//------------------------------// // Case Six, Chapter Eleven: Le Roi Est Mort, Vive Le Roi // Story: Ponyville Noire: Tails of Two Private Eyes // by PonyJosiah13 //------------------------------// The falling snow glowed and twinkled in the morning light, taunting Silvertongue by always dancing away from his barred window. He sat on the bunk in his one-pony cell, staring out the window at the gray sky. He wore the gray coveralls and magic-disabling bracelet that marked him as an inmate of Frostback Prison. He had traded his richly decorated walls for close, crumbling brick with peeling gray paint. Turning, Silvertongue glanced out his closed cell door. Several other inmates were milling about the dayroom, chattering with one another and playing cards under the watchful eye of the unit officer. He caught a group of ponies looking towards him, smirks on every one of their faces; when they saw him looking back, they turned away. One of them, a small, scrawny unicorn whispered something to his companions and all three of them laughed. Bile flooded Silvertongue’s veins. How dare they laugh at him! He was Charles August Silvertongue, the King of Ponyville, Lord of the Underworld, and no one insulted him with impunity! He was… ...powerless. He was in a cell in a prison, surrounded by the lowlifes who had once groveled at his hooves, whom he had controlled, kept in check. His magic disabled, his money unavailable, his bodyguards no longer at his sides, and the power of secrets that he had wielded with impunity was denied to him. He gritted his teeth. Damn the prison! Damn Cold Case and her honest lackeys! Damn Phillip Finder! And damn Daring Do! If it cost him every bit he had, if he had to claw with his bare hooves, he would— “Silvertongue?” Silvertongue looked up at the door. A thestral corrections officer with a nametag that read “Guide” stood at the doorway with an envelope. “Letter for you,” he said, holding it out. Silvertongue took the letter and scanned the typewritten address, rejoicing to find that it was from his attorney. He ripped the letter open, ignoring Officer Guide’s compulsory statement of “Happy Hearth’s Warming.” Unfolding the letter within, he paused in confusion to find that the letter was written in swirling cursive ink instead of the usual curt typewritten lines. The confusion turned to fury as he read the message. Dear Silvertongue, Happy Hearth’s Warming! I do hope that you are enjoying your new accommodations as well as you can; I have heard that Frostback has a bit of a cockroach problem, though one would think that the cold would keep them under control. I suppose right about now, you are sitting in your cell, wondering where it all went wrong, pondering just how a king such as you could fall from grace so hard and so fast. I will give you a very clear explanation for those questions: your fate was sealed the moment you decided to defy me. When I came to you last year and explained who I was and who I represented, I had hoped that I could count on your assistance. Instead, it seems that years of complacency under the rule of the false goddesses has made you fat, selfish, and lazy. You attempted to maneuver yourself into a position that you did not earn, a position above mine. You threatened me to my face with blackmail and sabotage and demanded more than you had earned. We had thought you reliable and trustworthy during the War, but it seems that that trust was misplaced; at the end of the day, you are just another criminal. And like all criminals, you have earned your rightful punishment. And now, what was once yours is now mine. Mine and my master’s. We shall put it to far better use than you ever did. XOXO, Scarlet Letter. P.S. Oh, by the way, the paper that you’re holding now was treated with a special potion. When activated by water—for example, sweat—it causes anything it touches to quickly dissolve into ashes. And I might have made it a bit too potent. You should be noticing the effects any moment now, so I do hope you’re a fast reader. No sooner had Silvertongue finished this sentence than the paper he held, along with the envelope it had come in, began to rapidly dissolve into ashes. He watched in mingled shock and fury as his enemy’s taunt vanished before his eyes. The shock quickly overwhelmed the fury when he noticed that his hooves were dissolving into ashes as well: in seconds, as though being eaten away by invisible piranha, his skin was crumbling away, followed by the muscles and the bones. An acrid scent grew in his nostrils as his hooves, then his forelegs crumbled away before his eyes, smoke wafting off of the vanishing limbs; the numbness, the sudden loss of all sensation that spread up his body was more terrible than any pain. Horror gripped his chest in its icy embrace, and by the time he thought to scream, his forelegs were already completely gone, and the potion ate away at him at an increasing speed. His screams dissolved into gurgles, then silenced as the potion ate away at the walls of his throat; the skin on his sides vanished, exposing his ribs. He collapsed onto the mattress as the muscles on his back disappeared. He heard the first cries from the other inmates just as his lower jaw was vanishing into the ever-growing pile of ashes on his bunk, followed by the running hoofsteps of the unit officer. The last thought Silvertongue had in the brief span of a second before his brain dissolved was to wonder if this is what Hell would be like. “Go on, open it,” Daring said, shoving the wrapped package towards Phillip from across the dining table. “Can I at least finish breakfast first?” Phillip smiled wearily, his pancake-loaded fork halfway to his mouth. “You have breakfast every day, Hearth’s Warming only comes once a year. C’mon,” Daring urged. Sighing, Phillip set his fork down and took the package. He tore off the hastily-applied silver wrapping paper and opened the box. His eyebrows raised as he examined his prize. Inside was a small set of black folding binoculars, the lenses tinted a faint green color. “Found those in an outdoor gear shop,” Daring said. “They’re practically indestructible, can see almost a hundred and twenty meters, and have night vision and a built-in compass.” “Ripper!” Phillip enthused, holding the binoculars up to his eyes. “Thanks, Daring.” “Happy Hearth’s Warming,” Daring smiled. “Now I get to open mine!” She dashed over to the small fake tree that Phillip had set up in the corner of the living room and snatched up the wide, flat box wrapped in red and green paper beneath it. “You wanted me to have my present just so you could open yours guilt-free?” Phillip asked, smirking. “No judging,” Daring said, unwrapping the present and opening the box. “Oooh,” she breathed, taking out the hoof-carved boomerang inside. The edges were perfectly smoothed, and the walnut brown was varnished to a high polish. “Carved that myself,” Phillip said. “I’ll teach you how to throw it. In time, you’ll be able to infuse the wood with your magic, and it’ll obey you.” “Thank you, Phil,” Daring said, walking back over to him and leaning down. He turned and they shared a kiss that tasted of maple syrup. At that moment, there was a knocking at the door. Sighing, Phillip got off his chair and walked to the front door, opening it wide and causing the bells on the wreath mounted to the front to jingle. “Package for Mister Finder,” the delivery burro standing on the step chirped, holding out a clipboard. Phillip signed on the dotted line, and the burro handed him a brown paper package in return, departing with a tip of the hat and a “Happy Hearth’s Warming.” Phillip examined the package. His address was written on the top in pale red ink that formed swirling cursive. There was a return address for a condo in the Financial District, but there was no name. There didn’t need to be one: he recognized that writing. “Scarlet,” Daring hissed, entering the front hallway. “What’s she want this time?” “We’ll find out,” Phillip said, finishing his examination of the exterior. He carefully peeled off the paper, revealing a plain box. He opened up the box to find a hardcover book sitting inside. The cover of the book showed a side view of a golden unicorn mare with white-gold hair in a trenchcoat and scarlet fedora walking down a snow-covered sidewalk, her expression contemplative. The store window next to her was decorated with lights and hanging mistletoe, but the reflection showed not her, but a dark brown earth pony stallion in a dark cloak with a reddish-brown mane and beard, wearing a masquerade-type mask over his eyes and a smirk on his face as he looked over at the mare. The Mistletoe Masquerade read the title in raised golden letters, and at the bottom was the author’s name: Scarlet Letter. Daring snatched up the book, and as she did so, a note fell out of the pages. Phillip read it: As I promised, an advance copy, as a thank you for everything you’ve done. Happy Hearth’s Warming! XOXO, Scarlet. P.S. Five seconds this time. And sure enough, no sooner had Phillip finished reading the message than the note burst into flames and crumbled away into ashes. Daring flipped to the back of the book and read the About the Author blurb on the jacket: Born in Prance, Scarlet Letter discovered a love of writing as a young filly. Graduating magna cum laude from Amore University in 1934 with a degree in literature, she spent the next several years traveling Equestria and beyond as a freelance writer, producing a few short stories and novels under various pen names. The Mistletoe Masquerade represents her first foray into writing novels as her primary career. She currently lives in Ponyville. Scarlet enjoys fine wine, chocolate, poetry, and walking in the rain. “Plus, murder, robbery, and blackmail,” Daring snarled, tossing the book into the trash can. “Smugfaced fucking little—” The phone rang, interrupting her. Phillip answered it. “Finder and Do.” “Phil, you need to get down here,” Trace’s voice filtered over the phone. “There’s a multiple murder that you need to be at.” “Where?” Phillip asked, detecting a disappointed sigh from Daring in the background. Trace gave them an address in the Dockside District. “Be there ASAP.” He hung up. “Daring?” “The vacation time on this job sucks,” Daring grumbled, tossing on her neck warmer and hat. The two of them stepped out onto the snow-covered front porch. Taking Phillip beneath the forelegs, Daring spread her wings and lifted off into the air, headed south. The address turned out to be a warehouse near the riverbank. Patches of ice atop the black water floated past the attached dock. Several cruisers and unmarked vehicles were already sitting outside the warehouse, including the coroner’s van. As Phillip and Daring landed, the dark blue pickup truck labeled “Police CSU” pulled up to the curb and stopped. Doctor Suunkii and Twilight Sparkle climbed out of the cab and began to gather equipment out of the back of the truck, their expressions grim. “This can’t be good,” Daring muttered as they approached the door, which had been broken open. The crime scene tape stretched across the doorway flapped in the breeze. Trace Evidence was waiting on the other side of the tape, which he lifted up as they approached. “Hell of a Hearth’s Warming gift,” he commented, leading them down a short hallway to another door. “It’s in there,” he nodded. Phillip and Daring entered, and immediately stopped, staring in disbelief. They were in a small room that was likely meant to be used as an office. There were a dozen chairs in the room, all of them facing the door. In each sat a corpse, their postures slumped and mouths hanging ghoulishly open, necks red with dried blood that had poured from their slit throats. But what made the detectives’ breakfast lurch in their stomachs was the fact that each and every one of the corpses was missing their eyes: the empty, ragged, blood-stained holes stared at them as they entered, seeming to speak of pain and shock even from beyond the grave. In a bizarre additional detail, each of the bodies had a bright red bow and gift tag tied around their neck, as though they were presents. “Each of them was caught off-guard and had their throats cleanly slit,” Doctor Mortis was explaining as she studied the empty eyeholes of a griffon’s corpse. “It looks like it was from in front, most likely by a right-hooved pony. Based on the lack of defensive wounds and other injuries, I think that the eyes were removed post-mortem. I can say with confidence that none of them died here, though. And all of them were killed sometime last night.” “Recognize any of them?” Trace asked, slipping into the room behind them. Daring took the opportunity to slip back out, dry heaving. “I do,” Phillip said, his voice unusually low. “They’re all high ranking members of local gangs. Nightmare Moon Disciples, Mareish Mob, Whitestone’s Crew, the Sinalope Cartel…” “Check the tags,” Trace told him. Phillip bent down and read the tag attached to the bloodied neck of a male griffon. TO: Phillip Finder FROM: An admirer Happy Hearth’s Warming, my love! “So whose meeting is this, anyway?” Whitestone snarled, pacing in a small circle around the round table. The snowy wind rattled at the third-floor windows of the building they were in, an office and business center in the Industrial District, its unrented rooms showing the first signs of neglect: the circular table and chairs were the only furniture in the room, the paint on the walls was peeling, and only one lamp, situated above the table, was functional. “Not mine,” Coin Toss grunted, tossing a coin to himself. His two bodyguards stood close behind him, eyeing the other occupants of the room, the heads of what remained of Ponyville’s criminal underworld. “If somepony’s codding us, they’re rooting for a kneecapping.” “Cap’n, we should just go,” Roaring growled, fingering the cutlass at his hip. “None of these mules are worth—” “Well, this is some party,” a loud voice proclaimed. A turquoise unicorn with red hair strode into the room. He had shaved off the mustache and replaced his old uniform for a black jacket, but his cutie mark of three red stars was more than familiar. “Should’ve known,” Coin Toss scowled. “The new eejit head of the Nightmare Moon Disciples, come to throw shapes around.” “Hey, I earned my place here,” Star Cluster snarled, shoving his face into Coin Toss’. Both of Coin’s bodyguards raised their pistols. “Earned it after you lost your badge,” Whitestone snarled. “And no surprise there, what with you flaunting your wealth about like some two-bit whore on the docks showing off her shriveled, tiny pussy.” Star Cluster sneered at her. “Speaking from experience, captain birdbrain?” “Nopony talks about the captain like that!” Roaring roared, lunging at Star Cluster and drawing two of his cutlasses. The blades swiped through the air, narrowly missing Star’s neck as he ducked and leaped out of range, using his magic to draw two pistols from his jacket. The other occupants of the room all jumped out of range, many of them drawing their own weapons in a chorus of clicking hammers. “Halt!” a voice barked, and suddenly everypony froze, their bodies surrounded by a golden glow. A pony walked into the room, his black eyes flicking about at the visitors through the haze of smoke from his cigarette. “Zugzwang,” Whitestone glared. “There is no need for this violence,” Zugzwang announced, deactivating his paralysis spell. Everypony slowly stood down, holstering their guns. Roaring sheathed his swords last, still glaring at Star Cluster. “This is my meeting," Zugzwang declared. "Mine and my new partner’s.” A light pink unicorn mare walked gracefully into the room, smirking and flicking ashes from the cigarette in her holder; behind her walked a tall dark red unicorn mare, glaring around at everypony. A BAR was slung over her shoulder, and a pistol sat at each hip, the belt tight around her round belly. “Enchantée, Messieurs et mesdemoiselles,” the pink unicorn said, bowing slightly. “I am Scarlet Letter.” Several ponies stiffened at the mention of her name. “And you’re our new bosses?” Star Cluster asked. “I know that it was not long ago that you all considered myself an enemy,” Scarlet said politely. “However, I believe that the best way to destroy one’s enemies is to make allies of them.” “No one in this room had any love for the late SIlvertongue,” Zugzwang declared. A slow ripple of confusion ran through the room as ponies noticed his wording. “He was a fool, a coward, and a bully. Frau Letter and I are neither.” He took a slow drag on his cigarette and blew out a cloud. “Let me explain the situation. You all will continue your business as usual, and you will receive our assistance: weapons, money, information, and plans. In return, you will grant us a quarter of your spoils, as well as leave your ponies at our disposal.” A soft, intrigued murmur ran through the room: this deal was by far more generous than Silvertongue’s demands of a full forty percent for minimal assistance. “However, there will be limits,” Scarlet added. “No prostitution. No slave trading. And no selling drugs to foals. If any of you harm a single hair on a child’s head, that pony dies.” “That’s a generous offer,” Whitestone said, ruffling her wings. “But why exactly should we follow you?” Zugzwang lit up his horn and a wrapped present floated into the room, borne by a golden aura, and set itself on the table. Everypony stared at it warily. “Go on, open it,” Zugzwang said. Roaring grunted and stepped forward, tearing the wrapping away and opening the box. The gathered ponies looked into the box, then reeled away in shock. “Those were your lieutenants,” Zugzwang stated. “That took me three hours. Do you want to see what we can do in twenty-four?” He flicked his cigarette onto the floor. “Let me be clear. We are not asking you to work for us. We are ordering you to.” And with that, the trio vanished in a flash of golden light, leaving the cowed gang leaders standing in the room, staring at the gift box full of eyeballs. On the rooftop of the building opposite, the three ponies reappeared in a brief flash. Smiling, Scarlet turned to Zugzwang and held out her cigarette. “What do you think, Frau Letter?” Zugzwang asked, pulling out a lighter and lighting her cigarette with it. “Le Roi est mort,” Scarlet grinned, puffing on her cigarette as she stared up into Zugzwang’s empty black irides. “Vive le Roi.”