• Published 10th Oct 2012
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Whom the Princesses Would Destroy... - GhostOfHeraclitus



Behind the scenes of a perfectly normal visit to Canterlot lies chaos. Also, custard.

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Chapter 3

"Can you confirm the allegations that Twilight Sparkle is coming to Canterlot in order to perform a coup d'état?"

Spinning's smile widened a little bit. She focused a little more effort into radiating good cheer and agreeable helpfulness. Not because she wanted to. What she wanted was to scream and, possibly, strangle the reporter in front of her. But this was an imperfect universe, and sometimes you simply couldn't get what you wanted. She let a little more sincerity leak into her eyes. Perfect. Or close to it, at any rate.

"Now, my dear colleague, how can I possibly confirm something like that? Ms. Sparkle is a close personal friend of Her Highnesses."

"You can't confirm it because it's true or because it isn't?"

In the privacy of her head Spinning swore. This was going to turn into a right and proper hatchet job. She can deny anything she pleases, that just means that Canterlot News Nightly will run something with a headline like "CABINET OFFICE DENIES COUP D'ÉTAT ATTEMPT" or, if they are feeling particularly vindictive, "CABINET HIDING COUP D'ÉTAT ATTEMPT?" She can try to stonewall but all that will produce is, "CABINET UNABLE TO DENY COUP D'ÉTAT" or, "TWILIGHT SPARKLE COUP D'ÉTAT STILL NOT DENIED." For a brief insane moment she considered confirming everything, just to see the look on that reporter's face as she capered and danced off into the sunset, magnificently lit by the flames of her burning career. It was a tempting vision. Then she came to her senses, and settled for a genteel laugh and stalling tactics.

"I can't confirm it because it's preposterous, Sans. Now that's all the time we have for now, but there'll be a full statement with time for as many questions as you need this evening."

There was an immediate buzz of frustrated journalists, and Spinning raised her hooves, leaning into the lectern, and made a placating gesture. At length, they all filed out of the press conference room. All, that is, save Sans Serif from Canterlot News Nightly, and an earth pony mare with a dusky rose coat who sat in the row of seats nearest to the door. The mare was apparently engrossed in her own notes, and Sans was giving Spinning an appraising look.

Her time of recess was chosen with the utmost care and malicious intent. Sans could rush to the presses now and put out an early edition, doing the story up as he best saw fit. But that would mean that the contents of the evening press brief couldn't be reported until tomorrow. The presses couldn't keep up with both an early and a regular edition in one day, not with the sort of circulation Canterlot News Nightly wanted. And Spinning Top knew this just as well as Serif did. So, it came to a bluff — did Spinning have something actually worth reporting? And would missing out on it for a whole day make Serif's paper look incompetent compared to everypony else?

Sans Serif's gaze grew more piercing, as if he could discern what she was hiding through sheer force of will. Spinning returned a look that said nothing at all. Empty amicability, false helpfulness, and not a single solitary bit of useful information. They kept this up for a few moments more, a study in mutual distrust and frustration, and then Serif suddenly stamped both forehooves and stalked out of the room, all a-quiver with nervous energy. Spinning allowed herself a brief moment of triumph. That cool manner and professional mien was just an act. In truth, when his composure cracked, he was rather a frenetic pony, she thought.

Soon enough her sense of triumph waned entirely. She had, at best, bought a few hours. If she didn't pull a real live rabbit out of a hat come the evening, the reporters were going to tear her to shreds, and then write articles that can only be described as apocalyptic. And, push come to shove, she didn't really have a rabbit on hoof or a hat to pull it out of. This is why she paused while leaving the room and announced, to nopony in particular, and in a voice pitched so low hardly anypony could hear, "I do believe that I could use a nice cup of herbal tea. Mint, I should think."

And this was also the reason why, several minutes after Spinning had gone, the rose-coated mare got up and walked out of the room taking care to head in completely the opposite direction. And why she, completely at random of course, arrived at the same exclusive tea shop as Spinning not half an hour later.

The shop was in one of the more fashionable districts of Canterlot Town, nestled between a small park and a windswept promenade. From the outside it was a low, unassuming building clad in pinkish marble, much like its neighbors. Also much like its neighbors, it was pulled back well away from the street, hiding behind an immaculate formal garden like every hedgerow was a trench, and every piece of decorative shrubbery, a bastion. It had no sign, no identifying marks of any sort, nothing save a street number plate.

This wasn't the sort of shop that advertised. If you were of sufficient means to afford its prices and of sufficient refinement to get past the exceptionally picky door guards[9] you knew about it. If you weren't, it was for the best if you knew nothing. A cup of tea in this place would set you back about the daily wage of the average pony—an exorbitant sum by anypony's standards. However, what all those bits bought isn't the excellence of the tea, but discretion. Absolute, inviolate discretion. What happened inside one of the plush, comfortable private meeting rooms, would stay inside, no matter what.

Spinning sunk deeper into an overstuffed chair upholstered in sage green velvet and let out a contented sigh, sipping a bit of her mint tea. Hoof picked in the most pristine of wilderness and sun-dried, she was assured, and then mixed with exactly the right sort of green tea and prepared to exacting specifications. It was good, that much was true, but only somepony fanatical like Dotted could possibly appreciate all the subtleties that were, supposedly, there. After a few more appreciative sips, the door opened and the rose-coated mare walked in and, wordlessly, took a seat on the other side of the small lacquered table.

They waited, silently, as the tea steward slipped in, hoofsteps soundless on the thickly piled carpet. He put a teapot and a cup gently onto the intricate doily next to the newcomer, bowed low and left. The two mares held their collective breath until they heard the massive walnut door click shut. Immediately, the mare with the dusky rose coat and pale-blue mane grinned widely and spoke.

"Spinning, my dear, it has been too long!"

"Too long, Lilly, altogether too long. How's life in the trenches?" Spinning matched her friend's grin with one of her own. She had whole arsenals of smiles, grins, smirks, and not a few sneers of all sorts and shades, from barely perceptible to effusive, but the one she wore now was quite a rare breed. It was genuine and entirely free of artifice which, for Spinning, was a rare pleasure. Gilded Lilly was an old, old friend. Certainly, they were nominally on opposite sides since Lilly had stayed with Equestria Daily while Spinning went off to join the Service. That enmity, however, was a wan, threadbare thing. They had know each other for years, meeting in the sort of school young mares of their exalted social class attended. Then, they read classics at Canterlot Royal University together, and finally they worked alongside each other at EqD. That was far more important than the picayune details of who worked for whom.

"We manage. Somehow. I won't lie, it's not as it was. It's all circulation, I'm afraid, these days. Readership numbers. Demographics. Nopony has time for a proper story. That's why they have me covering the 'Twilight Sparkle Will Doom Us All' angle. Rubbish and they know it, but it sells. Especially to the sort of idiot who's of interest to our advertisers."

"I was wondering why they had you here. Aren't you supposed to be covering foreign affairs?"

"In theory. But nothing the editorial board cares about is going on, and well, since they have me they might as well use me, even if it's to cover domestic politics rubbish like this."

"What's Breaking News doing, then? Isn't that his beat? Editor of the Domestic Affairs desk and all that?"

Gilded Lily snorted. It was the world's most genteel and respectable snort, but a snort all the same.

"Oh, he, well, he's moved up in the world, hasn't he. Hoof-picked hatchet man for the board of directors, he is now. Too important a pony to be working mere stories, not when he can be out terrifying the staffers and pushing around proper journalists."

"Dear me. From lector to lictor, then?"

"Something like that. Times have changed, Spinning. You were right to get out when you did, I fear. Now it's all circulation, pleasing the advertisers, and maximum scandal for minimum journalism. I'm going to have to go back to the office after that magical press conference of yours and write a hatchet job, right on spec. Not a single damned word of it will be true, of course, but it'll bring in the readers. It's not like I have that much choice, either. I'm either to do what I'm told or get reassigned to cover flower shows. If that." Lilly took a deep draught of her tea, some sort of infernally complicated meld of rooibos, merigold and lemon grass, as if she were desperately trying to wash out a foul taste from her mouth.

"Ah. Well. I can possibly get you out of that, as you say, hatchet job."

"Do tell."

"Well, it'd be grossly improper of a member of Her Highness' Civil Service to meddle in the internal affairs of such a respected and respectable paper. A breach of ethics, at the very least. I couldn't possibly theoretically do it. But..."

"Yes?"

"Would you be inclined to consider a hypothetical scenario?"

"Always. As long as it is entirely hypothetical, of course."

"Of course. Well, hypothetically, what would happen if a breaking story were to occur during the press conference later this evening? One that's, say, entirely consistent with the interests and skills of the journalist now assigned to the aforementioned hatchet job. Say, surprising developments in the Northern Griffonstan situation."

"How hypothetically surprising?"

"Envoys of the two principal sides in the conflict meeting. Here. In Canterlot."

"Envoys from the Free Gryphon Republic and the Greater Griffonstan Empire here?" Gilded Lilly didn't shout. Not quite.

"Hypothetically."

"Well. If this reporter were to have some sort of proof. A written document, for instance, of good provenance, she—"

"Or he."

"Of course. She or he, as you say, would be able to convince the editorial board to let aforesaid journalist do her, or his, damned job for a change. Somepony else would have to be assigned to the Twilight Sparkle Secret Daughter of Discord story. Is there such a document, incidentally?"

"Well there would have to be. Given protocol there would have to be a confidential memo from the Foreign Secretary to the Prime Minister, say. If, of course, this wasn't an entirely hypothetical situation. A, a, gedankenexperiment, if you will."

"And who would leak this confidential memo?"

"Leak it? Celestia preserve us, Gilded, nopony would be insane enough to leak something like that. No, no, that could only lead to charges being brought under section two of the official secrets act. Very grave business." Spinning's expression became almost comically lugubrious.

"Ah. So this hypothetical reporter is out of luck?"

"Funny you should mention luck. The only way this hypothetical reporter could possibly get the information is if she—"

"—or he—"

"Naturally. Is she or he were to accidentally come across it. A stroke of good luck, you see. Maybe, say, somepony would leave it lying around. Carelessly. You know how the Civil Service loves its triplicates in triplicates. Well with so many copies—two for the archives, one for the principal private secretary, the list goes on and on—the odds are pretty good that one would be left around where simply anypony could stumble across it."

With these words, Spinning extracted a slim manila folder from her saddlebags and tossed it onto the luxuriant carpet. Carelessly. Where simply anypony could stumble across it. Unsurprisingly, somepony did. This somepony leafed through it, smiled, and then asked.

"Won't this cause diplomatic incident? I assume no media presence is wanted."

"Well, the situation is purely theoretical, but I would think that, yes, the envoys are very much in favor of doing this quietly. However, this represents no difficulty. In this scenario confidential dispatches from the Foreign Office indicate that the FGR deputation plans to walk out of the meeting before it even starts. Protests over the cease fire being broken, to pick a random explanation. Still a media coup, but not one that'll put anything in jeopardy. Everypony wins."

"Except of course the Civil Service. It's strange they get nothing out of this."

"Well...we could say that this hypothetical journalist is quite competent. The head of the press office—not I, of course, but a hypothetical head of an entirely hypothetical press office—would vastly prefer somepony less...incisive. Somepony trusting. Not inclined towards suspicion."

"A useful idiot."

"Your term. Not mine. "

"A hypothetical useful idiot."

"Something of the sort, yes."

"Well, I can see it clear how this entirely fictional journalist could leverage his or her exceptional influence over the paper in question which, of course, remains nameless, and get somepony specific sent."

"Lovely. That's just the sort of thing that'd benefit the Service in such a scenario."

They sipped tea for a while in companionable silence. Then, as if just remembering, Gilded spoke.

"To change the subject completely, Spinning my dearest, have I told you about our Lifestyle & Fashion reporter? Name of Hot Scoop? Recently joined up. Very popular with the management. Very...trusting?"

Spinning Top grinned again, as widely as when the meeting started. The grin was as free of artifice as the one before but had nothing of the friendliness. Oh no. This particular grin is most akin to the sort of grin one finds in tropical waters approaching, say, drowning ponies. It generally has a fin on top.

* * *

"Hazard pay?" Leafy wasn't a happy pony. Oh no. Not in the slightest. What he wanted was to get a bite to eat, get some more bites to eat, nip off home early, hug his wife, and spend a pleasantly futile afternoon trying to teach his youngest to play Parcheesi. Futile, because little Marigold hasn't quite passed the stage where she tries to nibble on the pieces, and pleasant because the sight of her trying to muster enough dexterity to roll dice, flapping her stubby little wings to keep herself upright, is, in Leafy's entirely biased opinion, the most adorable in all of Equestria.

What he didn't want was to spend a minute more in what was quickly shaping up to be a labor dispute fetlock-deep in gooseberry jam. Unfortunately, what he wanted or didn't want didn't really factor in the situation all that much. He thought about running a hoof through his mane and thought better of it. Getting cleaned up was going to be a nightmare as it is. Instead, he settled on fluffing his wings making sure that the bright white feathers were clean. He took a deep, calming breath and tried speaking again.

"Why would you need hazard pay? It's a wardrobe!" He turned to Corporal Swift Wing looking for support and found none. Swift had settled back into the stony expression of a guardspony with nothing to do right now except exist. He was there to help keep away journalists, almost a dozen of which had to be expelled from the grounds despite their protestations that an interview with Twilight Sparkle was absolutely essential for the future of a free press in Equestria. They first had to drive all of them off before laboriously pushing their way through the goosberry and custard avalanche until they finally managed to get up to the top floor of the tower where the wardrobe stood, jam and custard dripping off it.

The forepony in front of Leafy blinked patiently and replied in a broad Trottingham accent.

"Well yes, sir, indeed, just a wardrobe. But, begging yew pardon, a wardrobe owned by Twilight Sparkle herself."

"How's that hazardous?"

"Well, sir, everypony knows she's a right peculiar pony. She has vast mystical powers, she does. Defeated Discord himself. Vanquished an Ursa Minor with nary a hair missing from its starry little head. Hero of Equestria thrice over, she is."

Another workpony piped up.

"I heard the princess sent her to wake up a dragon and tell it to clear off, and it did!"

"No no," replied yet a third, "she owns a dragon. It sends her mail and guards her, I heard."

Soon enough it was a hubbub as every workpony had something to add.

"Not that dragon! That's a little one she made out of magic. I'm talking a proper big one with flames an' teeth like swords, a hundred feet high. She up and told it to bugger off and it did!"

"Wasn't that one of her friends?"

"I hear she brought low, right, this vast demonic hound with three heads. It's supposed to be guarding bleedin' Tartarus, right, and she just—"

"—went and followed the dragon migration, didn't she, with two of her—"

"With eyes, right, like pools of light and stuff—"

"—me mate says she's the cleverest pony in all—"

"—that's what I'm telling you, just made wings for a friend of hers like it was—"

"—a friend of hers, right, fastest pony alive—"

"—turned to stone, isn't it, right in the gardens—"

"—that's right, time travel—"

Leafy waited until they all finally fell silent. Then, wearily, he spoke up.

"Yes, okay, all of that generally happened. More or less. But what's that supposed to do with an ordinary wardrobe?"

The forepony seemed surprised.

"Ordinary? How do yew expect, sir, a pony like that to have an ordinary anything? It's bound to be filled with books of magic and dangerous magical instruments."

Another workpony looked apprehensive and spoke up.

"Or monsters! I heard she keeps a few around just so she can practice for all her, like, daring heroics."

And with that the floodgates broke. Again. Nopony knew what was in there, but everypony had a pet theory.

"It could be a gateway, right, for an entire private universe she keeps for experiments."

"—brains in jars, like a whole collection—"

"—the skeleton of Starswirl the Bearded animated by—"

"—tentacled monstrosities from beyond—"

"—Celestia's crown—"

Leafy waited until the noise died down. The forepony had the good grace to look embarrassed for a few moments and, at length, spoke.

"By rights, sir, we ought to have some of them hazard suits. Just in case."

"We don't have the time to—" Leafy stopped himself. This wasn't how you got things done. "Okay, lads, okay, how about this. I open the wardrobe to show you there isn't anything dangerous in there and then you haul it out so we can give it a scrub and get it where it needs to be. How's that sound?"

"With hazard pay?"

"I'm willing to go as far as time-and-a-half."

"Done."

Leafy sighed. This right here was why the permanent secretary for the labor department retired last year. Bound to be. Home office was so much easier. The worst you had to deal with were criminals and such. A cakewalk compared to this. He walked over to the wardrobe, hooves squishing in the dense jam, grasped a brass ring that served as a handle, and heaved. The thick door creaked open, and, suddenly, as if he were spring loaded, a pony sprang out from the wardrobe. One hoof bore a notepad attached by a sturdy piece of thread, and the other was halfway to the mouth with the pen.

"Ms. Sparkle! What is your response to the allegations that you are secretly—"

He stopped. He caught the sight of the guard, expressionless, the workponies, confused, and Leafy Salad, caught somewhere between apoplexy and murderous rage. His face fell. Finally he spoke, his voice far less strident.

"—I am so arrested, aren't I?"

* * *

It was now much later. Events, as they say, eventuated. The board convened under the watchful eye of Dotted Line, who had mournfully accepted that there wasn't going to be any evening tea. At all. Which means that even if he started drinking tea now, to make up for lost time, he'd still be an evening tea short. Forever. These depressing thoughts were what occupied him as the board discussed shear forces on the fine structure of the intradimensional integument, debated the energy differential, and had a minor hissy fit over the correct way to hold a differential thaumometer. Apparently, the hoof-over-hoof school considered any use of teeth to be heretical.

Then there was some spellcasting, some more spellcasting, a few well chosen curse words that damn near turned the air blue, further spellcasting that, in fact, did turn the air blue, and additional curse words, these more panicky. As far as Dotted could make out, the dimensional knot was wound tightly around the domain of Ykzlpxlt!k, The Disemvoweled One, Devourer of Souls, Approacher At The Gate, and a few dozen other choice cognomens. This, Dotted gathered from the way faces had gone colorless and the vocabulary colorful, was very much a Bad Thing.

"Can you...unknot the dimensional...knot...thing, then?" Dotted asked, fumbling over the terminology. Chemistry, fine. He even retained a few vestiges of higher mathematics. But dimensionally transcendent physics? Not even when he was an actual practicing researcher, let alone after all these years surrounded by equianities graduates.

"We have to. No time to waste, either. It could snap at any moment and turn the door to 7a into a portal leading to the Nightmare Realm of The Disemvoweled One, where, under alien stars, icy black winds..."

"Very bad. I got the point. No need to go all 'Daring Do and The Soapstone Statue'," said Dotted, massaging the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, I loved that book," said Ivory Abacus, suddenly grinning like a schoolfilly about forty years her junior.

"Mm-hmmm! Especially the Sunken City and the Dreaming One! Definitely the best recent one! I have it signed, you know," said a gray-maned stallion, who looked old enough to be Dotted's father. Although Dotted's father, for all his faults, would never be seen dead wearing a bow tie quite so hideously hued.

Ivory Abacus's eyes lit up. "Signed! That's amazing! I hear the next book is going to be about..."

"If we could focus on the immediate, existential, and, possibly, metaphysical threat posed by the unspeakable horror right next door, that would be just peachy." said Dotted his temper briefly escaping control. Academics! Besides, everypony knew that the best recent one was Daring Do and The Amulet of Yendor. That sequence in the City of Gnomes? Classic.

"Sorry. Right. We have to sever the link right now. There's only a minor, uh, difficulty."

"What kind of 'uh, difficulty,' precisely?"

"Well a, a, physical, uh, aspect of the Disemvoweled One may briefly manifest, as we apply the dimensional seal."

"What sort of aspect?"

"Well, uh, the relevant texts describe it as batrachian and tentacular. Which is peculiar, because I don't know of any frogs with tentacles."

"Peculiar. Yes. That'd be the word I'd use. Do you need my help?"

"How are you at dimensional seals?"

"Hopeless."

"Combat spells?"

"None to speak of."

"What can you do?"

"Chemistry. Administration. Organization. Oh, and I can distill whisky."

"Really? Whisky?" said Professor Abacus, perking up for the first time.

"Oh, yes. Family trade."

"Well, we may need that particular talent afterwards. To keep the nightmares at bay," she said, grinning humorlessly.

Yet another of her colleagues, a younger stallion with an orange coat and serious bearing, spoke up.

"I don't suppose we could call the princess?"

Ivory tried to respond, but Dotted cut her off, his face stormy. He spoke quickly and loudly, his carefully tended Canterlot accent abandoning him more and more with every passing sentence. By the end, he sounded as if he had just walked off the train from Vanhoofer, eager to seek his fortune in the big city.

"Absolutely not. She labors tirelessly to keep us all safe, not to mention to keep the sun where it ought to be. She hardly ever rests and barely has a moment for herself. This visit by Twilight Sparkle is the first opportunity for her to relax in months. I will not, under any circumstances, drag her over here so she can work more. If we call Her Highness every time going gets tough, what, then, is my—" He stopped, breathing hard and corrected himself, "I mean, what, then, is our purpose? Isn't this sort of thing why your board exists in the first place?"

Ivory's jaw dropped in astonishment, but she managed to pull herself together quickly enough to reply.

"Uh, yes, yes, the Board exists to resolve situations like this. And, really," she said, turning to her orange coated colleague, "it isn't that bad, doctor, this ought to be no more than a class two manifestation. We tackled one like it with no significant difficulties, no more than two weeks ago."

The orange coated pony who had brought the matter up lifted a placating hoof. "I apologize," he said, his voice conciliatory, "Mr. Secretary. I just, well, being cautious—"

Dotted interrupted him with a raised hoof of his own.

"It is I who should apologize. There was no call for me to, well, get emotional."

An awkward silence reigned for a few moments. Finally, Ivory broke it.

"Right. Well. That's settled, then. We proceed as planned. Mr. Secretary, I trust you'll keep vigil here. In case we need help?"

Seeing Dotted's nod, she walked over to the door and started to spellcast. The rest of the board followed her, ready to pounce. After a while, the sight of the corridor behind the door melted away to be replaced by a dorm room, remarkable only in its tidiness. The entire board rushed into the room just moments before the door slammed shut. There was about ten seconds of silence followed by a scream that started high enough to annoy bats and descended, without pause for breath, into a basso profundo growl. Then, more silence, followed by a wet sloshing, slurping noise. Some more screams, these of normal ponies. An ululation. The sound of a giant rubber band being snapped. The tinkle of broken glass. Buzzing insects.

Dotted Line was just inching towards the door, unsure what exactly he'd do when he got there, when he heard a cough behind him. He turned and saw two workponies in the livery of the palace carrying with no apparent effort a large, ornate wardrobe, the sort in which you'd confidently expect to find a portal into a magical land[10].

"Uh, hello there yew secretarial lordship. Where do you want this wardrobe, then?"

"Secretar—" Dotted was just about to start spitting invective, and possibly just spitting, when he had a sudden terrible thought. His eyes narrowed. "Did Leafy Salad tell you to address me like that by any chance?" he asked, his voice like syrup over razorblades.

"Yes, yew secretarial lordship, sir. That he did. Said you was right particular about how yew was being addressed, he did."

"Charming. Put the wardrobe right there. The room is being...uh...cleaned." He tossed a few bits their way. "And do me a favor and have a few pints of cider on my account. Princesses know when I'll next have the occasion to see a bar, let alone hoist a few."

The workponies grinned and scarpered, presumably headed ciderward. Dotted closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose again. Custard covered towers, squabbling nobles, dimensionally dislocated rooms, dark creatures from beyond time and space and now Leafy who thinks now is the right time to push Dotted's buttons. And the way he went off on a rant just now. What, then, is my purpose? What, indeed... This was getting to him, he knew it. "Sweet Celestia, give me strength," he muttered.

"Well, I can try, Mr. Secretary, but I make no promises."

He knew that voice. Oh, he knew it well. A voice he dreaded and hoped for in about equal measure. His eyes shot open and his pupils contracted into pinpricks. Right before him was Celestia. The Solar Princess. The Unconquered Sun. She Who Calls Forth The Dawn, and so on, and so forth, into a list of cognomens, titles, and poetic flights of fancy that was even longer than that of The Disemvoweled One. On the most formal of occasions when the entire title would need to be announced, the herald would have to stop for breath three times. A proper, trained Canterlot herald, to make matters worse. A pony who could run through the entire list of titles of the Griffonstan Emperor in one go. A mere civilian would probably asphyxiate.

Faced with his ruler, his deity, and his boss, all at the same time, he found, to his horror, that he had no idea what to say. His brain, already feeling underappreciated and ill-used, shut down. Seeing that there would be no help forthcoming from headquarters, his legs took the initiative and tipped him into a bow so forceful his snout bounced painfully off the polished marble floor about an inch from the Princess' gold-shod hooves.

"Your Highness!" he spluttered, once he gained at least partial control of his faculties. "I—meaning no disrespect—a figure of speech..."

She laughed, and glory be, he felt better. He wasn't sure if it was magic, or just the princess being the princess, or even if there was any difference between the two, but when she was around he was...serene. And there was a word no sane pony would use to describe him. But it was true. He felt serene. Calm. Forgiven. Once, when he had drunk far more than it was good for him, he described it to Leafy and Goldie as the feeling of grace. Mercy far greater than he deserved. They had looked at him funny so he let the matter drop. Later, he ascribed it to the drink. But it really was true. The moment he saw her he knew—the princess was here, and nothing can go wrong anymore. As long, of course, as the princess is happy. There's always a catch, isn't there?

"Get up, please. You've shown ample deference, I assure you."

"Of course, your highness," he said getting up, with some difficulty, to his hooves. "My apologies. How can I help you?"

"No apologies necessary. I've been told this is where you'd be. Is Twilight Sparkle staying here, then?"

"Yes, Your Highness. The library tower was adjudged inappropriate. Safety concerns. State of the floor, you understand."

"Isn't it almost entirely filled with jam?"

Dotted Line was a veteran of talking with the princess. He didn't change his expression. He didn't even blink. He just kept talking, hardly missing a beat.

"Only mostly filled with jam, Your Highness. Most of it on the floor. Hence the safety concerns."

The princess, on the other hoof, was a veteran of talking to anypony at all.

"Of course. Gooseberry jam is well known to be perilous. Well, staying here will certainly be a nice reminder of her foalhood. I must say, it's gratifying to see that you take such a careful, personal interest in so trivial a matter."

"When the hospitality of Your Highness is at stake, no matter is trivial, Your Highness."

"Really?" said the princess, arching a delicate eyebrow.

"Of course, Your Highness. I have to make sure that everything is," there was a prolonged buzzing noise from 7a, terminating in precisely the sort of sound windsurfing on the rim of a wineglass would make, "perfect!"

"Even by keeping vigil in front of her accommodations? And what, may I ask, is going on in there?"

Dotted Line froze. One did not lie to the princess, no, but it was crucial for her to go and relax. Her favored student and, if Dotted was any judge, dearest friend was coming tomorrow and not a thing could go wrong. Not if Dotted could help it. And if he couldn't, what use was... He shook that dangerous line of thought loose and settled for the economic use of the truth.

"A spot of interdimensional pest control, Your Highness."

"Really? I wasn't aware that there were any, ahem, pests in the palace," she replied with the glint in her eye that meant she was amused.

"Of course not, Your Highness. Which is why the fine ponies from the Board for Unscheduled Reality Excursions are hard at work in there. Keeping it that way. Eternal vigilance," there was a series of crashes from the room, followed by a skidding noise, another crash, a sort of hollow booming noise, and ultimately a very final sounding crash, "and devotion to duty! Professor Ivory Abacus says that, appearances aside, it's merely a, uh, class two manifestation. Routine. Nothing for Your Highness to fret about."

"Your pest control team is an example to us all, I'm sure. And I trust the good professor's expert opinion, naturally. However it is another matter, I wished to hear your opinion upon."

"Anything, Your Highness."

"I've received a most interesting petition from the Council of Lords," Celestia said, gesturing to a guard in her retinue who promptly handed her a tightly rolled scroll.

"Oh," Dotted said, or tried to, anyway. His brain went on strike again. He had just managed to arrange his lips into an 'O' of surprise when fine motor control abandoned him once more and he fell mute.

Celestia unrolled the scroll with delicate application of telekinesis and made a show of reading it carefully.

"Let's see here. Yes. It's a petition for me to deny allegations that Twilight Sparkle is my," she peered into the scroll with theatrical care and attention, "'immaculately conceived starchild' and that I intend to declare her 'Overtyrant of Equestria', says here. Apparently after this she's to rule Equestria with an iron hoof. Would you care to comment?"

"I...well...You know how nobles are, Your Highness. Very, uh, protective of their privileges. There is a certain amount of, perhaps, understandable, ah, tension around your favored student."

"Starchild?"

"Well I..."

"I didn't think Lord Trottingham even knew the word 'immaculate'."

"Possibly I..."

"And overtyrant? Really!"

Celestia paused with a frown of almost comical proportions. Seeing Dotted's slightly panicked face, she quickly replaced it with a gentle smile with just a hint of worry in her eyes.

"I intend to deny the allegations as the petition requests. Of course." Celestia continued.

"Of course, Your Highness."

"Do you think I'm likely to hear anything more about it?"

Dotted Line deflated. It was grossly unfair to be expected to keep up with a divinity.

"No, Your Highness. I'll make sure of it."

"Excellent! And that, my little pony, leads us back to the the beginning of our conversation."

"It does, Your Highness?"

"Indeed. You were calling out for strength, if I recall correctly. In heartfelt need, by the sound of it."

"I, well, figure of speech Your--"

"Nonsense. Let it never be said that I ignore the wants of my most loyal of subjects," she said. The princess gestured towards another of her guards who passed a cylindrical bundle to her. He had the guard-approved expression of extreme stoicism, but a discerning observer might notice something that could very well be the ghost of a grin hovering around his lips.

The princess unwrapped the bundle, delicately, and handed it to Dotted who grasped it with his own, much dimmer, telekinesis aura. It was a thermos. With religious reverence Dotted screwed open the lid and took a deep breath. It was full of tea. The very finest tea. Suddenly, all was right with the world. Every problem, soluble. Every difficulty, surmountable. There was tea, and tea was the solution to all problems. Or rather, had the amazing ability to replace all problems with a more fundamental one, viz. why wasn't there any more tea?

"And so, Dotted Line, do you find yourself appropriately invigorated?" Celestia asked, smiling.

"Yes, Your Highness. Beyond all measure. Thank you, Your Highness."

"Think nothing of it. Now I must leave the problem of Twilight Sparkle's visit in capable hooves. Do call if there are difficulties with the, ahem, pest control. As for me, duties of state call. Naturally, I'm trying to clear as much of my calendar for tomorrow as possible."

With these words Celestia left. Just as she did, the door to 7a sprang open and Professor Ivory Abacus shot out, trailing slime, ichor, and strange wriggly things, which resembled a cross between a nematode worm and a can opener. She smacked into the opposing door, got up, fell over, got up again, cast a personal shielding spell, and ran back in shouting something about resonance. Dotted regarded this calmly for the space of twenty heartbeats. He took a deep draught of tea, closed the thermos with care, and deposited it in his saddlebags, nestled safely between thick files. Then, with a certain amount of flair and absolutely no plan whatsoever, he galloped into the room. Once inside he had just enough time to think, "Oooh, the tentacles are shaped like frogs. That makes sense." Then, darkness and chaos overtook him.