//------------------------------// // A Mistake, Once Made // Story: A Prince's Folly // by Doctor Whooves //------------------------------// " It is difficult to ascribe the success of one pony's life to a single moment. That said, if one were attempt to do so, there could be no greater example than that set by the illustrious Prince Blueblood. Yes, if one moment could define and shape a lifetime, then one could look no further than the eve of the prince's twenty-first birthday, for it not only shaped the course of one stallion's life, but that of history itself. " ~ The Lost Years of a Unicorn Prince, by Tapered Quill " Look, a lot can - and has - been said about Prince Blueblood. Noble? Sure. Intelligent? Undoubtedly. Game changing? Of course. But, a screw-up? Well, only time can tell. But I for one wouldn't bet against the pony in white. " ~ Sixty Days and Nights: The Unofficial Biography, by Unknown It has long been said that my life is naught but a series of mistakes, one after another. Perhaps that is the case. If it is so, then surely no mistake can stand before this, the crowning achievement of my mistakes to date. It was not, as I have surely expounded on before, the result of drunken disorderliness. I would say, rather, that it was the combination of youthful good spirits, and actual spirits. Gin and whisky to be precise, but precious little of the latter; my budget, though nigh-infinite, was not up to supplying a party of four bucks with something to celebrate with Uncle Cedar’s best. The clock had struck eleven, I believe, by the time my associates deemed it necessary to pull me from the bar side, a full three hours of making merry on my bits. Their gratitude for the evening extended to that much, at least. Of course, what it didn't extend to was anything else, so once they had completed the task of dragging my sozzled carcass to the road, they broke, and bid each other tipsy farewells. None had drunk as much as I; that honour was mine and mine alone, as befitted the birthday boy himself. I must have slugged something in the region of ten thousand bits that night, enough that, well, it was unlikely to be enough for aunty to notice - or care even if she did - but surely enough to put a fair dent in my sizeable state funds. I had monies of my own, of course, more than I could fritter away in a lifetime of wastefulness and extravagance (though a pony could dream), but there was no point in speeding up the process if I could help it, and my tax-supplied finances just begged to be exploited. It was at that point that I began pondering the possibility of raising public taxes to better subsidise future pub crawls, and I think it was that that alerted me to my current state of mind. Let it never be said that Prince Blueblood could not hold his liquor; indeed, drinking is one of the few talents that I can truly say I possess in any great quantity. Although, this time it appeared that I’d been well and truly hung out to dry. It was probably the absinthe that did it. As a result, I was left physically insensible and mentally loquacious. A dangerous combination. I stumbled to my hooves, intent on returning to my abode. The gritty street span around me, turning the flickering gas streetlamps into psychedelic swirls of colour. I stopped for a moment to watch, before realising that I’d better be going. You see, as much as I might have wanted it to, the world did not obey my every whim (apparently that was an endeavour left to the more senior end of the family), and thus did not halt in its tracks for the period of my day of celebration. I was to attend court on the morn, and, in confidence, was supposed to attend this day as well. But, then, if a stallion is not permitted to bunk off on what is surely the most glorious day of his life, then when was he bally well supposed to? Anyway, it was not without trepidation that I began my quest for the castle, although it was precious little, considering. Intoxication was not a state that afforded itself well to anxiety, after all, and perhaps that is one of its few benefits. It’s debatable though. Methinks a modicum of apprehension would not have gone down poorly that night, not at all. Alas, such was not the case, and I moved unchecked. Barely allowing time for my vision to clear, I started forwards, towards what I hoped was a warm place to sleep off my certain hangover before court. It was not to be, however. “Hey! You there! Stop!” A colt’s piercing voice cut through my thickened head like glass, but I shook it off and continued. I wanted my expensive mattress, a nightcap and sleep; this whiny-voiced buck was most certainly not a part of those plans! “Hey! You with the fetlocks!” Again, the pony’s uncultured tones tore at my sensitive ears, making them flick in annoyance. Couldn't he afford simple elocution lessons? I made a mental note to insist that every member of the Canterlot populace be given a stipulation to cover a course on dictation at Coltsbridge University the next time I saw my aunts, and then turned to face my aggressor. Before me stood a blue-maned, white-coated colt of unkempt appearance, a disdainful look on his face. His mane was done up in a scruffy approximation of a certain popular musician’s, and he was large, an oddity, if nothing approaching my own regal bearing. But what almost made up for his loss in stature, and which my drink-addled mind nearly missed, was his royal guardspony armour, complete with fancy red banding. What had the once-noble establishment come to? Employing ruffians and commoners? I would be having strong words with the Captain about this! “What do you want?” I blustered, plastering the haughtiest expression I could muster on my muzzle - or, at least, the closest approximation I could attempt whilst utterly smashed. A random portion of my mind noted absently that he too had reasonably shaggy fetlocks: probably a mistake, rather than any adherence to fashion or self-grooming, but still. Bloody hypocrite. The stallion squared up, startling me out of my introspections. A hard look crossed his face. “It’s the middle of the night, you’re obviously drunk, and I think a nice cell would the perfect place for you to cool down.” He paused for a second, then glanced around furtively. After checking the coast was clear, he continued. “In other words, put yer trousers on, you’re nicked!” The light from the moon almost blinded me as it reflected off his sudden smug smirk, but I could only stand (totter) in silence. For a moment, I was unsure what he was referring to – I was bare of even the most basic clothing – but then it hit me. Did he just quote, what I think he quoted? I shuddered. Regardless, I decided to interrupt this charade of an official procedure before he killed off any more of my brain cells. Slamming my hoof down and affixing him – or, at least, somewhere nearby him – with my patented Death Glare, I stepped ominously forwards. Time to pull out the big guns. “Excuse me? Do you think you’re funny? What in Equestria do you think you’re trying to pull? Do you know who I AM?” And BOOM! Score one to Blueblood! I glanced over his shock-stiffened body (wracked with paroxysms of stifled horror) and dismissed him with a sniff, before turning to go with all the grace of a schooner in a storm. In any case, I avoided collapse and so strode off with my dignity mostly intact. Oh, that foal was going to get it. With but a few words, it would be the end of his short-lived career. When I was through with- “OOOF!” With a startled cry, I was thrown off my hooves and onto my thankfully drink-numbed flank. I fought back the urge to be sick as the world revolved about me like the dregs of my cocktail (oh goddesses don’t think about it) with a force of will. What in Equestria was that? Buck! I looked up, my vision now further distorted, and saw something – was that pink? - hovering in the air above me. I shook my head in an attempt to clear it, and upon achieving some quantity of success, glanced back up. Directly into the disapproving eyes of the guard. I shook my head again. “Again: you are under arrest. Please do not attempt to resist. My name is Sergeant Shining Armour.” Oo-oh, get him acting like he hadn't even - ah, bollocks. Any thought of having him done for excessive use of force (not to mention immense stupidity) were driven out of my brain by the knowledge that, not only had I been discovered out after curfew - and drunk - by one of auntie’s own Royal Guard, but by a ranked officer. A sergeant, no less. I had been informed, on multiple occasions, that any further instances of public indiscretion (it wasn't my fault that the Grand Galloping Gala degenerated into whatever it degenerated into, but I still got the blame apparently) would be punished severely. And when the words ‘severely’ and ‘punished’ are used in conjunction by a millennia-old goddess, you know you need to take note. Thus, I had two options: accept arrest gracefully, spend a night in the dungeons and take my sentence like a stallion, or... “You’ll never take me alive! Ha-ha!” With that, I turned tail and began galloping away, careful to avoid the area in which I had been stopped beforehoof. The uneven cobblestone surface hindered me, but not unduly, and so it was from some distance behind me that I could hear a sigh, and a faint thudding sound, as if something soft and blunt had hit a flat surface. A hoof perhaps, striking something flat. I couldn't work it out, but one thing was for sure - the guard must have spied my athletic physique, deduced the futility of pursuit and decided to quit whilst he was ahead. Just as well for him; his status as one of Canterlot’s finest wouldn't have spared him the old one-two if I’d got my hooves on him! He was lucky I wasn't in the mood for a scrap, that was for sure. “This is your last chance,” he shouted, not sounding particularly hopeful. See, even he knew he didn't have a hope! I was nearing fifty yards away by now, almost too far for any ordinary unicorn to cast a spell, so unless he knew how to teleport (unlikely, considering the state of education these days), it was Blueblood two, Canterlot Gua- OOOOF! Bugger, not again! How could I be so frightfully unlucky? I glanced upwards, my head cleared slightly from the collision with the ground – small mercies – and spotted that damnable pink glow again. This time it didn't immediately fade away, and I could make out a vague shape, curved, sort of like a, like a- Shield. Damn. It was that sergeant, then. The one who’d drawn attention (and not necessarily good attention) from some of the most powerful elements in Equestrian society, and I'm not talking harmonic tiaras here, either. His meteoric rise up the ranks had been seen by some as odd, or even threatening, and such sentiments had only been compounded when it was revealed that he had the ability to back up his position. Captain Stone, the impressionable old git, was massively taken with the colt. But his backing didn't stop the whispering from certain members of the nobility. Not from me, of course – I wasn't nearly hypocritical enough to spite others for success, after all – but certain members, for sure. And anyway, none of this was really important at the moment, because at the moment I was in severe danger of being captured and arrested. So, what now? Whilst I could almost certainly break through his pitiful attempt at a protection spell given time, and indeed my horn lit up with the beginnings of a hex that would surely crush the weak enchantment with ease, my concentration was broken by a cowardly attack from behind. A flash of pink (what kind of self-respecting stallion had pink magic?) rocketed towards me, and I tossed it away with a contemptuous flick of my horn. Did he really think he could overpower ME, the last scion of Platinum, the Inter-Equestrian duelling champion three years running, the- And with that, everything went black. “-charged for the wilful destruction of private property, civil disobedience, breaching the peace, breaking curfew, drunken disorderliness-“ The room was a dull beige in colour, with flagstone flooring and a beautifully painted ceiling. Perhaps once it had been a dining hall, or even a stateroom, but now its only inhabitants were a bedraggled prince, a mare in a powdered wig, and a small crowd of onlookers. The mare was the one who was speaking, an endless drone in the background. I wasn't sure that anypony was actually listening any more - earlier, maybe, but after fifteen minutes of waffle she'd be lucky if any of them survived. Her voice buzzed on and on, like somepony actually cared. The magistrot (at least, I assume she was a magistrot and not some pony off the street) couldn't actually charge me for anything, of course; my position eschewed such practice, and sentencing was, as such, left to the Princesses or not at all. Regardless, she seemed to be giving a good go at enforcing capital punishment through the medium of mind-numbing tedium and endless monotony, so she was presumably working outside of her prerogative. I would have to have a word about her to my aunts. Or, rather, I would have had a word with my aunts about her, were not my own position with the two of them so evidently shaky, to say the least. I had not yet actually spoken to the Princesses since the incident, however, that I was in trouble went without saying. The reason I had not yet seen my immortal relations was currently standing before me, or, to be literal, on a flimsy wooden podium some distance above me. That she had to have a platform constructed brought me no small satisfaction, for I surely would have stood ears-and-whiskers above her without. But it was a hollow victory; I was so clearly above her anyway that such rationalisation was pointless. “-threatening an officer of the Royal Canterlot Guard, resisting arrest, use of combat magic outside of legal boundaries-” I had been brought to this swiftly erected courtroom soon after awaking in the castle dungeons. That they were the dungeons was a certainty; even if the innate knowledge of the castle did not suffice, the slime-coated walls and decidedly gloomy décor indubitably did. I was almost glad that I had been rendered temporarily unconscious for the duration of my stay in the prison, if merely for the knowledge that I would have unquestionably loathed every filthy second I spent sequestered inside. As it was, I was thrust from the cool embrace of my imprisonment after a mere five minutes of wakefulness, and into the harsh land of hangover, population: one. For all its faults, the dungeons were at the very least quiet, a status I could not sanely credit to the outside, and, more explicitly, here. Thus, I was left nursing a headache the size of Manechester, and not nearly so painless as to have shoved inside one’s skull. “-tax evasion, wilful misappropriation of public funds-“ Discord’s hairy left toe, she was still going! I had tuned out at some point around, oooh, directly after she had begun speaking, and yet the mare had apparently continued her tirade without pause. When was she bloody going to stop? “-exceeding the permissible alcohol level with a twenty-four hour period, insulting a member of the Royal Canterlot Guard, attempted benefit fraud, and,” she paused, and shuffled her papers. I held my breath, hoping for a reprieve from her dulcet tones – another for the elocution lesson bursary, methinks - “unpaid carriage parking fees. These actions were performed in full and frank understanding of the law, and in a sound state of mind, before the eyes and minds of Equestria. How do you plead?” The slate-blue unicorn re-ordered her papers yet again and smirked in the fashion of one who knows absolutely, completely and unequivocally that they are right. Oh, how I despised ponies like that. “I,” I said, my regal tones startling the near-comatose witnesses into something approximating attention, “would like to speak with legal representation, if I may.” It would not pay to be too rude, after all, and it would be best to be seen to show some humility. Perhaps it would help alleviate my sentence once Celestia or Luna got round to issuing one. Probably not, though. The irksome magistrot allowed her smirk to grow wider, now reminiscent of the proverbial cat which got the cream. I supposed that I was the cream in this scenario; or at least, she thought I was. “As I sure you are aware, Duke Blueblood,” ah, the subtle usage of a lesser title to reduce my stature. “Having such an extensive knowledge of the laws of Equestria, as you do,” - aaand then the delicate flattery, laced with poison. I could see where this was going. Just one more push. “And?” I questioned, the perfect mix of self-importance and blind hauteur emblazoned solidly on my face. “Your point being?” Perhaps I should consider a career in acting if I ever got tired of politicking. But no. I’d miss moments like these too much - there wasn't such a large call for crushing one’s enemies in theatre. Not to mention that Celestia would end up plunging Equestria into economic ruin should she ever actually try to handle the nitty-gritty stuff. This country runs on paperwork, and I’ll be damned if I let the Princesses anywhere near it. The mare grinned viciously, apparently not having received the memo that she’d lost. Ah well, I'm sure she’ll work it out eventually. “As affords your status, you may not be given legal assistance, court appointed or otherwise. Terribly sorry.” She leant back, and across her face bloomed a grin so similar to that of the guard’s last night that I was convinced of a relation. I was, in fact, aware of this issue, a remnant of days gone by when high-ranking nobles would behave as they saw fit, and have their (extraordinarily well-paid) legal councils wave away any repercussions. It was Celestia’s belief that if the nobles could not argue themselves out of trouble using solid facts instead of lawful skulduggery, they did not deserve their freedom. Although, why she saw such practice as still necessary in this day and age was beyond me. Nevertheless, I had a plan. Prince Blueblood always had a plan. “So, you recognise my nobility as pertinent to the case in hoof?” I said casually. Inside, I was waiting anxiously. Come on, come on, get on with it. “Indeed,” she replied, a vicious sneer marking her muzzle. “So, then, you also recognise my right, as ordained by the Princesses themselves, in article four of the Poneva Protocol, and I quote, to ‘stand above, before, and beyond the laws of mortal kin’?” Hook, line and sinker. That was another of the old laws, again set in place by Celestia looking to reduce corruption in the Canterlot nobility. By giving the then crown prince (and, incidentally, all of his descendants) the power to arbitrate and give evidence in large legal cases, she gained a spy already entrenched within the intricate dances of the court, and by making him invulnerable to the law, she protected him from retribution from his former associates. He was only answerable to the Princess herself, and the measure had lead to numerous arrests at the time. I was only continuing the noble tradition. The tiresome mare, after a brief moment of surprise, crumpled in the face of my superior wit. “Ah. One- one moment please.” She turned to face the small bank of bland ponies behind her, who responded to her silent plea with shrugs and head-shakes. With a pointed sigh, she turned back. “Very well,” she said, her voice flat and dispassionate despite her negative body language. “Let the court be adjourned.” At her proclamation, the witnesses gathered in the stands (few as they were), began muttering amongst each other in displeasure; I suspected that they came for the promise of blood, much like ponies of old, and yet they would leave with nought. I made sure to memorise their faces and features, and added them mentally to my blacklist, along with Benjy, Art and Daggers: I couldn't recall much of the previous evening, but they featured prominently, and I know how well that turned out. Even as the meagre crowd filtered out the doors, two Royal Guards approached, clearing intending to escort me from the room. I noted the faint trace of disdain on each of their faces, despite their plain gold barding. Was Shining Armour truly so admired? I matched each stare with a carefully crafted one of my own. They looked away first. I allowed them to fall into step beside me as I advanced towards my chambers within the palace. Though I knew that the Princesses would soon call for me (invoking the Poneva Protocol was not without its pitfalls; consequently I had escaped the frying pan and leapt into the proverbial fire), I had not entered my rooms at the castle for over forty-eight hours, and I was beginning to long for luxurious baths and silk sheets after the experiences of the previous evening. Surely, the Princesses would not begrudge me a few hours rest and- “Their Royal Highnesses Princess Luna and Celestia request the presence of Your Royal Highness Prince Blueblood forthwith, if it pleases you sir.” Alas, it had been a miserly hope, even whilst it lasted. At least the messenger was polite, for once. I glanced towards her, dressed in the livery of the Night Court. “Will you allow me a few moments to gather myself in my chambers?” Though I hated to have to solicit sympathy from a common pony, I really did need the time out. It would not do to go directly from a public house, to the streets, to the dungeons, to a courtroom and then present myself to my aunts, not at all. “I do apologise, sir, but their Majesties were most insistent.” And yet, it seemed, that was what I was being asked to do. “Very well.” Echoing the judge from my trial earlier, I suddenly realised exactly how she must have felt. I glanced at the guards beside me, and they nodded in eerie unison. I was to follow the mare, then. We trotted in silence, but for our hoofsteps, through the memorable halls of Castle Canterlot towards the throne room. Indeed, I hardly needed a guide, let alone three, to accompany me on the short trip. However, we were all aware that it was not for my benefit they remained. In a last-ditch effort to regain some of my usual poise and bearing, I concentrated on the familiar yet complex spells used to facilitate personal grooming. I had painstakingly learnt magicks such as these through longs weeks of practice, for I was many things, but not a magical talent. Though the three T’s (Teleportation, Transmutation and Telekinesis) came somewhat easily to me, other magic could not be so readily learnt as by those born with a propensity towards the subject. Despite my own, powerful, abilities, I would joyfully transfer my inclination towards navigational spells for a greater affinity for magic, a sentiment I'm sure most other unicorns would echo. Regardless, my hard-won skills responded adequately, and my features were composed sufficiently to fool a quick glance. A loose hair here, an eye shadow there. If the guards, or the messenger, were surprised by my metamorphosis, they did not show it. Presently, we arrived at the grandiose entrance to the throne room. An ostentatious affair even by my lofty criteria; the arch extended twenty-five hooves high, plenty enough for even a manticore to enter were he to do so, and dominated the far end of the great hall. Constructed entirely of rare ivory marble and carved with elaborate sigils and designs, many an over-dramatic aristopony had been lured into the conviction that they were the long lost scriptures of a dead race, containing power beyond imagining within their hidden depths, if only it could be found. Thus, many a learned scholar had been tempted from their hallowed halls at the behest of an ambitious gentlecolt or foalish duchess, only to be thwarted by the distant lack of anything to actually find. Of course, any half-brained mule with a foal’s grasp of Griffonic could easily ‘decipher’ these ‘runic carvings’ as a simple dedication to the Princesses. Whilst it had an immeasurable value in itself, this was predominantly due to its status as one of the few relics remaining from the ancient Everfree Citadel, rather than any clandestine magicks inscribed upon its surface. If there were any magic left unfound, then surely it was buried too deeply for all but the original sculptor to decipher. I was startled out of my musings by the unexpected opening of the aforementioned doors from within, and the sounds of murmuring conversations and arguing ponies wafted through the now wide entryway. A glance up at the immense clock on the alabaster walls affirmed my suspicions: it seemed that the bi-monthly court gathering had commenced in my absence. I was, regretfully, required to attend these ‘conferences with the common pony’, and missing what appeared to be a sizeable portion of the event was only going to provide my aunts with additional ammunition for my eventual sentencing. I made my way over to my district, passing minor nobles holding impromptu courts and the landed gentry with their bevies of mindless followers. Gaudy flags and standards flew in the magical breeze, each more glitzy and tasteless than the former. Gazing forwards, I could see the decoration becoming increasingly elaborate and ostentatious as the class distinctions grew ever more apparent, petty noblesse flowing smoothly into the earls, and earls to barons and barons to lords, culminating in a party of stately dukes and their carriages. Beyond them, the true height of power: the Princesses. They sat at the very head of the room, Luna on a throne of pure obsidian, studded with numerous flecks of moonstone, and beside her, like a mirror image, Celestia, mounted on what was ostensibly an identical material as composed the entrance. The same artist, perhaps? I angled myself towards the right of the two monarchs where my standard lay, a unicorn’s horn crossed with an epée, set above a rose on a background of royal blue. Glancing to the left, I could see Mi Amore 'Cadance' Cadenza, oh-she-of-silly-musical-numbers-and-dyed-hair, entertaining her retinue, and facing the Princesses stood a lengthy line of ponies. Near the front, and directly before Princess Celestia herself, two ponies stood arguing: a short, scruffy earth pony buck and a young mare dressed in a severe grey outfit that belied her years. From the looks of it, each of them was competing to discover which could produce the highest volume of sound, and therefore win the debate. Glancing over – let it never be said that Prince Blueblood didn't care about the general populace – I deduced that it wasn't worth my time and pressed towards my throne. Across from me, the squabble continued. “Miss, I'm tellin’ ya, we need that land!” That was the small, red-maned, one. It was actually fairly impressive how much noise he could create, considering his stature – he was barely larger than the mare. “There’s no ‘if’s and buts’ about it: ponies will starve if we can’t grow our crops! Clopton can’t survive on-” “And as I’ve been telling you, Mr. Yellow Ear, that land is in the possession of her grace Lady Hardsnout, and is not currently available for agricultural purposes. However, if you would like to make an appointment at a later date,” the mare trailed off, flicking her elaborately styled coiffure. She spoke with an affluent West-Manehattan accent and was clearly frustrated with the down-to-earth fellow. The strain of the dispute had also noticeably begun to wear on the other members of the hall. The lengthy queue of individuals behind the pair had degenerated into restless mutterings and even the ordinarily unassailable Princesses were demonstrating subtle signs of dissatisfaction. Luna’s eyes had started to glaze over, and Celestia, despite her outward mask of polite interest, was betrayed by the occasional irritable flick of an ear. Nothing that the general populace would notice, they were far too experienced politically for that, but simple enough for a clever chap with some familiarity to interpret. “But ‘ow do you expect-” “I expect nothing other than that this property’s lawful owner has her wishes and considerations taken into account!” Interrupted the mare. “Lawful owner! Those ponies have worked them fields for over five ‘undred years!” My word, he really did have a set of lungs on him, that one. I wondered briefly if he wished to join the Canterlot Chamber Choir: as a patron, I was always on the lookout for new talent, and he had lovely vowel pronunciation. “The fact remains-” “I can tell you where to shove yer precious facts, an’ all, ya pansy-hooved-” “MY LITTLE PONIES!” As if from on high, Princess Celestia interceded with a displeased frown, and many onlookers, myself included, gave thanks. If I had been forced to listen to the uncultured pleas of that insufferable stallion (no matter how nice a singing voice he may or may not have had) any longer, well, it wouldn't have been pretty. “Please! Show some decorum.” She glanced around, apparently mollified with the grumpy expressions of apology each offered. “Aye,” the farmpony grumbled. “My apologies,” said the mare, shuffling her hooves unconsciously. “Now, can each of you please repeat your cases in a calm and organised fashion?” Ah, the sweet voice of reason. “Mr. Yellow Ear? You say that your village cannot feed itself without intervention?” “Yes, yer majesty, thank you, yer majesty. Tha’ was the gist of it.” The earth pony bobbed his head with each sentence. Well, at least he wasn't completely boorish then. “And that an area of land large enough to provide for you is readily available?” Celestia's face was graced with a noble and benevolent smile, somehow managing to convey comfort to the buck and yet placid neutrality. “Aye, that there is. A big ol’ plot, just sittin’ empty and unused.” The gruff stallion’s northern tones were cut short once more by the mare. “Stop right there! With all due respect! Sir! That land is in the tenure of Her Ladyship, and therefore must, must,” her voice petered out as Princess Luna turned a baleful eye on her. The guardsponies near the thrones, whom I must confess I had until recently overlooked, stepped forward ominously. The Manehattan mare gulped. “I m-meant no offence, m-my lady,” the formerly effusive mare stuttered. She was lucky - despite the validity of her case, I’d seen less deserving ponies thrown out of court before. By speaking out of turn, she’d exposed her own lack of knowledge. One didn't just ignore the Princesses and get away with it, not in Canterlot. Well, I suppose you could take the pony out of Manehattan... “Be sure that you didn't.” With that, Luna sat back on her throne, declining to have anything more to do with the conversation. Apparently unfazed with his adversary’s brief dip into - eheh - lunacy, the buck continued. “So, some ponies up Clopton figured that they ain’t got enough food to last fer-” “Yes, you covered that previously," Auntie interrupted. "How does this concern Ms. Cash Flow?” “I were gettin’ to that, don’t you worry lass.” What little respect I had for the stallion evaporated at his words. How was it that ponies that thick were allowed into Canterlot? Insulting the Princesses didn't merit the kind of sentence that it might have, say, a thousand years ago - but even so it wasn't likely to win him any favours! At the very least, it would swing some of the neutrals towards that ‘Cash Flow’ mare, despite her rudeness. I could even feel my renowned impartiality slipping. Celestia looked as unruffled as she always did, and waved for him to continue. “Well, when some ponies went up to plant some seeds – nothing big, mind you, just some squash and things like tha’ – they were stopped by missus Ca-“ “Ms.” The mare interrupted briefly, before quailing under the inevitable glare shot towards her. “Ms. Cash Flow, here,” he carried on steadfastly. “And she said sommint t’ the effect tha’ we ‘were not, and never would be’ allowed t’ plant there. Now, us being reasonable folk, we o’course asked why not, and she shoved a load o’parchment covered in some legal codswallop. Now, I ask ya, why should hard working mares, stallions and foals have t’ starve just ‘cause this here filly has a piece of paper saying they should! It’s not right, I tell ya, not right t’all.” Auntie nodded her head thoughtfully, what I liked to label her ‘serious contemplation’ face on. After a moment of slow nodding and furrowed brows, she turned to the mare. “Please, Ms. Cash Flow, can you inform us of your end of the story? Mr. Yellow Ear has put forward a compelling argument.” “Certainly, your Majesty,” she responded, bowing just lower than was strictly necessary. A ploy to make up for her former indiscretions, I was sure. “I will endeavour to give as full, frank and complete account as I am able.” Luna snorted, and the silk banners behind the two Princesses fluttered, but she remained distinct from the conversation. Obviously the mare’s attempt at flattery had failed miserably for at least one half of the duo. Noting Celestia’s unconvinced expression, I could glean that it probably hadn't worked for the other, either. The mare flicked her mane nervously. “As you are aware, I am in the employ of Lady Hardsnout, Baroness of Norcolt, and owner of the lands surrounding the village of Clopton. She has acquired my services to protect her interests in the stated regions. As you can see here,” she pointed to a sheaf of papers that had suddenly appeared in her hoof. “It clearly articulates that the ponies of Clopton may not plant, grow or farm any manner of crop, be it for consumption or otherwise.” She handed the think wedge of parchment to Celestia who briefly examined it. “This is all in accordance with articles forty five, sixty five, and-” “Yes, this all seems to be in order,” Celestia murmured, then glanced to her sister. “Luna?” Luna blinked, as if considering her options. “I would have thought the response obvious, dear sister,” she finally replied. Celestia nodded. “Indeed.” She said. I was unaware as to what my immortal relations had decided, but I nodded along nonetheless. It wouldn't do to look out of the loop, so to speak. She then turned away from her sibling, and aimed her gaze at the (suddenly awfully young-looking) businessmare. As she did so, an aura of command seemed to settle around her regal shoulders. I found myself leaning forward in unconscious anticipation, and jerked back in annoyance. Allow the plebs to debase themselves with the enjoyment of other ponies’ misfortune – as, surely, both parties could not walk away satisfied – but Prince Blueblood would not! I strode calmly through the crowd that had formed around the two ponies, even as Celestia began to speak. There was only a short amount of time remaining if I wished to hold court, and so it would probably be best if I were to hurry up and get it over with, and that involved actually getting to my stage. “We have reached an agreement, Mr. Yellow Ear, Ms. Cash Flow.” I wasn't listening because I was interested, of course. No, I just believed it would be prudent to know the result. One never knows when the fate of Clopton may affect... pffft. Who was I kidding? I was only paying any attention at all because hearing this pitiful case being ripped to shreds was greater entertainment than, well, not. And anyway, it was pretty much a foregone conclusion. This ‘Yellow Ear’ didn't have a hoof to stand on. The mare smiled; it looked like she knew it too. Princess Celestia began to speak as I reached my dais. “Yellow Ear, you are certain that Clopton will not survive without these crops?” Even as a hush echoed around the spacious hall at her words, I noticed that Celestia’s voice never broke above a detached, conversational tone. A cliché it may be, but she might as well have been commenting on the colour scheme for a new wing of the palace rather than the fate of hundreds of ponies as she spoke. “Aye, m’lady.” The farmpony looked down, his dirty straw cap clutched tightly to his mustard coloured chest. “And,” the Princess continued, flicking her gaze to the second party, “the Baroness cannot spare these lands?” “I'm afraid not, your majesty,” the mare lowered her head, the faux-melancholy at her apparent inability to change the situation about as effective as cheesecloth at covering up her glee. I climbed the short set of steps to my podium and looked upon her with my newfound elevation. From there, I could see the faintest shadow of a satisfied smirk, and it was plain to see that the Princesses had seen it too. Maybe a pony less versed in court psychology wouldn't be able to discern it, but there it was. Celestia blinked slowly. “Very well, then. Although Yellow Ear’s case is valid, the land in right belongs to the Lady Hardsnout, and therefore may not be made use of without her consent. I therefore rule in favour of Ms. Cash Flow.” Furious whispering broke out almost directly after auntie Celestia ended her (and, I supposed, Luna’s) judgement. Yellow Ear dropped his hat, his hooves left grasping at nothing. I sat back in my gold-and-blue bedecked chair. And that, as they say, would appear to be tha- “And thus!” Princess Celestia spoke suddenly, almost (almost) causing me to jolt forward in surprise. “And thus, we open the Canterlot grain stores to the means and disposal of the town of Clopton, to be made use of until such a time when said town can support itself. This, we decree.” With a smile to rival Danvehai the dragon, she sat back. Were I any less experienced in the flightiness of my sovereign aunt, I would surely have ruined my reputation for years to come with my reaction. As it was, I only quirked an eyebrow in the direction of Mi Amore, who shared a long-suffering sigh with me. In contrast, the mare before the Princesses appeared to be in some state of shock. Her mouth was flapping open and closed, the demure mare from moments before evaporating with her short-lived victory. To his credit (which still put him quite firmly in debt), the old stallion merely bowed in the direction of the thrones, and murmured a quiet thanks, before moving off swiftly in the direction of an unruly crowd of earth ponies: from Clopton, I supposed. I ignored what was sure to be a soppy reunion in favour of the growing group of nobleponies before my stage. They were forming the beginnings of a queue, but before one could catch my eye and embroil me in a half-hour-long conversation about themselves, a thin, grey, puff of teleportation magic announced the arrival of a thin, grey, unicorn. Dressed in my colours and clutching a small black briefcase (small only because of the extensive space-enlarging enchantments within, I'm sure), Hole Punch began sizing up the assembly before me. “My liege,” he said, bobbing his neck. “I have the schedules, and-” “Yes, yes,” I waved away his supplications and absently grasped the stacked parchments in a sapphire glow. “Where were you?” I asked, looking though the lists. Lady Fairweather, Lord Clydesdale, the Bitstol brothers, Madame le Trot, Harold Flashpony, the Reverend Dewdrop, Count Horse Tile... “I'm sorry, my lord,” he gestured nervously. “You see-” “Ugh, Fancypants.” I muttered, glancing down the list. “Is he still after that knighthood? No, don’t answer that. He always bloody is, after all. Strike him off.” “I, er, can’t, sir,” he stuttered. I twisted away from the fascinating (and exhaustive) description of why precisely Fancypants deserved to rule Equestria or whatever to face my subordinate. “And whyever not? Last time I checked, you were my aide, not his.” I let some annoyance seep into my voice. It wasn't the colt’s fault; I just really, really hated Fancypants. “Ah, um, because he’s already here, sir.” He gulped, loosening his collar. I closed my eyes tightly, then opened them. No wonder I got through half a dozen assistants a year – they were all bloody useless! “Damn and blast it, he’s here for one of those Member of the Equestrian Empire thingys, isn't he? I know it’s all about MEE, but he could at least attempt to be subtle about it!” Whilst it began as a way to honour those not in military service that had contributed to the good of Equestria, MEE’s had quickly degenerated into a status symbol for the ‘modern pony’. It was considered quite the catch to be awarded such a decoration, and the worst thing about it was that once a potential applicant had jumped through all the legal hoops (very, very extensive hoops, which I’d set up to make as difficult as possible to jump through), they could apply as many times as they wanted. Not that I hadn't tried to stop them. “N-no sir, he wants to discuss, um,” he glanced at the sheaf of papers before him, “‘how possible new non-growth-targeting investment portfolios could be integrated into parent corporation proxy-sponsored private institutions, and specifically whether new railroaded inter-relations could be facilitated between all concerned parties.’.” Ahh. Of course. He wanted money. Hole Punch looked up from the parchment he was quoting from. “He seemed fairly insistent that he speak to you, sir.” “Let me tell you what just what he can do with-” My tirade was cut suddenly short by an outburst on the main floor. “PRINCESS!” Cash Flow shouted. I raised an eyebrow. Was she still here? A few confused faces turned towards her; she couldn't possibly be stupid enough to dispute the Princess’s ruling, could she? Probably. Maybe. “Please, you have to reconsider!” Internally, I facehoofed. Apparently she could. By this point, half the eyes in the room were focussed on her once again, and she gulped almost theatrically at the atmosphere. Over in the corner, near the immense doors, I could see the party from Clopton glaring hatefully at her. Some history there, perhaps? Celestia, noting the sudden outpouring of vitriol aimed at the mare, allowed herself a small sigh and a shake of the head. Eyeing Cash Flow once more, she spoke with carefully calculated exasperation. “Is there a problem with the ruling, Ms. Cash Flow?” There wasn't, of course, and both of them knew it. The only reason the Princess played along was for decorum’s sake, or what little was left, anyway. “If you have any reason to dispute it, by all means, let me know immediately.” Just going through the motions. “N-no, your majesty, it’s not that at all. It’s just that, maybe, a more, well, suitable edict could be reached?” Cash Flow swallowed and put on a sickly, wretched grin. I could hear the sharp intake of breath from the assorted crowd at her words, and mentally discounted her from any position higher than bootscrubber for the foreseeable future. No businessmare, no matter how high-flying, could hope to combat the entire Canterlotian nobility, and with that last line, she might as well have pissed on their lawns. “It is not your position to determine the suitability of the ruling, Ms. Cash Flow,” Celestia narrowed her eyes, growing more formal, and irritated, with every line. “However, if you believe that there has been an error made, you may refer to complaints forms T-167 through T-229.” Despite the circumstances, I had to refrain myself from giggling. Barely. The T- forms were legendary, if I do say so myself, and rightfully so; they were widely known in Canterlot circles as the most effective method of subtly ridding oneself of an annoyance. By sending the form, the desired victim would set off a cunning trap combining bureaucoltcy and an acre of red tape. I had written them in a fit of pique several years ago (aimed at Fancypants, of course. Shame he was so good at avoiding them), and they had bamboozled and infuriated the unaware ever since; by referencing it, Celestia had revealed her growing impatience with the patently masochistic mare. Cash Flow blinked, and my smile grew larger. It wasn't often I met a pony who was unfamiliar with my work. They were legendary for a reason, but apparently my reputation hadn't spread as far as Manhattan. I'm sure something could be arranged. Mwahaha. “Ah, yes. T-167,” she stuttered, trying to regain some face and failing miserably. “Yes,” replied Celestia affably. “Is there some sort of difficulty?” Her eyes danced gleefully. I'm sure that if I’d had a mirror, I’d be able to see my own doing the same. Hole Punch sniggered nasally beside me. “No! I mean – yes, but – that isn't what I'm talking about!” She burst out finally. “Oh?” An expression of polite confusion crossed auntie Celestia’s face. “Do you have a problem with my decision? Perhaps you would like me to award the case to Mr. Yellow Ear instead.” A wave of refined laughter briefly swept around the hall, and I allowed myself a quick smirk of amusement. “NO!” Cash Flow half-shouted, bringing the amusement at her expense to a rude halt. The smirk too slipped off my face. This wasn't the reaction of somepony who’d lost a court case. But at the same time, it seemed too- too emotional to be faked. No, this was something more. I leaned closer, ignoring the ponies queuing in front of me. “Please, your Majesty, your Majesties,” she implored, flicking her eyes at Auntie Luna, “please, I beg of you to reconsider!” at their impassive faces, Cash Flow collapsed to her knees on the hard marble floor, and I could see tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. Either this was some incredible acting, or she was for some reason very much against Clopton receiving any relief aid this winter. “Please, listen to me!” Luna leaned forwards, an inscrutable expression on her brow. She drew in a deep breath, and spoke for the second time that evening. “Why?” The mare gulped frantically at the question, as if trying to choke something past her throat. After a moment, she turned away from the Princess of the Night, and back to Celestia. “Please,” she said, her face lowered. “Please, listen to me.” Luna’s eyes hardened. “Guards!” She called, her voice barely above speaking level, but as firm as iron. Cash Flow glanced upwards, and shrieked briefly at the sight of the two guardsponies advancing upon her. Each grasped a hoof, and began dragging her away. “Wait! No, you have to listen to me!” She screamed, the gazes of the entire hall firmly on her. “Please, no! You don’t know what you’re doing!” The pleas echoed in the near-silent hall, unheeded, and she struggled harder against the pull of the stallions. One grunted, and a glittering field of aqua energy enveloped the mare, stifling any further words she may have said. Behind the magic, I could see her expression switching between anguished and petrified. The spectators to her removal stood stony-faced as she was, finally, heaved through the doors and away. After a moment, the mutterings resumed. I sat forward in my chair. That had been interesting, even to me – and I was not content to rationalise it as just the ravings of a madmare, or even the performance of a master. That much fear, that much sheer terror, was not the work of deceit and lies. Something had scared her, enough for her to want to consign the entire village of Clopton to months of hardship and starvation without a second thought. I made a quick gesture to Hole Punch. “Cancel the remainder of my appointments today,” I said absently. I glanced up, and rolled my eyes. “Yes, all of them. I’ll deal with injured sentiments some other time.” “B-but, your Majesty-” I was shaken out of my theorising by my aide’s response. There were few things that he would directly refute an order for, and Fancypants was no longer one of them, considering the chewing out I’d given him earlier. That left... “Damn.” Aunty Luna and Celestia wanted to speak with me. Well, that was annoying. I could investigate the mare later. For now, I had a defence to argue.