The Speech

Pigeons fluttered onto the roof of an enormous brick building, cooing softly. They shuffled around, flapping their wings at territorial intruders.

Far below, on the sidewalk, a tall, slender man was walking. He was holding a rectangular black briefcase.

He walked at leisure, his strides long and easy, black coat fluttering in the steady wind. His shiny oxfords reflected the dull light with every measured step he took. He glanced at his watch and grinned to himself.

The temperature was below freezing, but the bare brown ground held little snow, and the sky was pale grey. Only the trees, swaying in the wind, indicated the truth. The man, his dark-haired head exposed to the breeze, seemed to care little for the cold.

This man's name was Rowan Alderroot.

A student wearing a thick tuque and a puffy down jacket hurried by, a heavy backpack thumping on her back. She glanced up at him, and her face shifted. He smiled down at her.

She gazed at him for a moment, her eyes glued to his face, and then shook her head and continued her way forward. He did not slow his pace, his eyes sparkling with a suppressed eagerness, his lips dancing with a half-smile.

It was a speech Rowan was walking towards, a lecture hall filled with uninterested students and a harassed instructor. He was looking forward to it; it was a chance to influence people. He had a gift, some said, a gift of rhetoric.

He knew what it really was, and it was a secret he would never tell.

Rowan passed a few more students, some who gave him slightly confused looks, others who whispered to their friends and laughed, glancing back over their shoulders at him. He gave them no reaction; he had more important things to think about.

He turned, glancing at the signs in front of the buildings. He needed to go to one of the older buildings, the place where they housed the well-used theatres. He had once been a student himself, but it had been a long time ago in a faraway country. He had forgotten how to learn.

He pulled the door open swiftly and stepped into the warmth. He could smell coffee and turned his head; an overpriced cafe booth was set into the wall beside the doors.

Crowds of students hurried by. He glanced at his watch again; it was the fifteen-minute period before the next hour, the quarter of class change. He took a step forward and found he did not need to shoulder his way through the crowd. The students made space for him.

The theatre where he was due to give his speech was at the end of the hall. He kept walking, passing a few more stares and whispers. People were unmindful of the effect he had on them.

The wood paneling was the most obvious marker of the age of the building. In the center of the passageway was a tall, heavy-looking art installation. He read the plaque, and then reached over and pushed it. The sunlight flashed on the steel as it spun.

He immediately found the lecture hall; it had two enormous wooden doors and a large label with the number "140" hovering over them. Stooping, he placed his briefcase on the floor, slowly took off his gloves and pocketed them, and then pulled off his long jacket and looped it over his arm.

Now he might be mistaken for a student; he was wearing a simple black turtleneck over grey slacks. He pulled out his phone and began to scroll through a series of texts.

The early students arrived. They caught sight of him leaning against the wall and stared before breaking into whispers.

"...I've never seen him before, never in class..."