Chapter 22
“What now?” said Hairtriger bluntly.
With Caballus gone, the rest of the team found themselves somewhat aimless.
Fyzzix spoke up first. “As Caballus said, we are to investigate Meister and uncover any-”
“Yeah, we heard him,” Roughshod said. “Problem is, where do we start?”
Hairtrigger scratched his chin. “When I’m on a case and I need some beans spilled, I go where the tongues are loosest: the bar.”
Roughshod’s ears perked up. “So the usual plan, then? What are we waiting for? I thought I saw drinks being served over there,” he said, pointing toward the far wall, where the crowd seemed thicker. “Cab almost had me worried, taking that serving servitor with him.”
Fyzzix and Hairtrigger made to follow him, but Mystic eyed the herd congregated around the bar with doubt. “I’m not really thirsty,” she said. “I think I’ll wait here.”
“You sure, Sweet Pea?” Roughshod said. He gave her a concerned look, but seeing her rooted to the spot she stood, he just nodded. “We’ll be right back, okay?”
She rolled her eyes. “I can take care of myself. Just go ahead.”
Her larger friend simply shrugged and headed toward the bar, Fyzzix in tow. Hairtrigger lingered a moment longer. “Don’t fret, little missy, I’ll bring you something,” he said, and before she could decline again, he lifted off into the air and disappeared over the throng.
Now alone, Mystic took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The air had the sweet tang of exotic fruits and the sharp scents of spiced vegetables being served as hors d'oeuvres. There were ponies walking all around her. She could hear their hooves. She could sense them with her magic; when she focused this way, her horn tingled a little whenever somepony came near.
Not that they came too close; her green robes and the horn on her head ensured that. While all magic had its risks, summoning dragonfire was among the most difficult, even for those trained specifically in its art. Without the soul-binding ritual, performed in the presence of the Princess Herself, the mere attempt usually drove a unicorn mad. Even then, a lifetime spent sending letters across Equestria strained a Dracopath’s sanity, and generally their manners as well. The nobles around her gave her a wide berth, assuming her to be just as unstable.
Except one, a tall stallion in a finely tailored suit, who didn’t seem to have noticed her standing there alone. Instead of watching where he was going, he was making a joke to the mare walking beside him, and walked straight into Mystic. Red punch splashed his evening wear.
“What in the name of Tartarus?” he exclaimed, straightening the splotched vest. Seeing who it was that had gotten in his way, his teeth gritted with anger. “Mind your place, you horn-headed oaf!”
Apologizing profusely, Mystic’s eyes frantically searched for something to help fix the situation. A few ponies were already starting to notice this little scene, and that was the last thing she wanted. She felt their disapproving gazes even through her robe, making her skin crawl. Worst of all, it could blow the whole mission if things got out of hand. And it would be all her fault.
Finally, she spotted a servitor gliding by with a tray of hot towels, and she deftly plucked one up with her magic. “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, trying her best to keep her composure. “It was an accident. Please, let me help.”
The gentlecolt shied away from the glowing towel. “You’ll do nothing of the sort! Keep your witchery away from me, unicorn!” he said, trotting briskly away.
Mystic hung her head, and pulled the hood of her robe as far as it would stretch to hide her face. She heard snickers nearby, and through watering eyes, she glanced up to see other ponies watching her, turning up their noses and smiling smugly. She hung her head even lower.
They’ll never accept you, an inner voice told her, and she saw no reason to disagree. They hate you because they’re afraid of what they don’t understand, and can you really blame them?
No sooner did she wipe the unshed tears gathering in her eyes than she felt a gust from up above. Hairtrigger landed gently beside her, holding a drink.
“I brought you this,” he said, smiling and offering the glass. It smelled of pineapple and coconut. “I don’t rightly know what your poison is, but I’ll be darned if the fillies don’t all seem to… Uh… Hey, are you alright, little missy?”
The unicorn collected herself as best she could, and looked up. “I-I’m fine. And thanks but… I don’t drink.”
“Come on,” the pegasus said, insisting, “you look like you could use one now more than just about any time I’ve ever seen you.”
Mystic looked down at the beverage, and back up at Hairtrigger. She took it and downed it all in a single draught. Afterward she wiped her muzzle on her green robe, and a second later she teetered backward. Hairtrigger caught her. “That… was a bit stronger than I expected,” she said sheepishly.
He grinned. “Ma always said, sometimes to see things clearly, you have to make ‘em a little blurry.”
As Mystic found her footing again, Hairtrigger’s ears perked up. The band had begun a new song, a tango, light and upbeat. Several couples were already dancing in the in open space in the center of the ball room, in front of the ensemble’s elevated stage.
“Let’s go dance,” Hairtrigger blurted out.
The green unicorn sputtered in surprise. “Are you… you’re serious? I’ve never danced in my life. I… I don’t know how…” She’d only ever seen it done in books and holo-vids.
“And I look like I’m the two-steppin’ type? You don’t have to be good at it,” he said, drawing her hood back down, “you just have to get out there and show the world that pretty face of yours.”
Mystic blushed and looked away. “But… what about the mission?”
“What about it? We ain’t going nowhere. And if there’s heretics here, then they’ll be here five minutes from now.” Hairtrigger flashed his most devilish grin and held out his hoof. “Caballus told us we could have a little fun, didn’t he?”
Mystic cast a forlorn glance at the ponies dancing. Maybe it was Hairtrigger’s confidence rubbing off on her, or maybe it was the liquid courage, but it did look rather inviting. She placed her hoof in his, and they hit the dance floor.
Despite truly not knowing much about the subject, it was Hairtrigger’s responsibility to lead, and he took to it with gusto. After only a few moments to learn the beat, he took after the other dancers and held his left hoof out. Mystic put her right hoof on it, and they began.
At first it was just the steps. Step two, step four. It was easy enough, she thought, if she concentrated.
“Hey, why you looking down?” Hairtrigger asked.
The question almost threw off Mystic’s careful rhythm. “So I can watch your hooves.”
“That’s not how it works,” he chuckled. “You have to look up.”
“But… then I’ll…”
The orange stallion shook his head. “No buts, little missy. Here, just look me in the eye, and I’ll take care of you. Trust me.”
Mystic let him lead, and for a moment, it worked. The two of them were moving smoothly and she could finally see herself having fun. But as soon as she stopped focusing on her feet, she stumbled.
Immediately, she felt eyes on her again, heard the hushed voices—real and imaginary—quietly scoffing at her. Her ears flattened against her head, and she pulled up at her hood. Hairtrigger stopped her.
“Nope,” her friend insisted. His words were gentle but firm. “Can’t let you do that, little missy. You can’t worry about them. Focus on me. I told you, I’ll take care of you.”
Taking a deep breath, Mystic hesitantly gave Hairtrigger her hoof again. She shut out the herd around her, and fixed her attention on him. His gaze held hers, as securely as his hoof did, and her concerns over what was being thought or said about her receded into the background. Only one eye mattered to her in that moment.
They moved together, one step at a time, finding the beat again and letting it carry them. Hairtrigger’s natural pegasus coordination meant he could lead the dance without much effort, which put Mystic more at ease herself. It wasn’t entirely unlike her hoof-to-hoof combat training with Roughshod, the green pony remarked. Her drills had had a certain rhythm to them, and the movements were so ingrained that she could perform them without breaking her concentration. Before long, she was adding simple spins and kicks to their steps.
“I can’t believe it,” she said after a minute, “It’s almost like I’m having… fun.”
“Yup,” Hairtrigger agreed with a smile, “I reckon you are.”
“Well there’s something I never thought I’d see.”
Roughshod took a final swig from his glass of cider and leaned on the bar. It wasn’t nearly as tall as he would have liked, but he suspected a drink large enough to match his thirst wouldn’t have been considered ‘proper.’
“Another cider here, and a… uh… motor oil for my friend,” he called out. The bartender shot him an odd look, but sent a servitor assistant to refill his glass.
“And what would that be?” Fyzzix swiveled his head in an attempt to see what his friend had been talking about. It was in vain, though; only Roughshod was tall enough to see over the ponies crowded at the bar. After giving up on straining his neck, he lifted himself up with a few brisk flaps and hovered just above head-level.
“Little Sweet Pea, shakin’ her groove thing.” The stallion said it as though he didn’t quite believe it, even though he was watching it with his own eyes.
The Meq-priest was mildly perplexed. “Is there a reason she shouldn’t be? She’s in more than adequate physical condition. The activity doesn’t hold any particular hazards to speak of…”
“I just never figured her for the type, you know?” Roughshod answered with a shrug.
“And what type is that? There is nothing preventing unicorns from dancing like any other-”
“No, not like… I mean she’s never showed any interest in… that sort of thing.” After all, since the day they’d met, Mystic had been a part of the team. They were hunters, fighters, killers. Not… dancers.
“Perhaps she has simply never been presented with the opportunity,” Fyzzix said helpfully.
That made sense to Roughshod. For all he knew, Mystic might have loved to dance, or maybe it was something she’d always wanted to do, but she’d never gotten the chance. The team found itself in some underspire back-alley brawl far more often than at a gala event like this.
“She also seems to be socially bonding well with Hairtrigger,” Fyzzix said, continuing to document his observations verbally.
Roughshod chuckled. That was putting it lightly. The whole journey from Applemattox, she had spent quite a bit of time with the Arbitrotter. First, it had been to make sure he was alright, after the confectionatus had shaken him up. Once he convinced her he was fine, Mystic took it upon herself to bring him up to speed with the rest of the team; protocols, codes, equipment and the like.
By the end, she was reading to him. Just reading from her books, out loud, like she used to do with Caballus. He hadn’t pegged him for the literary type, so that meant there was something else that had held Hairtrigger’s attention.
Fyzzix hadn’t seen much of that from the cockpit, but he saw what was in front of him right now. “Her morale has been rather good lately as well, all variables considered. Improved posture, higher rates of eye contact. Instances of smiling have increased by 340%.”
“Yeah, that pegasus is a regular Roaneo,” said Roughshod, ambivalently. This kind of thing always seemed like a needless complication to him, and a risk that could cost a group like theirs dearly. Maybe he was being overprotective of her, but Roughshod really didn’t know how to be any other way. She was his family.
But still, he couldn’t deny that Hairtrigger certainly seemed to be a positive influence on Mystic. Normally sullen and quiet, here she was dancing and smiling. And if she was happy, well, then Roughshod supposed he was happy too.
“The unicorn, is she friend of yours?”
The question startled the great brown pony, and he almost reached for a pie that he was no longer carrying. Behind him, he turned to find a crimson earth pony, a lean stallion with a pencil mustache and a sharp, navy blue tuxedo. His black mane was slicked back, glistening with oil, and a wry grin creased his carefully groomed muzzle. The stranger brought a delicate glass of punch up to his lips.
“She’s an associate,” said Roughshod warily. He didn’t like being snuck up on, and as a policy, he took an immediate dislike to the rare pony who managed it. “Can I help you with something, mister…?”
“Remarque,” the stallion said, holding out a hoof, “Snidely Remarque, Representative of the Preakness Consortium, at your service.” His accent flowed like a fine cider vintage, smooth and sophisticated, and the scent of expensive cologne filled Roughshod’s nostrils as the stranger stepped forward.
“Roughshod,” he replied, accepting the shake reluctantly and reciting what Caballus had told him to say, “attending with Captain Corsair, Rogue Trader.”
“Excellent. It’s quite refreshing to meet somepony new. After a few appearances at events like this, it starts to become the same old herd. All rather tiresome, I’m afraid,” Snidely said, his smirk becoming toothy, “though don’t tell anypony else here I would say such a thing.”
Roughshod briefly wondered why anypony would show up to a party when they didn’t enjoy the company of anypony there. Then again, the upper class did quite a few things that made Roughshod wonder, and he didn’t like to waste time wondering about things he wasn’t likely to figure out.
“And her partner? Do you know him as well?” Snidely asked him. Roughshod realized that he had taken too long to say something, so the dapper stranger had ventured ahead in the conversation without waiting for him.
“Yeah, he’s… he’s a… uh,” Roughshod said, struggling to remember exactly what the cover story was.
“A passenger of our Captain,” Fyzzix finished for him. Roughshod felt a wave of relief as the Meq-preist came in to back him up. He was more comfortable in a foxhole, pinned by enemy fire than he was trying to make small talk with fancy folk. “I am Fyzzix Engine, Seneschal to the same. What precisely, may I ask, is your interest in our associates?”
“Oh, nothing,” the red pony said innocently, “merely that they’re interesting. An Arbitrotter and a Dracopath? I must admit, they make a rather… striking couple.”
Roughshod couldn’t quite tell if Snidely had said “striking” with a hint of morbid amusement or smug derision, but either way, it gave him the slightest urge to whip around and buck his pearly teeth right in.
If Snidely detected Roughshod’s violent impulses, he showed no sign of it. “However my true interest would be with your employer. I’m afraid I’ve never heard of this ‘Captain Corsair,’ and should like to meet him. We at the Consortium are always looking for new partners in trade.”
“I would be happy to give any proposals you might have a preliminary review,” Fyzzix said, trying to be polite, “but I will be unable to make any final decision without consulting the Captain. He is currently seeking an audience with the Plutarch at his private dinner.”
“The Plutarch!” roared a new voice, one like the grinding of rusty gears. The air filled with the sound of metal clacking on marble, the hissing of hydraulics, and the cries of indignant ponies clearing the way. When the last few had parted, a peculiar shape marched forward. “Lunassiah damn the Plutarch!”
It was a pony, though just barely. Only the shape of the head and body, covered in the red robes of the Mequestricus, indicated it had ever been equine at all. The two front legs hung just off the ground, because behind them, the entire underbelly and hind legs had been replaced by six robotic, segmented legs. It looked more like a giant brass spider than anything else, an illusion further complimented by the four glowing green lenses that looked out from beneath its shrouding hood. Where the muzzle should have been, a mess of hoses and wire bundles spilled out and ran back into the robes in numerous places. Two wings clung to his back, shriveled with atrophy.
“You’ll have to forgive him,” Snidely said nonchalantly, as though the monstrosity weren’t worth a second glace, “he’s a bit cranky today.”
The Meq-priest’s neck and forelegs twitched and seized in an unnatural and profoundly unnerving way. “I’m in no mood for your fl-fl-fleisch-bag humor, Remarque.” He stuttered as his vocal synthesizer struggled to simulate the full extent of his anger. “Meister will not get away with this.”
Roughshod’s ears perked up. “What won’t he get away with?” he asked.
“Only the la-a-atest in his slights against my Forge and I, out-towner,” the Meq-priest snapped.
“My word, Uhrwerk, where are your manners?” said Snidely, feigning protest. “You’ll have to excuse him; he’s having a bad day.” The merchant pony introduced Roughshod and Fyzzix to the Meq-priest. “And this is Magosus Urhwerk, of Forge Cloud Zirruswolke.”
Fyzzix inclined his head to his fellow Meq-priest and released a burst of electronic chatter. Uhrwerk faced him and replied in kind, the two having a high-bandwith chat and seeming to forget their other company.
“He’s got some kind of beef with Meister?” Roughshod said, aiming the question at Snidely while the red-robed pegasi ignored them.
“You might put it that way,” said Snidely. “I understand many of his shipping and distribution contracts between Zirruswolke and the Ver Kaufer trade fleet were up for renewal recently. The Forge Cloud accounts for most of the heavy industry in this sector, but they can’t transport it all themselves, so they rely on private merchant fleets to pick up the considerable difference.”
He cast a glance toward Uhrwerk. “He arrived to the party furious, so I assume he lost out when our illustrious Plutarch renegotiated with his compatriots.”
“You’re not a fan of Meister then, I take it?” Roughshod said, noting the sarcasm.
Snidely scoffed. “Hardly. For the past hundred years, the Preakness Consortium has been the Ver Kaufer Trade House’s chief competitor. In recent decades, Meister’s cronies in the Admanestratum have been enacting increasingly stringent regulations, trying to force us away from the Pferdian hub. But we won’t give in.” The defiant words had curled Snidely’s frown into a smirk. “Thanks to some deals with a few new… outside backers, we hope to reclaim that lost market share. I hope your Captain doesn’t get too attached to the Plutarch. I fear he’s not long for the post.”
Silently, Roughshod wondered if there was anypony in the room who Meister Ver Kaufer hadn’t made into an enemy yet. But if Meister really was the bad guy, did that make them allies? Roughshod wasn’t so sure.
Be careful, Caballus, he silently implored. This whole place gives my hoof the twitches.