//------------------------------// // VII // Story: Bedrock // by RazedRainbow //------------------------------// VII Habits. Set in stone. Tough as quartz. I am poetic this morning. A distraction. Everything is different today. I turn the corner at the end of Lu Street ready for a staring contest that never comes. I look behind the pillars of the facade, down to the side yard, but there is no guard to be found. I look over my withers and Haystack does not even have his bag of bits at the ready. Times really are changing. I carry the old rhythm. Each blind corner, each flanking alley, step after step, I am ready for a glint of crystal or gruff ‘Halt!’ You can never be too sure. At last, near Donut Joe’s, I notice a guard where they should. A smaller guard, more interested in the flanks of passing stallions and pointing out directions to some sleepy-eyed griffon than threats to the peace. They were bonier than normal, but a javelin is still a javelin. Long, sharp, always seconds away from striking. I prepare for a glance, a flash of recognition, a spark of anger. Close quarters combat would spell defeat for me regardless of stature, but I can still buy Haystack enough time to disappear. I eye the row houses to my right. Unicorn architecture—sun-dried clay, blue and white. Fancy. Fancy equals terraces, and terraces in this district equaled elevators. A rooftop and a good angle, and I could shadow Haystack clear to the market. If only I had a shootstick with me. “Easy,” Haystack whispers from beside me. “Don’t give ‘em a reason” Was I that obvious? A glance down to my tense steps confirms it. I stop, breathe deep, then step again. Looser. Good enough. Habits die hard. I am comfortable in my hooves enough to look back up… and immediately lose rhythm once more. Stalls and ponies surround me. The market had somehow snuck up on me. “Okay…” Haystack’s voice drifts under the morning crowd. He may be talking to me, but his gaze is to the right, aimed at a four-story house decked out with iron gate, impenetrable rose bushes, and obvious security dressed in suits camped out on a bench. One of them—a griffon with greying chin scruff and a scar on his beak to match—meets my stare and immediately hops up, his talons sparking the cobblestone. Expected. When it came to dealing with these nobles, I played the bad cop, and chokeholds are hard to forget. Haystack always plays the good cop—the only one necessary today, as his stony glare says. “Wait here. I’ll take care of this.” He sighs, eyes darting behind his clenched eyelids. I can guess what they are scanning. Blood, teeth, broken figurines from before the Nightmare era, and, of course, me. Memories. “For the love of Celestia,” he groans, “just wait. Let me handle this.” He is off before I can speak otherwise, and I am left with a symphony of housewives and foals. The smells of burning caramel and fried dandelions and full, rain-soaked trash bins drown out the oxygen. That those sounds and stenches exist would make the resistance sing, but I am scanning the rooftops. A few good lookout positions on the western edge. Difficult to sneak up to, but a good view of Farmer’s mansion and some of the Crystal Guard’s favorite posts. Market Square Post stands out. There is always a working elevator there. Each stand could hide trouble. I repeat it over and over with each step across Market Square. The days of knives held out of sight by grinning ‘merchants’ may be over, but all it takes is one glance of recognition, one guard that remembers that buck to the nose in another life, to cause a landslide. I do not know if the approaching guard is one of those. His eyes are familiar. Blue and piercing, darting from merchant to patron and back again. The look a guard should have. His coat does not reflect sunlight like the others’, but I am not taking any chances. I hold my breath. I am known enough. If he catches sight of me…. Fighting is out of the question, and though the crowd is thick enough to disappear into, I cannot leave Haystack behind. ‘Plan C,’ it is: find a stand and blend in. I step to my left. The market has always brought both the ornate and the odd, and the stand I choose fits the latter. It is not even a ‘stand,’ just a rug draped across the ground. The merchant is at eye-level despite this. I blink, and he blinks back. I need to look like I am actually shopping, so I glance down. Atop his rug are sticks, sticks, and more sticks. Some twigs, maybe even a branch or two. Not whittled or shaped. Just sticks. And at the end… I lean forward. The stumps had not caught my eye at bark-level, but as the sun hits them at the right angle I am petrified. Purples (definitely quartz) and orange (also quartz) glimmer within the core. I lean forward and sniff. Volcanic ash. Dragonlands residue, perhaps? The vendor clears his throat. “You like sticks?” he asks flatly. I shrug. “No. I like rocks.” He stares. “I am afraid this is not a rock stand, but a stick stand.” “These are filled with silicates instead of organic material”—I motion to the stumps—“so they are rocks.” “Technically, that is correct, but they also have retained their previous wooden structure, so they are sticks.” “They are both.” “You could say that.” He has not blinked this entire time. Time moves in hurried steps and rushed chatter all around, but here it is like waiting for metamorphosis. The change in pace is nice, though. Speaking of paces, it usually takes a guard fifteen paces to get from one end of the square to the other. Though we had not been talking long, more than enough time had passed to clear a path to the Post. “Goodbye,” I say to the vendor. “He’s still behind you.” I pause. The stallion's face remains unreadable. “The guard,” he says. “He’s behind you.” I nod. Questions bounce around my head. Pebbles in the current. I swallow them and stare at the sticks. I wait. And wait. And wait some more. No hoofsteps clank and fade into the distance. The crowd drowning it out, but they too have become hushed. “Clear?” I ask, gaze not leaving his wares. He does not respond. I look up. He is no longer looking at me, but to my right, and his expression has changed. Mouth agape, drooping eyelids parted just enough to almost look shocked. For this stallion it might as well be a scream. “What a cute little shop.” That voice. Gentle, yet powerful enough to carry over a crowd. Demanding love, respect, and silent fear. At the moment, as the outline of Mi Amore Cadenza wavers in the corner of my eye, I fit the third.