//------------------------------// // Trixie's Scheme // Story: Dame Trixie and the Countess of Wyrd // by Impossible Numbers //------------------------------// The alarm clock broke into a frenzy of ringing, and Trixie felt the vibrations through her pillow. Scrunching up her face, she threw a hoof across and whacked it into shutting up. Why do I keep forgetting to turn that thing off? she thought irritably. Rolling over, she tried to fall back into a deep sleep, but bits of her mind were kicking into gear, and despite forcing her eyes shut, she was utterly awake and had no chance of a sleep-in. Most ponies upon waking up had to ease their way gently back to consciousness, but long years of rushing out of bed to start an early show or to get the heck out of dodge had worn that habit out of her. Throwing the threadbare blanket off of her torso and legs, she rolled over and was rising on four hooves, feeling as though she’d been awake for hours. Sunlight glowed behind the drawn curtains of Trixie’s caravan. She threw them back, hoping to see blue skies, and was rewarded with endless grey. The Great and Powerful Trixie began to think. There were a couple of ponies on the village green, but they were just standing and talking. It didn’t mean much that the rest of the village was cold and still; most country villagers would have slipped out early to start working on the fields or in the orchards, and she’d passed a few on her way towards the bridge last night. Perhaps it was best to get this out of the way. Neither of the ponies looked up when the door creaked open, nor did they respond when she stepped out of the caravan. A couple of glances flickered in her direction, however, as soon as she made a beeline for them, and their voices dropped once she was actually upon the pair. “Good morning,” she said, far more cheerfully than she felt. “Know anywhere good for breakfast?” The mare on the left scowled at her. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Wicked Witch of the West.” “Yes,” muttered her companion. “Don’t you usually melt in sunlight, or is it water I’m thinking of?” “I’m surprised you eat mortal food. Are the elven ponies on strike today?” “Perhaps the demons will give you a stir-fry if you ask them nicely.” Both of them looked about her age, both earth ponies, and both with calluses on their forelimbs and rather squinty eyes. Possibly, they were farmhands once. May have had foals at some point, judging from the way they stood; there was a certain weariness and drooping of the back, but a slight bracing of legs ready to rush into action. Trixie’s cold-reading mind pointed all this out through sheer force of habit. “By the subtle arts of divination,” Trixie said, “Trixie has a suspicion that we rather failed to hit it off yesterday.” “Yes, I suppose the tomato was too subtle a clue. Come, Greensleeves. We’d best be on our way before she curses us. Don’t want a pox on our hooves or our legs to drop off.” Trixie didn’t bother chasing after them. No one that resistant to common courtesy was going to be of much help whatever she did. Besides, the Mermaid Tavern was almost certainly the only establishment this place possessed. She turned to look at her caravan, and yes, there was the graffiti dribbling down the side like an old friend. It said, “Go home, Witch” and was accompanied by a surprisingly straight-lined pentagram. Despite herself, she nodded. Someone had a steady pair of front hooves and a good eye for proportions. She only groaned when she realized they’d covered the three-headed dog. That sigil had been expensive. Fall Bridge, Fall Bridge… Have I ever been here before? If so, then it must’ve been way back when she was starting out, because her memory could see any village she’d visited on a whim, and this one was doing nothing for it. Even that possibility seemed unlikely. Back then, she’d focused on the big towns and cities that her classmates from Canterlot always talked about, and she didn’t remember coming this far west. Hick towns had been later, when she’d run out of anything better and had learned to avoid the biggest cities. Trixie sighed and leaned down to nibble on a few grass blades. She could still smell the rotten egg smell of the fountain, but a village green was prime estate for a travelling performer. Ponies – and therefore bits – gathered on village greens. Forget it, she thought irritably. Obviously, the eldritch witch look was not going down a storm here. I’ve got more important things to focus on. Like Coloratura…? Jolting herself on the doorway, she went back inside and fished out of the trunk a vinyl disk player. She wanted to check something. Her old disk collection spilled out as soon as she lifted the second lid. Idly, she wondered if they were due a tidy-up. They used to be alphabetized, once upon a time. Among the printed faces of Sapphire Shores, the Party Poopers, and the Royal Canterlot Orchestra, she hit upon a few of Coloratura. A flick of the sleeve produced the disk. She adjusted the needle, closed the lid, and listened. The first synthesizer beats zipped from her left ear to right ear. A second set of tones jumped in at just the right spot to feel they were building up to something big. And then Coloratura began to sing, autotuned and moderated and with a weird echo until she sounded less like a pony and more like a snide machine that had just figured out speech. Trixie winced – it was too early in the morning for this kind of aural mugging – but there was a style there. She could already feel the energy rushing through her as the beat poured it in and the voice haunted her mind. Whoever the manager had been, they’d known what they were doing; the notes were all over the place, alien and harsh and mechanical, but they came together in a way that had life and vigour. It was better than coffee. Better still was when she listened to Coloratura. Trixie strained her ears until her pinnae were ramrod straight. Under the echo and the autotuning, there was passion to the voice: the way it danced across the lyrics, the way it punched the eardrums. That said, where her passion last night had been sweet and honest and slightly melancholy, this time her passion was snide and mocking and just shrugged at the idiocies of the world. Trixie stopped the disk and rewound it. This time, she listened to the actual lyrics. “Take your kicks now; it’s just a show, “Life’s a party, and then we go. “Drinks behind you. The food’s for me. “Don’t complain, kid; I’m VIP.” It was hardly poetry from the Great Bard, but it got the job done. Some sort of explosion hit her brain at this point; this was where the music stopped jabbing playfully at her head and started the knockout for real. This was better than two coffees in the morning. “There ain’t no host, there ain’t no host to this party-ty-ty! “It’s the shindig, it’s the shindig of anarchy-y-y. “You wanna reach the top? “Well, you might as well just drop. “‘Cause I’m the Queen, yeah I’m the Queen of Revelry-y-y!” Immediately, it devolved into what Trixie thought of as the crazy bit: random bursts of foreign lingo, word salads that sounded good up until you tried to decipher them, and verses where the echo and vocal modulation were so over-the-top that it was impossible to make out any actual syllables, never mind the lyrics. Despite a part of her insisting on hearing the whole song, Trixie shook her head and switched the player off. No distractions. She couldn’t afford any just yet. Ideas swirled around in the waters of her mind, and they had to settle if anything constructive was going to come out of this. Listening to loud, raucous music was about as helpful as getting a pond to settle by throwing bricks at it. Her stomach rumbled, echoing within the confines of the caravan. Oh well, she thought. Duty calls. Trixie stepped out and made her way towards the Mermaid Tavern. As she did so, she looked over to the right, to the sorry excuse of a bridge and to the wide open plains beyond. There was the dirt track she’d taken up to the village, fringed by hedgerows that kept travellers away from the dirty yellow corn fields and – in the distance – the bent trees of the orchards. Primeval instincts urged her to gallop towards it, to run with the vast spaces and chomp the swaying blades, but more modern ones pointed out that it wasn’t her primal instincts that’d have to pay for any damages if she tried it. Faint whisperings reached her ears as she turned the corner. Some mare was belting out a verse, but she was too far away to make out individual words. As she went up the gravel stretch that passed for a street, she stopped and looked up. The statue was crude, its head alone little more than a bunch of granite blobs that stood in for mane, snout, and ears. It reared up, forelimbs raised to lash out, and the carvings that passed for clothes suggested a harlequin’s suit from the neck down. A crumpled hood lay over its withers; at least, she assumed it was meant to be a hood and not, for example, a gigantic fungus growing out of its neck. A wooden longbow was slung over its shoulder. This had to be a recent addition; it wasn’t covered with algae, lichen, or distressing white-and-brown streaks. Also, it was made of wood. Yew, she guessed from the slightly grey colour. Trixie marched on. Her stomach was getting insistent. Besides, it was just a dumb statue with a waste of good weaponry strapped to it. Who cared about crazy folk stuff these days? Really? That singing was getting on her nerves. Far too chipper for her liking. When she rounded the corner, she stopped and blinked and waved a hoof in front of her face. The song ended and was greeted with applause. Before her, the front of the Mermaid Tavern was flooded with fillies, colts, and the elderly, either crowding out the door or crammed around the windows. They were stamping and leaping and whooping. “Great. Just great,” she muttered. “What is this, Happy Hour for the early birds?” I’ll try elsewhere, she thought. It’s not like the village green grass was that disgusting. I don’t have to queue for it, anyway. “Encore, encore, encore, encore!” cried out the crowd. Trixie tutted and went round to the caravan at the back. If there was one thing Rara didn’t need, it was some dippy country singer rubbing it in her face. Or maybe she did. Maybe a bit of competition would get her up and kicking. There was bound to be a way she could use it. Trixie knocked on the caravan entrance. “Good morning, bright and cheerful!” she said. “It is I, the one and only, the great and powerful, back for a little tête-à-tête. And do I have the guarantee of a lifetime for you!” Big, broad grin. That was the ticket. Like flowers, she could conjure up an expression from nothing, and this one was a doozy: Earnest Admirer Number Twenty-Six, the Sweet-as-a-Kitten-on-Catnip Edition. No one stirred. The caravan simply stood there, as it were, woodenly. The catnip wore off. Trixie rapped the door smartly. “Aren’t you awake yet?” she said. “Trixie wishes to make a proposition. Are you interested?” It occurred to her that the Mermaid Tavern had fallen silent. Suspicion crossed her mind. Turning on the spot, she eyed up the back entrance. Barely had she pushed through when the door pushed back and jammed her neck against the frame. “Hey!” she said. “What’s the big idea?” “Shush!” Mister Heads had his hoof up against the other side. “Miss Rara is performing.” Trixie tried to pull her head free, but the oaf was as immovable as a tank. Grumbling, she twisted as far as she dared so that she could see past him to the stage. The tavern was packed. Not just every chair, but it seemed every plank on the floor had been filled with soil-speckled ponies of all ages, from babies being bounced on the laps of their mothers to elderly folk craning their scrawny necks to gawp better. The pianist from last night was sitting at the front, and from his coiffed mane to his sleek coat, he stuck out like an ebony cane among a log pile. He too was staring at the performance. One of the stallions was on stage, and he was twanging at a banjo with a fair amount of gusto. Beside him, wearing a straw hat on her inky cascade of hair, was Rara. “There was a mare called Filly Fall, she’d got some grit, she’d got the gall, “To go around, stand proud an’ tall; she was the greatest mare of all, “Was Filly Fall. That’s Filly Fall.” Trixie gaped. As one, the crowd went “WAHEY!” Several raised drinks over their heads. Rara was no slouch; she strutted across the stage, forelegs darting up and out as a whip cracking at the words. She reared up at the word “tall”, encompassed the room with her rising forelimbs, and shot them up towards the ceiling on “mare of all”. “She’d shoot an apple off yer head, and kept a spare at hand (it’s said) “In case the Duke, who’d want her dead, sent soldiers sneaking in his stead, “For Filly Fall. For Filly Fall.” Trixie clean forgot about the pressure cutting into her neck from both sides. That was it! That was the Countess! Oh, she wasn’t exploding with clothes, and the smile on her face was Rara, but the voice knew darn well what social rank it held. Dimly, she could make out the shadow of Mister Heads, who was staring at the stage, apparently forgetting about his hoof on the door. She tried to push against it. No budge. So he wasn’t completely stupid, then. Rara leaped forwards and tugged at an old stallion’s hoof. With a lot of flustered looks and a few “you lucky devil” nudges from his friends, he fumbled onto the stage and waved at a few ponies near the back. “The Duke he were a mean ol’ thing; he taxed the folk, lived like a king, “But Filly, with a zip and zing, taxed it right back with her bow and sling. “Hail Filly Fall! Hail Filly Fall!” The old stallion frowned down at them and struck a pose, hoof higher than his raised snout. Several of the ponies laughed. Trixie guessed he was supposed to be the mean ol’ Duke, and noticed an apple on the stage next to him. “She lived inside an old oak tree, deep in the woods with a band of three. “Her pony posse kept us free, to live in joy and harmony, “Thank Filly Fall. Thank Filly Fall. “The bow and statue mark the spot, where Filly Fall was forced to trot. “The Duke had came to take the lot, and Filly weren’t gonna take no rot, “Not Filly Fall. Not Filly Fall. “Back then, the Duke was a mean old gun, couldn’t hold his drink, ne’er had no fun, “So he took a colt and an apple one, and told her ‘Shoot that off your son.’ “Told Filly Fall. Told Filly Fall.” At this point, the old stallion lifted the apple and placed it on her straw hat, with her leaning down to make it easier on his creaking old bones. Trixie nodded and hummed appreciatively. It was a fair display of showmareship. “None but she could’ve made that shot, so she said, ‘Old Duke, here’s what I got; “‘If the apple’s gone, then you gotta stot, right out of town ‘til your hooves turn hot,’ “Said Filly Fall. Said Filly Fall. “So the Duke said ‘Done,’ though the town weren’t keen; and the son went white, though her eye did gleam.” Rara flicked her head up. The apple jumped straight up, hovered for a moment while gravity caught on, and then – while Rara reared up – came falling back, right into her open and expectant mouth with a crunch. A few mares went “wow!” My goodness! thought Trixie. She’s… she’s got the stuff. How can I even…? No, no don’t think like that. There’s an angle here. Just watch and learn. Hastily, Rara took the apple out and swallowed the chunk she’d bitten off, throwing the rest to the crowd. Trixie didn’t see, through the mess of limbs and heads, who caught it. All eyes were turning back to the stage anyway. “She made it clean, but the Duke were mean! So he locked ‘em up, starved ‘em thin and lean. “Poor Filly Fall! Poor Filly Fall! “But no treachery could hold her back! So she broke out; led the big attack, “She saw that Duke, gave his guards a whack; an’ he turned and fled; din’t stop to pack. “Yay Filly Fall! Great Filly Fall!” At her playful leap, the old stallion put on an exaggerated expression of fear, which given his wrinkles and stretching skin was not something Trixie wanted to look at. He ducked behind the curtain while Rara turned back to the crowd and winked. “They say at nights, you can hear her call; the zip and zing where her arrows fall. “She’s a legend true, and she saved us all; kept Fall Bridge great an’ proud an’ tall. “So when yer down, an’ yer feel the pall, you jus’ remember Filly Fall. “She’d got the grit, she’d got the gall, to strut her stuff, standin’ proud an’ tall. “Good Filly Fall. Good Filly Fall. “Good Filly Fall, standin’ proud an’ tall; ‘cause she’s the greatest mare of aaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllll!” The banjo capped it off with a perfect dit-dit-dit! Barely had it done so when the tavern broke out into a mass of applause, every single pony standing, stomping, whistling, and cheering. The old stallion emerged from the curtains and, along with the banjo player, took a bow. He tenderly kissed Rara’s hoof and then hopped off the stage, to be greeted with more pats on the back. “What a mare!” murmured Trixie. Beside her, Mister Heads woke out of his trance with a shake and rounded on her. “Oh, you’re still here.” “Bit tricky to leave. Can I have my head back now, please, or are you worried I’ll try to assassinate her with my teeth?” Growling, he lowered his hoof, but as soon as she stepped inwards, it shot up again and bashed her shoulder against the frame. “I didn’t say you could come in. Now, get out,” he muttered. “Miss Rara needs a clear exit to her caravan.” Trixie braced her legs against the frame and glanced across at the crowd. Surrounded by ponies chattering and patting her on the back, Rara had descended to the main floor and was talking to and smiling at the old stallion, who was responding in kind. “You’d better tell her, then,” spat Trixie. “Looks like she has her own exit strategy in mind.” “I’ll deal with that. Just get out of my sight.” When he let go, Trixie had unfortunately picked that moment to try yanking her head out. She flew backwards and rolled once with a bounce before belly-flopping the gravel with an “oof!” Her stomach started squeezing her insides out of protest. It didn’t take long for her to get back onto her hooves. Getting thrown out of taverns was a rite of passage in the School of Gifted Unicorns, though usually you didn’t do it to yourself by accident. It used to happen from time to time during her travels, as well; bar ponies tended not to be grateful when random magicians generously if grandiosely offered to make their drinks greater and more powerful. Her mind began to settle, but it had been a maelstrom recently, so that didn’t mean a lot. The Countess Coloratura lived on. Rara still had punch and kick, and she’d just jumped from one genre of music to another like it was nothing… Well, OK, Trixie was no expert, so this sort of thing probably happened all the time among music-lovers and song-writers. Surely it couldn’t be too hard to master two fields. Trixie herself had managed to be top of quite a few classes back at the school, even if, after the exams, she had immediately forgotten about nine-tenths of it. Still, the crowd chatted away, though when she peeked around the corner, she noticed mares and foals wandering away from the windows and the door, and one or two pushed front doors open and disappeared inside. From the tavern came the sounds of laughter and the clink of glasses and the tramping of hooves on planks. Last night, this place had been dead. If I had crowds like that, I could do anything, go anywhere, be anyone I wanted to be! I have to get that spark back! Quickly patting the dust off her coat, Trixie ran a hoof through her mane. She conjured up Cool Indifference Number One, the quiet, confident look, and leaned against the tavern just before the doorway at the back. As predicted, Rara swung the door back and spotted her instantly. “Good morning, Trixie!” she said. The smile hit Trixie like a sudden sunbeam. Her expression began to melt, but she forced it to harden. She casually flicked at her forelock with a hoof. “The Grrrreat and Powerful Trrrrixie,” she said, “was pleased by your wonderful performance this morning.” “Oh, you were there?” Rara cocked her head daintily, making Trixie fight to keep her face straight. “That’s so sweet of you! I don’t remember seeing you in the crowd, though.” Mister Heads slammed the door behind her. “That’s because she was trying to sneak round the back.” “I was not ‘sneaking’,” hissed Trixie. “The Great and Powerful Trixie does not need to sneak. She comes and goes as she pleases. No, she merely wished to speak with Coloratura.” Rara shook her head; Trixie noticed she still had the straw hat on as it flopped from side to side. “Please call me Rara. We are friends, after all.” “We are? I mean,” Trixie continued, hoping the squeak hadn’t been too high, “of course we are! The Great and Powerful Trixie likes to think of herself as a friend to all who gaze upon her magnificence.” “I’ll bet she does,” muttered Mister Heads. “And it is on the subject of magnificence” – Trixie placed a hoof gently on Rara’s shoulder, and smirked when Mister Heads stepped forwards, only for Rara to shake her head at him – “that Trixie is here to speak with you.” She paused to check her grammar, and uncertainly added, “About?” She’d expected Rara to gaze at her with awe and wonder. She’d expected the remaining clouds on Rara’s strained face to scatter and make her feel like she was staring directly at the sun. What she hadn’t expected was her own Cool Indifference Number One looking back at her. Perhaps “about” wasn’t right. Ah well. “Magnificence?” said Rara. “Your song!” Trixie gave her a friendly pat in case it helped. “The lyrics, the beat, the choreography! There are professional country singers who’d retire in ignominy before daring to even attempt to rise up to the level you reached just now.” “Oh, that!” To Trixie’s relief, Rara’s sunshine was back. “Oh, bless you! That was just a little something I came up with last night. I wouldn’t say it was good, but I felt I owed it to the villagers after… well, after my first effort didn’t get it quite right.” Now it was Trixie’s turn to look blank. “Didn’t get it quite right?” “No one seemed to like it except you, and I thought about it last night, and in all honesty I’m not surprised. That song wasn’t written for them. It was written for me, for my feelings. It wouldn’t resonate with anyone else. It was selfish of me to do that, and I guess they must have sensed what it said about me.” “What it said about you? You? Selfish? It was a song about mountains and butterflies and not singing to royalty. How can a song be selfish?” Rara shrugged helplessly, dislodging the hoof on her shoulder. “After you left, I went out to meander around the village, get to know the place better, and then I found the statue on one of the streets. An old stallion was passing by. I asked him about it, and he told me about the legend of Filly Fall. Not straight away, of course; what he actually said was ‘You know, in all my years no outsider has ever asked about the statue before,’ and then he showed me the little engraving at the bottom.” Trixie grinned weakly. “And from that, you sat down and wrote a song about…?” “Filly Fall? Yes. It took most of the night, but I think it was worth it. I wanted to give them something nice, and to show them I’d been listening to them instead of forcing them to listen to me.” She really believes all that, Trixie thought as she stared at the sunshine. My word. What kind of mare pours their heart and soul into a sad song for a dozen drinkers, and thinks she’s being selfish? She’s insane. Maybe I can do something with that… Rara gave a start as though suddenly noticing her for the first time. “I’m sorry. Please excuse my manners! I was rambling about my song again, and you wanted to ask me something?” “Yes,” piped up Mister Heads, who loomed like a monolith behind the singer. “You were saying something about ‘magnificence’.” “Ahem.” Trixie glanced at the bodyguard, and knew better than to move any closer. “Yes, I was saying. When I saw you playing on that stage – last night and this morning – naturally, my curiosity was piqued. A mare with so much talent and experience, and yet so far down on her luck, is clearly being held back by” – here, she shot a glare at the impassive Mister Heads – “unhelpful elements.” “Is that so?” he growled. “What other explanation can there possibly be? Rara,” said Trixie, and she pinned the mare with a knowing smile, “I think it’s about time we put that magnificence to good use. Sweep away those unhelpful elements, and reclaim the throne you have been so wrongly denied.” Rara’s gaze was putting up a good fight. Her mouth was a thin line, and her cheeks were taut with the effort. Even her eyes were slightly narrowed. Yet there was no hiding the flicker of the pupils. She was interested, in spite of the majority vote. “I’m sorry,” said Rara as gently as she could. “Believe me, I’m flattered and honoured that you think so highly of me.” But. There’s going to be a “but”. Barely a twinge of guilt passed through Trixie’s head, but what was another claim to the pile she’d already made? Besides, this wasn’t like the other ones. “The Great and Powerful Trixie does not ‘think’,” she said, cutting off the “b” that had barely formed on Rara’s lips. “She knows. That’s why she would consider it a high honour if you were to help her charitable cause.” She watched gleefully when Rara closed her eyes and hummed in thought. Trixie had met types like her before. The “ch” word had a ring to it that chimed with a heart like hers. She could plead humble and small and say as many times as she liked that the Mermaid Tavern was her place, but charity was bigger than any one tavern. You could do a little favour for a bunch of villagers and maybe some volunteer work, but words like “little favour” and “volunteer work” snuggled up, were just buds that hadn’t bloomed yet, and didn’t want to be seen by too many ponies. “Charity” looked to the horizon and saw it as a challenge. As well as that much, Trixie could almost hear the hunger rumbling between Rara’s stiffened ears. Something had to remember Countess Coloratura up there. “‘Charitable’?” Mister Heads snorted. “What charity’s that, the ‘Save the Street Theatre’ fund?” “Not at all.” Trixie conjured up a condescending smile. “Fall Bridge has been gracious enough to host an open festival on the Week of the Wyrd for more than a hundred years. Is it not time that they were given a little something back? And why stop there? On the road that leads to everywhere, many weary and lonely hamlets lie rotting and forgotten. Trixie is a grand traditionalist; she is, after all, the greatest magician who ever lived. We should be restoring the old ways back to their former glory, or my name’s not the Grrrrreat and Powerful Trrrrixie!” Rara blinked up at her. “All that?” “Sooner or later. Given enough time and enough costs covered, naturally.” Trixie stretched a foreleg across the mare’s withers, ignoring Mister Heads’ outraged grunt. “I’m proposing to give you the stage of my travelling caravan, all yours, just so the crowds can hear you sing. No more making ends meet in ragged old bars for a handful of families.” “Your stage?” Rara tried to back out of what was suddenly an iron grip. “No, please no. I couldn’t do that to you.” “Trrrrixie insists. It would be a pleasure beyond pleasures to help your star shine!” Here, she let go and held the startled singer down with a hoof on each shoulder. There was no mercy: Rara was getting a full blast of Awed and Devout Believer Number Two, staring-at-the-heavens edition. “Your star…” She choked as theatrically as she dared. “Your star can never go out. This is the prrrrroudest moment of what has hitherto been an uncertain and strrrrrained existence for me. I cannot begin to express what an awakening it has been, when I first heard you singing on that fateful night! I want you to know that –” Mister Heads coughed abruptly. The world stopped glowing. The overcast sky came zooming back. The dull grass and dirty gravel roads imposed on her private world. Trixie peeked over Rara’s wide eyes, which were staring at some point beyond the usual dimensions of this world. “Yes?” Trixie snapped. “For starters, you can get your hooves off of my client,” he said, shifting his weight forwards. “Secondly: so out of the bottom of your kind and generous heart, you want Miss Rara to sing on your stage for money.” Trixie removed her hooves and stepped backwards. “For charity.” “Right. For charity.” Rara shook herself and the sunshine was once more spreading across her face. “Wow. I had no idea I’d had such an impact on you. Did you really mean that?” “Yes,” Trixie said at once, and she returned to smirking at the singer. “Of course!” “And it’s just for charity? You don’t want any kickbacks or perks…” Rara’s eyebrow rose up. “Do you?” There was barely a second’s pause before Trixie’s smirk faded towards a smile to rival the sunshine. “Wouldn’t dream of such a thing! Trrrrrrrrrixie gives her word, and Trrrrixie’s word is golden.” “Oh, and I’d like to see this stage. Um, if you don’t mind my asking…?” “RRRRRRRRRight this wwwwwwway!” In a good mood, Trixie could trill any letter she fancied. So wrapped up had she been in her performance that Trixie only just then realized the tavern had fallen silent. Whatever spell Rara had cast over the place must have long since faded away. She narrowed her eyes and, ignoring the growl from her stomach, strode around Rara, past the bodyguard, and round the corner to begin a trek across the road. Her hooves were crunching on the gravel. Behind her, the crunch of more hooves set her at ease. And a little squeaky voice in her head was going: The Countess wants to see my home! The Countess wants to see my home! Take that, graffiti artists! The Countess wants to see my home! Thankfully, it hadn’t been burned down or smashed up in her absence. Those had not been good days; the last time, she’d holed up in an abandoned shack on the plains and hadn’t gone on tour for a month. To this day, she found herself flinching at the mere sight of a pickaxe. Still, she couldn’t help but blush at the way Rara inspected the sigils on the side, if only because the singer acted as though the words “Go home, Witch” weren’t the most conspicuous thing on it. “Ooh, I like that.” Rara pointed up at the flare cannons on the front. “You must have made such a dramatic entrance with those things.” Mister Heads grunted, which was the closest he ever seemed to get to a chuckle. “Wooden caravan, fire cannons. I bet your insurance premium’s a nightmare.” “It’s not real fire,” Trixie snapped. “It’s a magical imitation. They cost a fair bit to have installed…” It occurred to her this was sounding out-of-character, so she added with a coo, “But it’s worth every cent, just to see the looks on the foals’ adorable little faces.” While Mister Heads raised an eyebrow, Rara tittered into her hoof. “That’s what I used to do too. I’ll bet they just flock to see your show.” “Yes.” Trixie tried a chuckle. “Flock. Oh, where are my manners? To my living quarters, and backstage!” After she’d magically swung the door back and graciously bowed towards it, the two stepped inside. Within her own head, the little squeaky voice had suddenly become a lot squeakier. She was supposed to jump in after them and start giving the tour, but part of her squirmed at the thought. Other performers and showponies were OK from a long way away, but the few times she’d invited them into her caravan had been nothing but trials. The first time, she’d done it to shut up some heckling little guttersnipe on the streets of Manehattan. He’d claimed she was no real magician, and had turned out to be one himself, with a guild card and everything. Well, she’d spruced up the place every night for just such an occasion, and every inch of her caravan had been smothered by dark paint, sequins, and display cases. It had been a happy time, fresh from her schooldays, when she could afford that kind of thing. Not a soul could move without coming up against mystic knives, talismanic jewellery, crystal balls, grails, candles, packs of Tarot cards, and an expensive orrery whirring and shifting at the centre of the room. That had been crafted by the elite artists and astronomers of Canterlot. She’d had to scrimp and save for months before she could buy it. He’d taken one look at the collection, sighed, and with a not-too-sincere smile of pity on his face, murmured something about “trying to hide behind her tools”. Oh it didn’t sound like much – she had to stomach worse since – but that had not been a good time to be a snotty young mare with an easily shattered dream. Besides, he’d gone on to show her some tricks she’d thought were impossible. That was like stamping on the pieces. Trixie blinked and glanced about. There were a few more ponies out of doors now, though still no more than about a dozen could be seen from the green to the distant streets at any one time. They mostly lurched or ambled, the gloom of the overcast sky reflected by their slumped and defeated postures. One or two of the nearest ones flashed glares at her as they passed by, holding them for a moment before their own unstoppable trajectories pulled them out of range. It occurred to her that she had two ponies inside her home who’d be wondering where she’d gone. At once, she hopped inside. Both ponies were meandering among the maze of chests and barrels, taking peeks inside the latter and casting their gaze about the ceiling and walls. Rara giggled with delight. “I’ve never been inside a magician’s home before,” she said. “Look at all these props!” Sweat began to pile up on Trixie’s forehead. What little bravado she had was standing upright with its forelimbs crossed, waiting for orders. “No bed?” said Mister Heads. “I don’t need one,” Trixie said. “It’s bad luck to have a full bed behind the stage. That shows a lack of devotion and a surfeit of laziness.” “What about if it’s a prop?” “Um… it doesn’t count, I guess.” There was barely a smirk when he replied, “I’ll take your word for that.” Rara cooed and poked her head inside another barrel. “These dresses are fabulous! No! That one’s a Hoity Toity Haute Couture Cut! There were only a few hundred ever made.” “It was a donation,” Trixie lied quickly. “Um… if you want, you can take them out for a better look.” Please don’t take them out for a better look. She winced as the patches and frayed ends rose out of the barrel. Don’t act like you haven’t noticed. You couldn’t possibly have missed them. I mean look at them. They were so obvious… “This would be lovely for a performance.” Rara looked wistfully at the lacy collar and the pleated pinch around the waist. “Help yourself.” Trixie wiped her forehead on the back of her foreleg. “You can look as pretty as you like. For the sake of the performance, I mean. No point holding back, now is there?” “Thank you.” Rara draped the cloth with care over her own back and gestured towards the nearest chest. “May I take a look inside?” “Uh…” An alarm went off in Trixie’s head; she’d almost forgotten about the larder. “Not that one! The one next to it. On the left.” It contained several rolls of twine and rope, but pushing past all that, Rara soon unearthed a black case. When she flipped the lid back, a golden glow reflected in her eyes. “That’s makeup,” Trixie said. “I don’t use that particular one on my face. A bit too flashy. But it makes for some grand paint.” Mister Heads’ eyes narrowed. “That’s Sapphire Shores Liquid Gold. How can you afford that?” “I told you. It was a donation. Most of the material here was donated.” Yes, she thought, by young Trixie to old Trixie. Young Trixie had been exceedingly generous in that respect. Ah well. The tatters and frays and rips can help with the illusion. No one would have difficulty believing these were castoffs, even if they are castoffs from the rich, and we’ll just have to work that into our little script. “I did say I’d worked in Canterlot before,” she ventured. “I know.” Rara closed the case, but the gold still reflected from something within her pupils. “It’s amazing what ponies can achieve when they really want to.” Absent-mindedly, Trixie kicked the chest containing the disks away from her. At least she’d had the sense to pack the kit away beforehand, and it would be tricky to explain what a wandering magician was doing with that much vinyl, most of it first or limited edition. There was not much future in claiming to use it in a magic act. For a start, there was the issue of royalties. Rara lowered the lid and hummed to herself. “It’s funny…” Trixie felt a spasm shoot up her spine. “What? What is?” “All this time, I haven’t actually asked you… what you actually do.” For the first time since she’d come in, Trixie smiled. Old habits raised their heads inside her. Right on cue, she reared up and almost felt, for a moment, her old cloak billow and her old hat tilt back dramatically. “You see this sleeve?” she said, wagging her right hoof. “What are you up to now?” said Mister Heads with a sigh, but it was nothing – nothing – to her what he thought. This was work. This was where she was Great and Powerful. “But you’re not wearing any –” began Rara. “Exactly! The Great and Powerful Trixie has gone beyond ‘Nothing up my sleeves’. She is the mare who performs… with no sleeves whatsoever. Behold!” Her proffered hoof flexed. A wave oozed up her right elbow, across her shoulders, and with a step forwards, it ended with a flex of her left hoof and the bouquet popped up out of nowhere. She didn’t even need her unicorn horn; this was magic without the magic. With a whip-crack of her fetlock, she snatched the bouquet out of the air and held the black and white chrysanthemums aloft. “Ta-da!” she said. Rara laughed and stamped her front hooves with a rat-tat-rat-tat-rat-tat. Even Mister Heads raised his eyebrows, presumably out of a kind of respectful surprise. Trixie went back onto all fours, levitating the bouquet and sending it over to the mare. “For you. Fret not; we have many more. And what’s Trixie’s is yours now.” “So beautiful.” Rara raised the crook of her elbow to cradle the lowered flowers. “Monochromatic, huh? Good choice, though it’s a bit ‘Nightmare Night’.” “Yes, I imagine the villagers would agree with you,” said Trixie as she shuffled closer. “Besides, it’s not as though I can save them for anyone else.” As she approached, Mister Heads was back to looming over his client; evidently, he had a proximity trigger. “Pretty,” he said tonelessly. “So where’s the actual stage?” “Watch in awe, my fiendish friend!” At her horn’s command, the chest burst open and ropes slithered out and onto the floor. They hooked onto the bits on the walls and wrapped around metal bulges in the corners. One side of the caravan began to creak. Rara nodded as the side began to crank back, letting in the glowing grey of the overcast sky. “That’s not bad. How do you manage for wings?” “Working on it,” Trixie managed through clenched teeth. Around her, the sparkling ropes lunged and wrapped around curtains and plywood panels. A gigantic work of origami folded and unfolded around them, slicing between the chests, knocking one or two barrels out of the way, scything across the back of the stage. Painted constellations gave way to a picture of a sunny meadow, which in turn was eclipsed by a two-dimensional Saddle Arabian palace. Banners whipped back and forth above them. Around the trio, plywood panels scraped against the boards, sweeping up the stray “furniture”. It was all Trixie could do not to burst with sweat, but the gasp to her right fuelled the spark. She would have lifted the entire caravan for a gasp like that. It started by raking in the air, and then cracked with the effort when it realized the throat wasn’t big enough, and then rose up into a filly’s squeak. “Trixie!” Rara said. “It’s perfect! You can do almost anything with this!” “Can.” Trixie smirked against her own clenched jaw. “And have.” Finally, the lot clicked into place. Her horn went out. Trixie let out a gasp, having held her breath at some point without realizing. One or two ponies across the green were staring up at them. “Backstage,” Trixie whispered, glaring back. “We’re not quite done yet.” “Really?” said Mister Heads, sounding for once as though he was talking to someone with a soul. “You don’t wanna take a break? You look a bit red in the face, to be honest.” Trixie didn’t bother replying. She just went behind one of the wing curtains and waited until they traipsed through, lifting the bottom up with their hooves. “Trixie does not need breaks,” she said. Her horn sparkled. Two more chests burst open, and a dress rose out of each one to flank her, the right one pink and bedecked like a wedding cake, the left one black and simple. Both chests snapped shut. Padlocks clicked into place. “The cornerstone of any good performance,” she said, idly making the dresses go into orbit around her, “is never to do the same trick twice. Never coast. Never rest on your laurels.” Both of them tried to follow the two dresses. Trixie whistled irritably until they looked back at her. “What you’re going to need,” she said, “is pizzazz, flash, lightning. Make ‘em think they’re watching one thing” – the dresses spun faster, almost eclipsing the pair with the blurs – “when they’re really watching another.” By the time the dresses slowed down, the pink and black had gone. One green frock and one golden ball gown slowed to a stop, the two flanking either side of her instead. “You pulled them out of the chests,” said Mister Heads. Trixie let his gaze flick towards the big, padlocked, and so-obviously-shut chests on either side. “They’re hidden behind these dresses?” said Rara. Each dress revolved 360 degrees, and then turned inside out for good measure. They zipped behind Trixie’s back and seemingly vanished. “Teleportation spell,” said Mister Heads promptly. “With no flash?” Trixie polished a hoof against her chest, and then idly blew on it. “By the way, you got something on your…” She tapped her mane gently. Rara glanced up, and had to stuff a hoof in her mouth to keep back the giggles. “What?” Mister Heads patted his head. “What?” “Oh, nothing,” said Trixie, back to polishing her hoof. “Rainbow quite suits you, though.” Howling, Mister Heads beat his own locks, trying to pull one down far enough to squint at it. “What did you do? What did you do? Get me a mirror!” “Relax, sweetheart. A bit of colour never hurt anyone.” “Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me! Whatever you’ve done, undo it!” Despite herself, Trixie allowed herself a little giggle, ruining the calm mystic look she’d been going for. Why not, though? Rara was clearly enjoying herself, and the point had been made. Her horn aglow, she summoned the rainbow out of the bodyguard’s hair, whereupon it circled his face until he swatted at it. The tiny rainbow darted across and spiralled down Rara’s neck and shoulders, making her rear up to watch it progress down to her belly, and then it zipped across and framed Trixie’s head in a psychedelic mockery of a halo. “I think ta-da would be a bit redundant at this stage,” she said, and the rainbow blinked out. “But… Ta. Da.” “You’re good, Trixie!” said Rara, coming back down. “You’ve been to a magic school.” “Not a magic school. I’ve been to the magic school. And it’s all yours now, Count – I mean, Rara.” Trixie coughed and tried a smile. “So… about my proposal?” Rara barely thought. She opened her mouth wide – “What about whoever you’re living with?” muttered Mister Heads. He still looked sore at the rainbow gag. Trixie’s blank stare was genuine. “Pardon?” “Oh, you live alone?” Rara inspected a nearby barrel, rooting about for any props she could drag out. Several clattered on the floor. Trixie licked her lips as she watched. Countess Coloratura was staring through those wide eyes, and she knew how to handle someone like the Countess. Props and tricks were just the start, the icing on the cake, the bits that made foals’ eyes sparkle and gleam and had them rushing into the kitchen to bake something. And a Countess was, at heart, just another foal. Perhaps that was how her old manager had snared her to begin with. Really snared her, that is; all that pony-eat-pony, cut-throat codswallop was just there to make a manager seem pragmatic or realistic. It wasn’t glamour. “One does not ‘live alone’,” said Trixie piously, “when one is beloved by legions of admirers and fans.” “Beloved by legions, huh?” said Mister Heads, making a big show of looking about them. “I suppose they’re all at work today.” “In the cities. They won’t come this far afield, not when Trixie seeks new frontiers for her fame and fortune. But in Canterlot, Manehattan, Fillydelphia…” “I come from Canterlot. I don’t recall ever hearing your name.” “Oh, you attend magic acts in your spare time, do you? Besides, I went by many names. The Lady of Shadows, Great Equinini, the Diamond of Diomedes, to name but a few. It amused me to vary my performance and style, and thus my identity.” Mister Heads’ brow creased, and a smile flickered on his face. “Great Equinini? The stallion?” Nice try, Bucky, she thought, but you can’t kid a kidder. “I have no idea what you’re gibbering about,” she said with a little flick of her mane. “Perhaps, instead of making jabs at my job, you should concentrate on your job? There’s a good boy.” This time, there was thunder on his face. Up until now, he’d given the subdued, understated looks of a pony trained from birth to hold emotions back. He’d been almost totally unflappable, even while flapping at the rainbow whizzing around him. Trixie lowered herself ever so slightly. “A word outside,” he growled, and it wasn’t just a colourful description; he actually growled, his words inflected with the harmonics of a tiger threatening a lunge and a bite. “If you please.” The shadow loomed past. Followed by an apologetic smile from Rara, Trixie trudged after him. Once out on the grass, he rounded on her so fast she flinched. “Now you listen to me, Little Miss Magic,” he hissed. “I don’t know what kind of hustle you think you’re pulling –” “Hustle?” said a brief bout of flame from her chest. “Sir, I assure you –” “Miss Rara might trust you, but I sure as sugar don’t. You won’t always have my client around to speak up for you, even if she seems to buy into your ‘charity’ story.” Trixie felt flecks of spit on her muzzle. She began backing off; she was painfully aware of how much sky he was taking up with each word. “Miss Rara has not had a good year,” he continued. “And now you’re trying to offer her false hope.” “Not a good year?” Trixie repeated faintly. Sweat trickled down into her eyes, burning like acid. “None of your business. And your story better ring true, Sparky, because if this blows up in her face, then mark my words; there will not be so much as a crack in Equestria where you could hide from me, and you’ll need to hide from me, blue-eyes, because I will hunt you down and snap that horn right off your criminal head.” Trixie bent back so far she felt the grass tickle the back of her head. She was surprised her spine could bend so far back. It still wasn’t far enough from that glare. “Do you,” she managed to say with a weak smile, “have a crush on her or something?” “I am a Canterlot bodyguard,” he said. “Unlike my ‘fellows’ elsewhere, I know what that means. And so, I’d guess, do you.” She did. Painfully so. One or two of the richer students had been accompanied around the old school campus by Canterlot bodyguards. She’d remembered one such filly, who’d thankfully only been there a few weeks before she was expelled for gratuitous snobbery. Everyone had called her ‘Princess’ when she was around and ‘That Little Snot’ when she wasn’t. The filly had done whatever she wanted, up to and including talking loudly to herself in Conjuring Class. Trixie loved Conjuring Class. It was the closest she’d had to a religious upbringing. There were lessons that had changed her life around, including the one where she’d learned – and it had been drizzling outside the window that afternoon – that a well-trained unicorn could not merely ape but match a pegasus when it came to manipulating clouds. Up until then, she’d sighed whenever she’d watched the pegasi shuffling clouds about. How her mind had been blown that day… So when, inevitably, she’d tried to get her own back on That Little Snot, she’d barely put the sacks of tar and feathers in place before the shadow loomed over her. It had patiently and agonisingly explained why she wasn’t so much as fit to lift a whoopee cushion. They had inventive ways of protecting their clients, and if they couldn’t kick with their hooves they could certainly sting with a few psychologically tailored words. A Canterlot bodyguard combined the worst of a thuggish colt with the worst of a socially sadistic filly. They took care of the filthy business any well-to-do pony wouldn’t touch with a barge pole, and imbued it with a class and style that was all their own. For a year after that talk, she’d woken up at nights screaming in existential terror. And they were said to be loyal. Trixie had heard tales; one had been about a bodyguard who kept watch even over the grave of his client. He’d refused to move, and had to be fed by passing strangers. “Uh…” Trixie tried to remind herself she was several hands and thumbs taller than she used to be, but that was hard when her point-of-view was, if anything, lower than last time. “Y-Yes? Yes. Yes! Of course. Um. Can I stand up now? I think my ribs are… popping out of place.” He held the looming glare for a little too long, but finally drew back. It took a couple of attempts before she was upright again, and she had to crack the kink out of her backbone. “Consider this a friendly warning,” he said, straightening his fringe. “That was friendly?” “I can do unfriendly, if you prefer.” “No, no!” she said hastily. “I like friendly. It works for me.” “Good. Now get back in the shack. And remember; I said there’s nowhere you could hide. That is not an idle boast.” Trixie let him step indoors first. She didn’t want a Canterlot bodyguard to see her shaking. Rumour had it they could smell fear. Besides, she took a petty pleasure in imagining herself shooting a spell at his back. Not so long ago, when she’d had that corrupting amulet, this petty pleasure would have graduated from fantasy to reality. At times like this, she found herself wondering if it was worth looking for the thing again. Rara was opening up a few more chests and scooping more clothes out of the barrels. As soon as she looked up, she said, “What was all that about?” “Oh,” said Mister Heads, “we were just, er…” “Discussing plans for the show,” said Trixie at once. “Seating arrangements, audience management, security, you know. And does your stallion have some plans for us!” “Do you?” said Rara with keen interest. The bodyguard’s ears turned red. “Oh yes,” continued Trixie remorselessly. “I think we can have things ready for the second night, but first of all, we’re going to need some inspiration from the locals.” Yes, she thought, because if the signs are anything to go by, I’m going to be leaving this village at speed with an angry mob on my tail. I’d prefer to leave with a bit more dignity than I usually get. That means, first of all, building up a reputation. Reputation precedes performance. And it would help if I could build it with some of your bricks. After all, you’ve got enough to build a mansion, and you’ve already made a decent start. The locals would probably help you with the mortaring. Trixie licked her lips. She was hungry now, and it was not just for the breakfast she’d missed. Not this time.