Chapter 21
True to the invitation’s word, Caballus received a call around dusk from the hotel’s concierge telling him that a carriage had arrived for him. It was a bit later than he had expected, but Fyzzix assured him that it was tradition for festivities on Macsnacht to last well into the night, so a late start was to be expected.
The five of them stepped out onto the street, and found it already busier than during the day. By the time the sun was completely set, and not just hiding behind the city’s skyscrapers as it was now, the streets would be packed with revelers. On the curb, three identical carriages were waiting for guests staying at the hotel.
They were limousine-coaches, whose cabs were each twice as long as a typical stage coach. Each was sleek and white, and prominently bore the Ver Kaufer family crest and corporate logo, an antiquated cash register. Three coachponies managed their pulling teams, teams of four matching white pegasi. Not that they needed much managing; the pegasi were all cybernetic servitors, standing stock still until their driver issued a command.
“That’s us,” Caballus said, nodding toward the one where the driver held a sign saying “Corsair.” They approached, and she asked to see his invitation. When Caballus handed it to her, she waved the golden ticket over the console beside her seat, and it blinked green. The five of them had permission to pile in.
If anything, the interior was even plusher than the exterior. There was enough room on the long, velvet-lined seats for each of them to lie down, with space to spare. Tinted windows ensured that the carriage’s occupants would be protected from the prying eyes of the public, though Caballus was sure that Ver Kaufer had plenty of ears all around them. Conversation would have to be limited to topics consistent with their cover stories.
Not that they had much of a chance to talk. No sooner than they were all seated, than the carriage took off. After the initial jolt of acceleration, the city street outside the windows fell away, becoming a growing carpet of glass, steel, concrete, and lights.
“The city is beautiful from up here,” said Mystic, her face pressed against her window.
Caballus glanced uneasily out his. “I’d much prefer to admire it from solid ground. But I suppose you’re right, even though I’m still partial to the spires of Hippopolis.”
“It’s just like every other big city,” Hairtrigger said, “when you’re far away they look awful pretty, but then you look close enough and… well, then they all tend to look pretty awful.”
After a few minutes, the sea of city lights below began to thin, becoming sparser as they left behind downtown. Beyond the discernible edge of the city proper, there were scores of tiny islands of light, all isolated from one another.
“This region is known as the ‘Palace Quilt’ by the lower classes,” Fyzzix read off of his data-scroll, “for the patchwork of distinct residences belonging to the Pferdian nobility. Each of those is a separate estate, surrounded by acres of gardens, orchards and secondary structures.”
Roughshod leaned over the report, which included maps, blueprints and tactical analyses. “Talk about your ‘gated community.’ These Pferdian bigwigs build their houses like fortresses. High walls, state-of-the-art security, their own private armies and arsenals.”
One of the light-islands grew closer and brighter as the air-carriage descended toward it. As they approached, the palace became more distinct. It was huge, covering the area of several city blocks, not even counting the dozen smaller buildings around the central palace. A minute later, they could make out the illuminated shape of a gothic castle, situated on a rolling hill. Tall, buttressed towers overlooked lush courtyard gardens, and a massive glass dome stood in the center, blazing with light from within.
“They need strong houses,” Caballus said, surveying the residence. “Their neighbors might as well be hostile nations. If a cartel shows any weakness, they’ll be… They’ll be…”
The carriage’s deceleration jarred his train of thought as the landing pad below rapidly rushed up to meet them. He braced himself, turning away from the window until they finally came to a rest. “Ahem. If they show any weakness, they’ll be muscled out.”
Without a word, the coachmare opened the carriage door, and the five disembarked. The landing pad was only one of several, all of them with causeways leading to a single broad, red carpet. Many other well-dressed ponies were arriving, a few in white limo-carriages like theirs, but most in their own personal craft. The carpet led them from the arrival area toward the main gate, an arch ten meters high.
Ver Kaufer House guards in professional, white uniforms attended the entrance. The rest of the team fell single file behind Caballus when they were stopped. “Invitation, please,” one guard said—firmly, but respectfully.
Again, the ticket was scanned, and again it was approved by a green light. Only this time it was followed by a short series of tones, to which the guard frowned. He punched a few keys on the device.
Caballus glanced down at the ticket scanner. “Is… something wrong?”
“Of course not, Captain Corsair,” the guard answered politely. “I’ve just sent for a servitor guide. Every VIP is assigned one for the duration of their time here.”
Caballus somehow managed to hide his surprise. He had considered his invitation to be a fortunate oversight, a courtesy unwittingly offered to him because of the title he was using as a disguise. He certainly looked the part, wearing a blue, vaguely naval-style dolman jacket, with yellow epaulettes and a black pelisse slung over one shoulder like a short cape. “I’m a VIP?”
“According to your invitation,” replied the guard, a little confused by the question. “While we wait, I’ll need to document your guests.”
The rest of the team produced their forged identifications. First was Roughshod.
“My Head of Security,” said Caballus, as his friend was scanned and patted down for weapons. Several pies and cupcakes were found beneath his grey vest and confiscated.
“Your guide will return these to you when you leave,” the guard assured, in response to Roughshod’s grumblings.
“My Seneschal,” continued the Inquisipony, referring to Fyzzix. Having spent the day downloading as much information he could about running a business, Caballus hoped the Meq-priest would be able to pass himself off as his chief financial assistant in a conversation.
Then Mystic stepped forward to be scanned and photographed. The guard eyed her horn warily, as well as the forest green robes of the Adeptus Draco Telegraphica she was wearing. “This is my personal Dracopath,” said Caballus quickly, before the guard might come up with a reason to turn her away. “I’ll need her by my side the entire night.”
It was partly a demand that she be let though, but also it was an assurance; an assurance that he would be responsible for the unicorn he had brought along. Dracopaths were known to often be eccentric.
Lastly it came to Hairtrigger, the only one using his actual identity. The guard scrutinized him as well, somewhat offput by the presence of a dress-uniformed Arbitrotter at an event attended mainly by crime bosses. “He’s a friend and client,” Caballus explained, “and since we’re both new in town, I thought I’d let him tag along… off duty.”
“He just thinks I’ll order too much room service while he’s out partying,” the pegasus grinned as his badge was verified. The guard forced a polite smile in return, and finally allowed them through.
Once inside, the main gate gave way to a long hallway, lined with ornate sculptures, paintings, and other flashy signs of wealth, status and pedigree. Every step resounded loudly off the polished marble floor.
“Rather martial,” Mystic remarked, looking at a one painting of some illustrious Ver Kaufer ancestor. He was wearing in an antiquated, medal-laden general’s uniform, and posing boldly at the helm of an equally antiquated airship.
“It’s all calculated,” said Caballus, himself admiring an ancient suit of armor standing sentry over the hallway. “Every last piece is a show of force. Ver Kaufer wants his rivals to know just how rich, powerful and ruthless he is. Everything they see and hear on their visit is deliberately put there to give them that impression.”
“Sounds like you’re the one who’s impressed,” Roughshod said.
Caballus only shrugged. “It’s a method I can appreciate. After all, we” he said, seemingly about their group, but really in reference to the Friendquisition, “accomplish as much by our reputation as we do by the actual work we do.”
“Greetings. Lord,” declared a heavily synthesized voice ahead of them.
The group turned to find their guide. It was a servitor, consisting mostly of a silver-coated earth pony mare. It wore a golden silk gown, simple in design, and it gave the cyborg’s rear half the appearance of floating smoothly across the floor. There was a slight bulge on its back, where engraved brass clockwork was exposed. An ivory masquerade mask made its entire face, even its eyes, perfectly smooth and inscrutable.
“Greetings. Lord,” it repeated in a staccato, causing the team to realize they had been staring.
“A positively exquisite specimen,” Fyzzix said as he circled the guide, looking it up and down. “It’s a luxury domestic servitor, heavily customized, and very well programmed it seems. By the engraved patterns and composition of the metallurgy, I’d guess it was manufactured at Forge Cloud Zirruswolke, not far from here. They’re a smaller forge, but they’ve elevated many of their products, including servitors it seems, to an art form.”
The servitor quirked its head. “Do you require refreshment. Lord?”
“Yes,” Caballus said, looking to each of his companions. “A sparkling punch for myself, and your finest cider for Roughshod.”
“Make it two,” Hairtrigger added.
Serving trays and mechanical arms unfolded from the servitor’s back, dispensing the beverages. Roughshod and Hairtrigger quickly downed theirs, while Caballus took a sip and placed his glass back on the tray.
The Inquisipony knew Fyzzix didn’t require anything, as he was hydrated by a cooling unit somewhere in his abdominal cavity. Not to mention, his idea of a stiff drink was usually something with high octane. “Mystic? Anything for you?”
“No…” she said, eyeing the servitor suspiciously, “I’m fine.”
“Very well. Lord,” it said, bowing. “This way to the party. Welcome to Kaufschloss.”
It led them down the hallway at a meandering pace, taking every opportunity to give some factoid or another about the items they passed, and the events and ponies they depicted. Fyzzix took it upon himself to add some historical context to the commentary, usually revealing the whole truth to be somewhat less flattering to the Ver Kaufer regime. After what seemed like miles of walking, they finally reached the main hall.
Even before they stepped over the threshold, the subdued melodies of a classical ensemble and the fragrances of flowers and perfume wafted over the din of many voices conversing. Once inside, the team found itself in the midst of a great herd of Pferdian aristocrats.
“This is the main hall,” the guide droned. “Please remain here. And enjoy the amenities provided. If you require anything. Do not hesitate to request it.”
Caballus scanned the crowd and sighed. “I suppose we should make an effort to mingle until Meister shows himself. Maybe these ponies won’t be the usual lot of air-headed bluebloods.” In previous undercover operations at events like this, or even when he was attending openly on behalf of the Friendquisition, Caballus had come to dread talking to the upper classes. He usually found them as vapid and poorly-informed as they were arrogant and egotistical.
“Speak for yourself,” Roughshod smirked. “My job is to stand next to you and look tough.”
“And mine is to quietly follow you around pretend you could receive an important letter at any moment,” said Mystic.
Caballus looked to Fyzzix, hoping he wouldn’t have to brave the conversational tedium alone. “Of course I’ll engage the locals in appropriate discourse,” the Meq-priest said. “Lunassiah knows how many missions I’m stuck tending the ship while you get to go out and meet all the interesting ponies.”
Roughshod chuckled. “Usually, those interesting ponies are trying to kill us.”
“Aww horseapples!” Hairtrigger cursed suddenly.
The rest stopped and turned to him. “What? What is it?” Caballus asked.
“It’s Corpus.”
And indeed it was the Chief Constable. He appeared to be just finishing a conversation with somepony about ten yards in front of them. Then, in spite of Caballus’s silent prayers, Corpus spotted them. Even at a distance, the Inquisipony could see his brow furrow in confusion as he started in their direction.
“What do we do?” Hairtrigger whispered.
“Stick to our new covers,” Caballus answered, “and then… improvise.”
Before Hairtrigger even knew it, the Chief’s face was right up to his own. The earth pony’s face was unreadable, though his eyes flashed with… something. Anger, probably, though it could have been something else; curiosity perhaps, or amusement. A servitor guide, almost identical to their own, followed closely behind him.
“My my, Arbitrotter, it’s quite a surprise to see you here,” Corpus said in a way that betrayed he wasn’t very surprised at all. “And how, might I ask, did an out-of-towner and a keeper of the Lex manage to find himself in this den of thieves?”
The orange pegasus laughed nervously “Heh, wouldn’t you believe it, I’ve… uh… made some friends in high places. I’d like to introduce you to him. Chief Corpus, this here is Captain Swift Corsair, Rogue Trader.”
Caballus stepped forward to offer his hoof. “Chief, good to see you again.”
Corpus regarded Caballus and the rest of them, before he turned back to Hairtrigger. “Your Berrispex Adepts?”
“Sure shooting. I needed a ride here for my case, and the good Captain was moseying through my sector on to this one. So I hitched up with him, and wouldn’t you know it, we get along like belts an’ buckles.”
Caballus nodded in agreement. “It’s true. I was so curious about the Arbitrotter’s duties that I asked him if my team and I could… ride along, as it were. You know, live a day in the life of the Arboates.”
“That’s… unorthodox,” Corpus said, but he finally accepted Caballus’s hoofshake. He was still talking to Hairtrigger while he did. “I never took the Arboates to be so lax with their regulations.”
“Aww shucks, Chief. Lighten up!” Hairtrigger slapped the stallion playfully on the back, causing Corpus to stiffen, clearly unused to such familiarity. “Ain’t no law in the Lex says we can’t show some hospitality on the job.”
“No law like ‘impersonating an Equestrian agent, officer or official?’” Corpus countered, a little puzzled. The last thing he probably expected to hear from the mouth of an Arbitrotter was “lighten up.”
This seemed to stump Hairtrigger, until Caballus stepped in. “Not to worry, Chief Corpus. We were all properly deputized and cleared with the Courthouse for our little visit,” he lied. “In exchange, I agreed to bring the Arbitrotter out to the party, to get a taste of what being a Rogue Trader can be like.”
“Er… right, exactly,” Hairtrigger said. “Uh… say, Chief? I know I stick out like a carrot on a beanstalk, but why were you invited? Aren’t you the sheriff around these parts, so to speak?”
Corpus sighed a weary sigh. “Yes, but the Chief Constable answers to the office of the Plutarch, even if that office sits on a foundation of crime and corruption. And our dear Meister Ver Kaufer makes me attend these little soirees, just to prove he can. If I could, I’d tear up my ticket every year and avoid the whole lot of them, but I don’t have the luxury.”
“You could always tag along with us,” Hairtrigger offered.
“We’d be grateful to have somepony around to help show us the ropes here in Pferdian.” Caballus said in agreement. “I don’t know if it’s obvious from just looking at them, but this group isn’t the most socially graceful.”
For the first time, a faint smile flickered across Corpus’s lips. “I might just have to take you up on it. It would be nice to have someone to talk to who isn’t boring as dirt. Or who isn’t implicated in at least a half dozen unsolved crimes. I’d bet my badge that you five are the only ponies in this room who don’t fall into one group or the other. Or both.”
At some unheard signal, Corpus’s and Caballus’s servitors both interjected themselves into the conversation at the same time, with all the grace of something that was half-robot. “Excuse me. Lord,” they said in unison, “The traditional Macsnacht evening banquet. Is about to begin. Please follow me. To the VIP dining area.”
Caballus’s guide then cocked its head in that way it did when it was processing additional programming. “My apologies. Lord. Only invite recipients. Will be permitted to attend the private banquet. Your guests must remain in the main hall. And may enjoy the amenities provided.”
“My favorite part,” Chief Corpus said sardonically. “Come on. If you want a chance to meet the Plutarch—and I assume that’s why you’re here—you had best not be tardy. He can be… an exacting stallion” He turned and followed his guide back into the crowd, threatening to disappear if Caballus didn’t catch up quickly.
Caballus gave his team a hard look. “I want you to stay focused in here. You’re here to gather whatever intel you can about Meister, and anything that might tie him to the Children. Not to have fun.”
Two pairs of natural eyes, Hairtrigger’s mismatched one, and Fyzzix’ red, goggle-like implants all silently pleaded back at him.
The Inquisipony rolled his eyes and cracked a smile. “Okay. You can have a little fun."