//------------------------------// // Petition And Redress // Story: Good Trooper Gilda // by Mitch H //------------------------------// The song turned to a different key as the march of the councilors reached the Blue Line. The parade had begun on the wide pavement of Guillaume Boulevard, and there it remained. Just in front of the walls that constituted the Blue Line was Flotilla Street, and there in the half-square which the construction of the Line had left of the old Costermongers' Square was a crowd of ponies and the occasional griffon. They began a new song. A song of petition, a song of demands, a song to plea for redress, addressed to the pony councilors, and through them the oh-so-distant Duchess herself. Oh, Duchess, oh, Duchess please, ten years have passed, Hear our entreaties, your mercy is vast Duchess, Oh Duchess, we've all had it rough Tell us when will enough be enough? A slight pony came out of the crowd, a humble clothier, and she was followed by a sadly smiling Rarity, swaying to the music, supporting her shy friend. The clothier Sweat Shirt met the eyes of the pony councilors, one by one in the front of their little formation. Her eyes met those of the lofty Prince-Major, and she blushed furiously, mortified as the words tore out of her: Oh, burghers, oh burghers, we tire of this hate Please let my journeygriffs pass through your gate How can we live with this chilling divide: Ponies sheltered, and griffons outside? Sweat Shirt's stanza sung, she folded into herself, collapsing under the pressure of all of those eyes, her white friend supporting her slumping, shrinking self. Her fellow-shopkeeps and workshop ponies swarmed around the councilors-column and shouted the refrain, singing Oh Duchess, oh Duchess as the pony Territorials at the gate opened the way into Griffish Trottingham. As companies of Territorials led the parade and followed in its train, Rarity led her trembling friend to the rear of the column, and the two mares joined the councilors as Gary and the pony Territorials led the prancing column across the Line. The city beyond the gate was a different world. The sun and its light was the same, but the streets and the buildings were just a little bit dingier, darker, grimmer. And as the pony councilors danced into the griffish city, it only got dingier and darker. Where Guillaume crossed the Boulevard of the Corvids, it opened up into Gilbert Square. The only mementos of the Crab Bucket were a few scorches here and there, and three or four missing teeth in the square's gap-toothed grimace. Another crowd was waiting in the square, muttering. Griffon civilians, mothers and fledgelings. Gilda blinked in astonishment - in most of the city, the civilians kept their fledgelings off the streets, and away from Territorials. Mothers knew better than to let their children out when the soldiers were in sight. A pale little chick stepped out of the crowd, and the griffish clucking resolved into a song. The song which had been playing as they had moved down Guillaume, the song which had been following them ever since Flotilla Street. The little chick lifted up on her wings, pale blue in the bright afternoon light. Harmonizing to the humming rhythm of the crowd, she sang at the politician-ponies: Oh, Duchess, Oh Duchess, we're tired of fright Scared of the nightmares that come in your night Oh, Duchess, Oh Duchess, your sun shines so bright But Mother hides us from the light. The little chick, her wings failing her, fell back to earth, falling in front of a wide-eyed Pinkie Pie, the pony's trombone silent in her hooves. The crowd took up the refrain. Oh gentlefolk, gentlefolk, councillors all, Your cannonfire shakes our paper-thin walls We don't want our chicks and our foals to be nabbed And dropped into a bucket of crabs! The anxious crowd of hens shook their tails and sang, gentlefolk, gentlefolk as they danced and swayed throughout the great square, the Territorials breasting the sea of singing griffons, Gary at their head. Only a silent Colonel Pie stood still, a pink rock in the sea of feathers and blue. Their shrill clamour chased the parade deeper into the city, the column greater by two, with the addition of a pale little chick and her hovering, terrified mother tucked behind Rarity and her workshop-owning friend. Pinkie Pie, her trombone slung across her back, joined the back of the column, behind Prince-Major Blueblood. The column and its song moved from block to block, square to square, and Gilda stumbled along, confused and disoriented. The sun barely seemed to move in the sky, and yet as they followed it, that sun led the councilors and their train westwards. She knew in her head that the march must have taken hours, but the song couldn't have lasted more than a claw's-full of minutes. Each crowd they met offered them a chorus and a stanza, and a soloist with another tale of woe. For the Halfpennies, it was the depredations of their own. For the Threepennies, it was the ruination and destruction, and their griffons danced through the burnt row-houses and blasted wreckage of shops and warehouses. In the Crucible, forgemasters, somehow excluded from Colonel Pie's summons to the council, sang of shortages of supply and the impossibilities of transport. With each stop, more and more griffons swarmed around the column, fluttering in the skies overhead. When each stanza was complete, more and more flew escort over the marchers, flying side by side with Princess Cadance's chasseurs who kept their formation over their charges. In the cramped little square at the corner of Guillaume and Tenpenny, where the boulevard met the Pennies once again on their furthest extent, stood the column's last and greatest challenge. Above and around that nameless square, which was barely more than a street-corner, stooped the armed griffons of the guild militias, sitting on every rooftop, hanging from windows, standing sullen halfway up the block on Tenpenny in both directions. A delegation of angry militia-griffons flew down from the roofs and the stoops, slinging their weapons behind their fluttering wings. They touched down on the sun-warmed paving stones, and started a sharp-clawed dance in front of the pony Territorials guarding the column's front. Oh Duchess, oh Duchess, we won't say please Without the blood and the fire we would freeze Duchess, oh Duchess, though we're bleeding for you Ponies say we never were true. A tough, scarred journey-hen strode through the strutting, stomping militia. She stopped in front of a bristling Gilda, the Griffonstonian in her full Territorial armor, the Trottish hen in her naked feathers. The unnamed journeygriff turned to face the pony politicians and sang her solo. Oh ponies, you ponies, you've shirked all the blame Burnt us out of our nests with steel and with flame Oh ponies, your hirelings ground salt in our wounds Seeing only griffish beaks, feathers, and plumes Never trusting in our willingness to bind... Never trusting in our ability to find... Never trusting in our arms and our blades... Fearing only the traitors' raids. The guild-hen paused, looking sad. Oh Duchess… Oh, Duchess. We still would, we still will She stopped, her eyes flashed, and she raised up on her paws, and spat, For our Duchess to fight For our Duchess to die, For our Duchess we pledge To pay any butcher's bill! The nameless guild-griffon snapped her beak in contempt at the council-ponies, and strode proudly by Gilda to take her place in the rear, behind the cowering mother from Gilbert Square. The timid child beside them looked up at the hen with terror and awe in her eyes. The guild militia parted in front of the column, and let them pass. At last, the column and its swarm of escorts and onlookers entered Ironmonger's Square. As they arrived, the sun that had stood still before the advancing column now dropped rapidly, falling behind the sole surviving spire of the Cathedral of Labour, as if in response to their arrival it was racing to find its proper place in the heavens. The song might have lasted two hours, it might have been only five minutes long. It was time for the finale. The soloists moved through the parade at a clip, led by Colonel Pie like a grim-faced majorette with her grapevine staff, her trombone long forgotten. They passed through the pony Territorials, and danced up the stairs, and faced the closed doors of the Cathedral. Pinkie Pie beat on the closed doors of the portal three times. A pegasus trooper opened the door, and Princess Cadance appeared to the crowd, with one of the White Sisters and Cheese Sandwich peering around her shoulders. The singers began the finale, Oh Duchess, oh Duchess please hear our voice In this we had no reasonable choice Duchess, oh Duchess, we've given our hearts It's time at last for you to do your part Our fellows in blood began this fight Their sins to punish, your bloody right We've sung you a song, begged you a plea Ten years we've waited to ask this of thee The nameless militia hen stepped to the fore: For a city that is just! The pale little chick: For a city that is safe? The sweatshop owner, For a city that is free. And then, the entire column, in unison: Oh Duchess, oh Duchess, in only you can we trust Oh Duchess, oh Duchess, under these fears we chafe! Oh Duchess, our Duchess, please let this finally be - Please, in the end, say at last, enough! Cadance bowed her head to the crowd, and let them into the Cathedral. Gilda looked out at the crowds milling about in the Square, that had followed them from the Blue Line and all the city in between. They looked aimless now that the delegations had passed within the Cathedral. She closed the heavy doors, and with that, silenced the distant murmurs. Gilda turned to see what would happen next, inside. The Cathedral was brightly lit, the golden light of afternoon shading swiftly into the deep oranges of evening. The sun herself was passing through the emptied rosette window set within the clerestory at the head of the nave. The grand decorative window where complex stained glass once hung, was now sealed with cheap clear plastic sheeting, glittering with the falling rays of the setting sun. Gilda strode across the back of the nave, stopping beside Sergeant-Major Gary. Gary's corporals were leading the pony councilors into their seats, rows and rows of benches fetched from where she had no idea, added to the sides of the aisle now lengthened another three dozen lengths down the nave towards the closed doors. Gilda saw that the ponies knew, almost by instinct, how to seat themselves, and their self-order put to shame the display of disorder she had been witness to hours before. This, then, was the mark of experience, of practice, of time in office: these political ponies knew their business. The delegation of common street-folk and shopkeepers and other followers, who had seemed a mighty host during the song's montage, were also here, standing awkwardly within the solemnity of the cathedral's interior, somehow reduced, cowed, a small clot of petitioners before the throne. Gilda marveled at the power of perception to warp how one saw the same thing, in different contexts. Off to the left and just behind the benches now filling up with pony councilors stood the ponies who had begun all of this, the prince-major, his valet, and with them, Colonel Pinkamena Pie, looking - Gilda didn't know. Triumphant? Perplexed? Pensive? Perhaps shamed. She kept looking at the shivering little hen-chick, half-hidden behind her mother and the militia-hen. At the far end of the nave, Cadance led the speaker of the pony council to a seat next to Garrick, just before the steps of the dais. Gilda could see her captain still fussing with her book and the apparatus of the brown-paper projection screen at the back of the stage. She could see Speaker Tweed exchange a few words with Garrick by his side, and shoot a few side-glances at the barbarous street-bosses squatting impatiently in the benches across the aisle. Gleaming Shield's projection screen had clearly been used again while they'd been on their errand into the wilderness. There were additional scorch-marks on its surface, and the paper had burned through in the very center of the screen. Gilda wondered how much more use the apparatus had in it, before it burst into one last consuming fire and was reduced to ashes and embers. Cadance mounted the stairs, and stepped over to the front of her couch. The governor-general hadn't been with the councilors, and in the grasp of the heartsong, nopony and nogriffon had thought to go retrieve the nominal ruler of Trottingham from wherever he had been lurking. The couch reserved for that worthy still sat unoccupied. "GENTLECREATURES ALL, THANK YOU FOR COMING ON SUCH SHORT NOTICE," Cadance bellowed in that magically-assisted, leather-lunged way that powerful unicorns and, apparently, princesses were capable of. "WE HAVE BEEN IN INTERMITTENT CONTACT WITH- what? I'm too loud? Why didn't you say so?" "Pardon me, everyone. I hope this is better. Corporal Gilda, can you hear me back there?" "YES, YOUR HIGHNESS," screeched Gilda at the top of her lungs. Shadows were now creeping across the floor here and there, as the warm oranges of evening deepened. "Very good!" Cadance projected from her seat under the glowing rosette and the empty projection screen. "As I was saying, we are in contact with the princess, and she can hear what we're saying right now, but we had to ration the use of the projector, as you can see, it has a limited… lifespan, I suppose you could call it. Sorry, Mr. Tweed, could you repeat that?" "We were told that the Duchess was here, now. Were we lied to? We need to see the Duchess!" "Yes, yes, of course. Gleaming Shield, if you would?" As sun's last rays peeked through the rosette, Celestia reappeared on the projection screen, twice as large as life (Gilda hoped!) and clearly as furious as she had been when Gilda had left to collect the pony councilors. The lines of the sketch were glowing, slightly, more apparent in the dimmer light of sunset than it had in the full light of the day. "YES, MY LITTLE PONIES, I AM HERE!", growled the animated drawing of a princess. Gilda could see the sparks lighting the butcher paper into flame around the sketch's eyes, and she could even see her captain's horn glowing to the side, where the unicorn was doing… was that a misting cantrip or something? Gilda couldn't be sure from her position, but it looked like something was dripping down the screen. It made the duchess-princess-alicorn look like she was crying charcoal tears. "SPARE OUR MATERIALS UNTIL THERE IS SOMETHING RELEVANT FOR ME TO CONTRIBUTE. CAPTAIN SHIELD, END TRANSMISSION." "Ahem, right," Cadance said, looking a bit subdued. "As you heard, she is in contact, but wants me to run the meeting for her. We'll get to that in time. Speaker Twill Tweed, you are the current speaker of the constituted ducal council?" Gilda started moving forward so that she could hear the ponies and griffons speaking without straining her ears. The shadows were beginning to deepen in their pools beneath the benches and in corners neglected by the light. The rich light pouring into through the Cathedral's vast windows began to turn here and there to the reds of early twilight. "Yeah, that's right. Whenever the governor-general deigns tae call us tae order. Elsewise we're the city cooncil, and gie the proper business of the city done," Tweed was saying in a broad, almost comical Trottish accent. "Councilor Garrick, do you accept Twill Tweed's status?" "It isn't worth the argument with the Duchess watching us, Your Highness, so I don't care to argue the point." "Well, isnae that right pony of you, Garrick. It seems like I've a memory of you threatin' to tear my own windpipe out ov my own throat with yer naked talons the last time we met, was it nae?" "You were promising to steal my nephew's patrimony for ‘reparations', you cheese-paring old fraud-" Garrick was interrupted by another flash from the brown-paper screen, and a bellow that nearly blasted Gilda back a length from the pressure of Celestia's voice. "BE SILENT! I WILL NOT SIT HERE, FIFTEEN HUNDRED MILES AWAY LISTENING TO THIS- THIS- SQUABBLING! GARRICK, SIT DOWN. TWEED, BE SILENT BEFORE I SACK YOU THE WAY I AM SACKING THAT WORTHLESS CLOWN IN THE PALACE. THREE MATTERS, MY LITTLE PONIES AND GRIFFONS, AND WE WILL BE DONE WITH EACH OTHER. I CAN SEE THE LITTLE PEOPLE IN THE BACK. I'M TOLD THAT YOU CAME TO ME WITH HEARTSONG IN YOUR SOULS, AND I AM SICK THAT I CANNOT TAKE THE TIME TO HEAR YOU." The center of the screen burst into flame, and the sketch disappeared again, its light dropping the visibility in the nave, and causing the pools of shadow to spread precipitously. Gleaming Shield said a word which shouldn't have been spoken in official circles, and hosed down the paper with a squirt-bottle held up in her horn-grip. "Hold on, everypony, we'll have her back in a minute. Miss Mirror, please roll up that side a bit, we won't be able to use the middle of the screen anymore." "AH, BACK AGAIN? THREE THINGS, AND I WILL HAVE TO LEAVE THIS TO THOSE ACTUALLY IN TROTTINGHAM. FIRST THING, GOVERNOR-GENERAL PLACE IS SACKED. HE HAS PROVEN UNACCEPTABLE. SILENCE! SECOND POINT… I HAVE FAILED YOU FOR THE LAST TIME. I AM ABDICATING THE DUCAL CORONET." Amidst the screams of outrage and unbelief, Celestia's burning image lit the screen on fire again, and the flames from the left-side of the screen nearly broke it apart entirely. There was now almost as much light coming from the burning screen as from the windows above, which were beginning to show traces of night's stain on the sides of the nave opposite the sunset. All three of the White Sisters and Gleaming Shield between them barely managed to put out the fire and to roll the damaged two-thirds up on the left-side's pikestaff, leaving the last third of the screen held up as a narrow little screen, and leaving the nave in half-darkness. Gilda looked aside at Colonel Pie. The earth pony just stood there in the gloom, looking poleaxed, her eyes twitching back and forth like she was doing calculus in her head. Meanwhile, Cadance and Tweed and Garrick and Sergeant-Major Gary had managed to get the councilors and the onlookers quieted down to a low roar, and everyone muttering uneasily rather than screaming their outrage and fear. They got Celestia's connection back up one more time. The sketch blazed like an open hearth, lighting the councilors once again in the alicorn's golden image. The burning drawing of the great alicorn paused, looking out at her baffled, restive ducal council. "I DON'T… I don't know how to say this to you all. My little ponies, my little griffons, I'm tired. You all stand on the far end of a lever fifteen hundred miles long. I have two vast spheres in my employ, weighing so very much more than you, and in motion so very much further than you can imagine, which take up more of my energy than you can imagine. I have many other, smaller levers upon which my hooves must rest, and one greater than them all whose time is coming rapidly upon us. I have never given you what you should have had. I have never been able to give Trottingham its due share, and it is only getting worse. "I am so very, very tired. Please. Let me give the keeping of you into other hooves. I have no more attention I can spare for your consideration, and I have done so very, very poorly by you in these last decades. Let some other hoof take this lever from my care. This brings me to the third item on our agenda. You will have to accept a new ducal claimant. I have given you a princess, if you care to take your chances again with an Equestrian. "Cadance, I've given you space, but it is past time for you to stand up and be the pony that destiny and Harmony have said you must be. Good-bye, Trottingham. I never did you your due, and I apologize for how badly I've neglected you all. But I must deal with my own disasters and those disasters which are to come." The last rays of sunset passed through the great clear windows of the Cathedral, and darkness fell over the congregation, lit only by the image of their Duchess, almost visible through the rapidly flaring remnants of the paper screen. "I am sorry to say, there are many disasters yet to come. Be well, and choose well, ponies of Trottingham, griffons of the Isles." With those last words, the Duchess was gone in a cloud of sparks and flame, and the tattered remnants of the projection screen collapsed into embers and smoke. And darkness closed over the Council of Trottingham.