//------------------------------// // Part Four // Story: Tavern Tactics // by Impossible Numbers //------------------------------// Stygian approached the bar. As he did so, he noticed the fiddler had stopped; Flash Magnus held a bugle he’d taken from only-goodness-knew-where and trumpeted with gusto. Surrounded by a circle of laughing admirers, Meadowbrook was not so much cutting a rug as cheerfully savaging it. Those kicks… no wonder she was so popular among the stallions. The bar-stallion himself watched her from his post. Once or twice, he clapped and hollered something. After what felt like long enough, Stygian cleared his throat. No response from the bar-stallion. He said, “Excuse me? Sorry, sir, I wondered if I could…?” Bugle bursts battered and boxed his ears. All the stallions laughed at something that made Meadowbrook’s dress shoot up suddenly. Stygian rapped the bar. “I’d like to buy two drinks, please,” he said over the racket. Still no response. He seized his anger and hit the bar hard. “Excuse me! I want a drink!” The bar-stallion shot him a look that made Stygian’s anger run and duck for cover. Nearby, two of the stallions stopped laughing. Hoping like Tartarus he could remove the lump in his throat, Stygian coughed into a hoof. “Sorry, sir,” he said, trying not to squeak. “I only meant –” Without looking away, the bar-stallion slowly and deliberately reached under the counter. Not that Stygian was a stranger to beatings – some of the old masters weren’t shy about discipline via planks and canes – but a club designed to fell ponies like Rockhoof or Ironsmith had not hitherto featured much in his life. He cringed ready for the first blow, hoping to whoever was watching that he’d have a little mercy – “Stygie, sweetheart!” cooed Meadowbrook, sashaying close. “You lookin’ for the hair o’ the dog that bit you? You only gotta ask.” And just like that, the slow and deliberate hoof ducked out of sight before the bar-stallion threw on a hasty grin. “Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he rumbled. “Din’t know ’e was wit’ you.” Coast cleared, Stygian let out a breath. For once, he thanked Meadowbrook’s timing. What a lifesaver… “Darlin’, now,” she said to the bar-stallion, “be gentle with the poor dear. He’s the nice, quiet sort, no trouble at all, you hear? Poor thing, you got him shakin’ like an aspen leaf in fall.” Stygian cursed and steadied himself. “Mage Meadowbrook, I can assure you I wasn’t shaking.” Then he considered how this would fare, in the face of a mare who checked pony bodies often enough to tell a quiver from a quake, and definitely a shiver from a shake. “I am somewhat cold, however,” he added defensively. Mage Meadowbrook cast another patient’s-examination look all over him. It wasn’t whether or not she’d spot the lie; it was whether or not she’d let it lie. To his relief, her face broke into a beaming smile. “My my, sugarcube, then I reckon you need heating up. The roads and the years haven’t been kind on you.” “Just two drinks for me, please,” he said in a rush. “One orange squash and one…” He turned to the suddenly alert bar-stallion. “I don’t suppose you have any whisky, um, sir?” “What’s whisky?” said the bar-stallion. “Ah, didn’t think so –” “Ooh!” cooed Meadowbrook, and she really did coo; her soothing voice made turtledoves sound hawkish. “I didn’t think you were ready for the strong stuff yet, Stygie.” “Oh no, it’s not for me, you understand, it’s for Lady Mistmane.” Meadowbrook gave him… Was it a pitying look? An indulgent one? Perhaps with overtones of patronising? It was a look he strangely wanted and hated all at once. Instead, she turned it to the bar-stallion. “That’ll be one juice bit and one hot firewater, thankin’ y’all kindly,” she translated. He actually saluted. “Right you are, ma’am!” “And while he’s busy as a bumblebee,” Meadowbrook continued, sneaking her forelimb around Stygian’s own, “how about I give you some dancin’ lessons to put a honeyed smile on your handsome face? You poor thing, you look like a smile’d do you a world of good.” Whatever was on Stygian’s face, it wasn’t honey. Sizzling oil, perhaps. Firewater, even. Extra hot. As gently as he could, he tugged his forelimb. No hope now. Meadowbrook had a grip that cooked all resistance, and not just because she could give Rockhoof a run for his money when it came to dragging heavy things. Earth mares packed a lot of power, especially ones used to carrying sick bodies around by the cartload in times of plague. “Oh, I couldn’t,” he said, twisting up around his own modesty. “I don’t dance.” “Never had lessons back home?” “Well… one or two ballroom classes, but that was just to socialize.” Not that it stuck, he thought darkly. “Ice-breakin’ was more what I had in mind, sugarcube. We might even break a few glasses tonight.” She winked at him. It wasn’t an exotic wink, the sort that Somnambula used if she wanted someone to melt, bubble, and ooze their way to a collapse. It was a motherly wink, the sort that told him he was OK, nothing bad would happen, mother hen would watch over her little chick. Beyond her, the other stallions cheered him on. Stygian hesitated. He wasn’t used to big stallions cheering him on. And he had spent a lot of time cooped up in libraries or tagging along behind the others, so why wasn’t he owed a bit of fun? “Just a short swing, honey?” she cooed again. Stygian let a weak grin carry on up to his face. “Ma’am, I fear you have the advantage of me.” “Suh-weet! Let’s cut a rug, Hayseed Swamp Style!” As he was dragged to what passed for a “dancefloor”, Stygian heard the cheers rise up and saw Flash Magnus pass his helmet on to Ironsmith, who nodded and took out his hammer. A bugler, a drummer, and a fiddler… well, none of that made any conventional music, but he’d given up on using the word “conventional” anywhere near Meadowbrook, unless it came chaperoned with the words “hardly ever”. Hayseed Swamp was an odd place indeed… “Ever done the Jitterbug?” she whispered. Stygian remembered: the ponies of the swamp took a lot of inspiration from its native fauna, for instance, even from dancing insect life. “No, never.” But a scholar like him always learned by observation. “I believe I’ve seen you perform it before.” “Then swing, copycat! Swing! Lookee here, and don’t you worry. Follow my lead, got it?” Another motherly wink. Follow her lead? Stygian wondered if he could kick that high without rupturing a tendon. Then, Flash Magnus and his band found a tune, and a one, and a two, and a one, two, three… Credit where it was due, Stygian picked things up fast. Although it didn’t hurt that the laughter broke out at his first two attempts. Back at school, he’d learned a colt could make friends if he was funny enough. Stamp! Stamp! Stamp! The stallions stamped in rhythm to encourage him. He needed all the encouragement he could get. His spins left him stumbling dizzily before he jumped back into the fray. Where Meadowbrook threw in a bit of flourish to each sidestep and swinging march, Stygian kept firm and stiff as a puppet, determined to get the gist if not the jive of what her body was saying. The first time she offered a hoof for him to grip, he stuck his out for several blank moments before the laughter and her eye signals set him straight. Thank goodness she never tried any of the really advanced moves: a simple partner spiral, a simple circling back-and-forth, as though they were trying to stamp brackets around each other, was all she’d venture before they broke off and locked gazes. Stamp! Stamp! Stamp! He swore it had gotten louder, and the circle around them had more colours and ponies in it. Despite Meadowbrook’s shaking head, he glanced to see… oh no… “Focus on me, Stygie,” Meadowbrook whispered urgently. “’S just you and me now, OK?” He swallowed. “I’ll try.” But he heard Rockhoof’s booming laughs and, strangely, Mistmane’s more silent titters. He couldn’t resist glancing again to see her ladyship’s twinkling eyes, or Somnambula’s knowing, enigmatic smile. “Sugar! Watch your feet, now!” “Sorry, Miss Meadowbrook!” But his tangled legs got a few more laughs. Dark thoughts crossed his mind: Were they laughing with him, or at him? Either way, he didn’t dare stop. Nearby, Flash Magnus blew harder and the dance suddenly moved faster and the circle outside became a blur. Ah, now for a tricky bit… it looked like the legs just swung under them, but his muscles tightened fighting for precise control. Whew, he thought, was this harder than it looked! “You’re doin’ fine!” whispered Meadowbrook. “Rear up, sugar!” “Oh, er…” “Don’t worry. I’ll go gentle.” He’d seen what moves needed them to be upright. Stygian saw no way out except to keep going forward, yet fear braced him every step of the way. She reared; he reared. They gripped hooves. His legs dreaded the next moment, and then there came the crosswise kicks – Mercy be, but he did not tear a ligament. If anything, he kicked again and felt… limber. Flowing freely. His legs kicked and he twirled and she gripped his forelimbs again and he suddenly felt like someone who had not spent half their lives cooped up indoors. Good grief, and all on his own he was doing things with his shoulders that did not get him laughed at. The music ran through him, and then it did what he wanted it to. Stamp! Stamp! Stamp! Bellowing cheer from Rockhoof, heard clearly over the din. “Don’t forget to smile!” cried out Meadowbrook amid the stamping. “Can’t Jitterbug without no smile!” He forced one. Smiling was improper, it couldn’t be allowed. No one laughed. He let a safer smile warm his cheeks. The heat from his kicking, swinging, sidestepping, toe-tapping legs rose up, through his chest, and up into his face. “Now that’s a smile!” said Meadowbrook. He felt oddly proud about that and smiled all the more. It came to him. He barely even noticed the sweat and clingy feel around his coat. They met hooves, half-passed each other, and gave one final kick. “Strike a pose,” she whispered. “Now.” He held it, wobbling a bit. The stamping stopped. So did the helmet-drumming, the fiddling, and – when Flash Magnus caught on – the bugling. Stygian didn’t even care he was gasping. The half-dozen strange stallions, Flash Magnus, Rockhoof, Somnambula, and Mistmane all broke into smiling applause. Flash even whistled. For once, Stygian felt taller than an ivory tower and twice as bright. Meadowbrook gave his forelimb a tap so he knew to stop posing. Following her lead, Stygian took a bow, one for each of the four directions north, east, south, and west, and the circle around them made generally good-natured noises like “Wahey!” and “Oo! Oo! Oo!” and “Nice one!” Flash Magnus yelled, “Collige virgo rosas!” And Stygian gave a weak titter in reply. “Not half-bad, for someone born outside Hayseed Swamp,” Meadowbrook said. “How d’you feel now?” A lifetime of good manners and scholarly reserve seeped back into Stygian’s mind. Whatever wild bronco ride he’d gotten onto had been broken in. Yes, very good, his mind said, an amusing diversion. “It was…” he began. Great? Fantastic? Amazing? “Unusual,” he settled for, and hated himself for his lameness. This didn’t seem to faze Meadowbrook at all. Her hoof nuzzled his cheek, the equine equivalent of pinching it like an auntie. “Oh, ain’t you such a sweet gentlecolt,” she said. “You should put that in your healing journal,” he said, hoping to earn some brownie points properly. “Jitterbug may very well be a cure for something.” “Makes you feel good, don’t it?” “Most definitely.” One by one, the ponies around them recognized the show was over. At least when the half-dozen local stallions returned to their stools, they talked amongst themselves like lads on a proper bar crawl and not, for instance, like veterans trying to drink the world away. Watching them, Stygian wondered if Meadowbrook knew about the healing power of dance and music already, and had simply indulged him just now. “’Ere’s your drinks, sir and ma’am!” The bar-stallion produced one glass and one thimble. “Oh, right,” said Stygian, who’d clean forgotten. “And that’ll be, uh…?” “On the ’ouse.” Whilst Stygian levitated the two drinks and tried not to spill a drop, Meadowbrook passed a smile to the bar-stallion that cast shadows of jealousy in Stygian’s own heart. Just not for long. The Jitterbug had weakened its venom. Only Star Swirl had remained in his seat, watching the returning party under a cloud of stormy disapproval. “You ponies do realize,” he said curtly, “that Equestria is at war?” “All the more reason to keep up morale, sah,” said Flash Magnus. The others sat down around the table, but he hovered first until Somnambula, Mistmane, and Meadowbrook had taken their seats. Next to Stygian, Mistmane sipped her firewater and whispered a polite, “Thank you.” He nodded graciously. Star Swirl gestured to the map, full of crossed-out towns and sites. “Now, if we can proceed –” “Bonny work, Stygie!” said Rockhoof, reaching across and slapping Stygian’s back so hard he almost headbutted the table. “Dinnae think a pencil-pusher like you’d have it in yer.” “Yes, you were a delight to see,” said Somnambula. “Oh, well,” said Stygian, resisting all efforts to squirm again. “I really should be thanking Meadowbr–” A thunderclap made all parties seize their ears, yelling. Stygian winced and groaned under his own, which were two points of agony. Dust settled from the overhead rafters. Only Mistmane looked unfazed, and she glared across at Star Swirl, who shut off his spell at once. “Now that I’ve got your attention,” Star Swirl snapped, “perhaps we can turn our minds to the fate of the entire nation! Something that does not involve any of these darn Litterbugs!”