• Published 17th Dec 2011
  • 9,136 Views, 624 Comments

Banishment Decree - Neon Czolgosz



Gryphon warriors don't get fired, they get banished.

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15. Ave! Duci Novo

It takes me half an hour to get to the safehouse we had Puddinghead stashed away at. The earliest light of morning shines through a window at the far end of the ninth floor corridor, splattering and shifting through the heavy rain. I fish out the key for the safehouse door, then look at the lock. It’s been kicked right out of the door.

Of course...

I take out Leroy the Wonder-Knife and push the door open, gentle as can be. The hallway is clear. The kitchenette is clear. Bathroom is clear. I open the living room door. Two ponies and one griffon. The griffon has blunted claws and a cauliflower ear, the unicorn mare has her cobalt mane in a tight bun and is dressed in a blue seersucker blazer, and the earth pony has a brown coat matched by a darker brown jacket too heavy for late summer, brow-rimmed glasses, and a tidy mustache. I’ve seen the last one before, somewhere.

“Who the fuck are you guys?” I ask.

The one with the mustache smiles at me. “Gilda Redbeak, is that any way to talk to your new boss?”

I blink. I pause. I place his face. “Wait, you’re Weams. How’d you find this place? Where’s that ass Puddy?”

Weams chuckles. “Smedley is smarter than you give him credit for, I think. He managed to contact us, and so we retrieved him. He is out of your reach, and more importantly he is safe. You’ve caused us all a lot of stress, Gilda. It’ll be some time before he’s a useful agent again.”

“What, all ‘cause I took him out that penthouse of his and slapped him around a little?”

“No, because you destroyed a valuable part of his cover and all-but pinned it on him before making him disappear,” he snapped. “We need to remove a large portion of Trotsky’s organisation before the damage you caused can be repaired. Specifically, you need to remove a large portion of Trotsky’s organisation. This is your first job.”

I actually stop for a moment and boggle at him. This mustachioed used-wagon salespony waltzes into my safehouse with a pair of cronies, frees a piece of used toilet-paper like Puddinghead, and then has the brass-plated effrontery to get pissy at me? The griffon dork behind him even has a can of beer! One of my cans of beer!

“Who said I’m working for you, dick-for-brains? I’ve got a lot of questions and not a lot of patience, so why shouldn’t I just slap all of you around until I find out what I wanna know, huh?”

Weams smirks, and does that rat-bastard little chuckle again. “You might well be capable of ‘slapping me around,’ Gilda. I am a year or two past my prime, though only a year or two. But I have your Griffon Intel dossier. It’s as thick as my hoof, and I’ve read every line. You win fights by hitting birds when they’re not looking at you, and neither your claw-to-claw or basic weapon scores are anything to write home about. Either of Roald or Cannoli here could take you,” he says, gesturing to his associates, “and both of them together could stuff you up your backside. Be my guest, if you want to try. They’ll let you down gently.”

“Don’t say that, boss,” snaps the griffon. “I can’t keep that promise.” His voice is strained. Can’t tell if it’s panic or anger. Possibly both.

“Roald, please,” says Weams. “In any case, Gilda, you said you were working for me when you signed your contract with Griffon Intel and took the oath. As far as you are concerned, I am Griffon Intelligence.”

“Horseshit.”

“Believe what you want, Gilda, I can tell you things that only an agent deep inside Griffon Intelligence could know about you all day, I could tell you your SERE grade, the date of your third assignment, your most recent field equipment maintenance test score—that’s an A minus, mid-November of ought-six, and seventy-nine out of a hundred respectively—and a dozen other things, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is what I’m offering you.”

My claws clench. “And what’s that?”

He grins at me, smug and mean, like he’s been waiting the whole damn day for this moment. “Come now, Gilda. You can figure it out.”

“No,” I say.

“Oh, yes

“No. Fuck you, you’re lying. It can’t be that simple.”

“But it is, Gilda, it’s exactly that simple. You’re going to work for me for the next few months. Dangerous work, but nothing you can’t handle. When you’re finished. you’ll find yourself alive, well, and no longer banished.”

My mouth goes dry, and my heart is suddenly beating like I’ve just sprinted a mile. “It’s double-secret banishment. You don’t even know what I’ve been banished for.”

“Heh, you’re right about that. I don’t get told what my charges have been banished for, only that they are now my charges, that I must set them their assignments, and that all charges will be dropped when their assignments are complete. Roald was much the same, weren’t you?”

Roald looks downwards, his claws digging into the floorboards. “Don’t make me look at her. I’m nothing like her.”

Weams rolls his eyes. “Be that as it may, Roald was banished. I set his tasks and ensured that they were carried out, and now he is no longer banished. Gilda, I have no idea what you have done. By the nature of your banishment, I assume it was either utterly vile, politically delicate, or both. Whatever it was, you’ve been given a second chance.”

“That’s...”

He cuts me off. “Gilda, your mission is time-sensitive. If you will not work for me, you will never see the Griffon Kingdoms again. You will never see your family again, never see Nigel or Terrence or Gretchen or any of your dozen nieces and nephews again. You will never see your own mother again. You will be completely cut off from griffon culture. If you go into a griffon bar or a kebab shop, the best that will happen is being kicked out. Now, I know you’re comfortable with travel and with Equestria, but turning down my offer seems a very big door to shut on your life just because your new boss isn’t giving you a prompt-and-proper induction session with free cocktail weenies and a pamphlet titled ‘What To Expect When You’re Expelled From Your Race And Nation And Culture At Large.’”

I try to think of something to say. Nothing comes.

After a moment, Weams presses a hoof against his nose and says, “Do you want the assignment or not?”

“...Yes.”

He smiles. The unicorn behind him relaxes. The griffon still looks like he’s shitting out barbed wire. “Fantastic, Gilda,” says Weams. “Without Puddinghead, Trotsky’s organisation is a tough nut to crack. You’re going to give it a few whacks with a proverbial hammer and we’ll see if some cracks won’t open up. Now, some of my associates in the Macaroni family—ones I’m not all that fond of, mind you—are selling a set of stolen antiques at Van Hay’s Gallery on the Upper East Side. The buyer is backed and paid by Trotsky’s ponies. Your job is simple: go to Van Hay’s, plant a pain-gas bomb that we’ll provide you with, and set it off when the meeting takes place. Another agent will steal the antiques. Clues you leave will point to both Trotsky’s ponies and to the Macaronis. At the very least, we’ll shut up the Macaronis who want to reach out to Trotsky. If we’re lucky, we might start a little panic-schism within the Kurierzy too.”

I mull this over. “Right. How much homework do I have, professor?”

He shakes his head. “Very little. There’s a duffel bag in your weapons locker. It’s got the device, a gas mask, building blueprints, the staff rota for Van Hay’s, and additional instructions. The rota and instructions are written on rice paper, and I’d be grateful if you could mush them up after memorizing them.”

Spies tend to be wary about eating instructions ever since spymasters figured out that you could poison the instructions, and hence kill two birds with one stone in event of capture. I don’t know if I should be relieved that he’s not telling me to eat them, or worried that he’s savvy enough to know I’d be savvy of it.

I mull this over. “Right. So when’s the sale?”

Weams reaches inside his oversized herringbone jacket, and pulls out a silver pocketwatch. “Eight hours.”

If I had a beer, I would spit right about now. “I have eight hours to prepare?”

“No, oh no, no,” he says, reassuringly. “You’ll need to be there in four hours to get there before the security detail arrives.”

“Oh, fuck you buddy.”

His eyebrows scrunch as if remembering something. “Oh, and of course it takes an hour or so to get there from this side of town, so there’s that too.”

I start to pace. “You are crazy. You are mixed up in the fucking melon,” I say, pointing a claw at him. “You want me to prep for a job like this in three hours, Zephyr, I’ve got to get the security—”

“It’s a damn art gallery, excuse-my-language, not the Royal Canterhorn Treasury. The hoofful of guards are bored ex-hoofball players armed with sticks, whistles, and a cheap paperback for the quiet periods. You need to worry about the bodyguards, and the earlier you get there, the more you’ll learn.”

“—and I need my team—”

“The team is you, and the thief. You’re putting a gas bomb in a vent. Besides, even if this was a two-bird job, I’d rather your pet illusionist stayed clear of it. Your file shows that you and Trixie are more rash and venal than the sum of your parts.”

“—I need—Hey, screw you, dweeb. I’m a moderating influence on that spell-touched shrew.”

“No, you are not. Any more pointless objections?”

I glare at him. “I need equipment.”

He sighs, and waves a hoof in the general direction of my weapons cabinet. “Duffel bag. Gas bomb. Gas mask. Crowbar. Simple job.

“Fine. I need a drink.”

That smug smirk returns to his face. “We moved your beer to the fridge. All the files are in the duffel bag, learn them inside and out. Our carriage is downstairs, you’ll leave with us when you’re ready. Get to work.”