a glory that will disgust you. You may see miracles flow from your fingers, and blood paint your path for others to follow. This choice made lead to thousands more. But this choice, this shall be the unraveling of all the others. This is a choice of destiny. So, boy,” Bosck withdrew his hand. “Where will your feet take you?”

I opened my hand to find the bottleless quill within. Looking up, I stared into his eyes, searching for something withheld. There was nothing. Sure, this man still held mysteries, but they were irrelevant. He asked me to walk blindly into the sun. Finding nothing more within this man to help, I searched myself. I found nothing. No one I had ever met could aid me. Nothing I had learned or experienced could help me make this choice. There was something to that. I realized that this choice was not made from what was, but what wasn’t. It was the caverns, the dark and echoing vacancy within the understanding of myself, waiting with an exhausting vigilance to greet whomever it was I was meant to be. It was the absences within my spirit that called me towards this prize. Though I had no idea what that may be, I had no idea what really rested within the cavities within my spirit. The question terrified me. The question gripped me and held me up to a piercing light. It cut through the layers of pretense I’d assembled in order to keep my mind from it. I chased this question through my own mind and discovered that the light it shed could not fill the empty hollow within me… but it was something I could plant within it. Something within myself that I could nurture and watch it grow, could feel it fill the void within, and I could eat the fruit that it bared. This was something I had not experienced since I was a child, since the time before so many had abandoned me. Before I had lived a lifetime on cold cobblestones, sorting food from refuse, and stealing as a means of just reaching another day. I had something I could own.

The old man examined my face as I scoured my own spirit. Fear and confusion evaporated from my mind. They meant nothing to me in light such a mystery shed. Threat of death, the immense and intimidating unknown, nothing I knew in my short years could stand before the blaze building in my spirit.

My fists tightened and a smirk drew back my lips.

I found myself deathly certain that I had to acquire the one thing this man seemed to be offering… a purpose.

I tucked the quill into my shirt.

Bosck smiled.

Next Chapter: Entr’acte: Berceuse