XXXII.
The Breadbasket
ICC Permanent Premises
Lobby Kitchen
24. November, 2015
8:56 am MET
She sighed, closed her eyes, and lifted her forehooves onto the counter of the kitchenette.
She wanted to get out, escape this room and its glaring, unnatural electric light. But courage had to prevail. She had to do this right.
Carefully, the magic of her horn lifted the tiny bright orange-printed packet and let it hover over the cup.
She knew she had to get a precise dosage. Too little, and it wouldn’t achieve the desired effect. Too much, and it would send anypony running around the room spluttering.
She peeled off the upper portion. Immediately, a rain of finely ground powder began to seep out and trickle into the cup.
Then she lowered a long spoon into the cup and began to stir carefully.
Under her slow, deliberate turns, a new mixture started to emerge.
The first part was done.
Now came the second step. She bent to the right and, with her hoof, slid a bigger, translucent package into her view.
She clutched the bag with both hooves and began to squeeze.
With a sudden clap that made her jump slightly, the package popped open.
Her magical aura diving inside, she sent its white, cotton-like contents floating out, piece by piece by piece in a nice file, and made them snake through the air until the magical queue came to an unsteady halt right above the cup.
She licked her lip in concentration and lifted the spoon out.
But before she could mix in those as well, she noticed that something was off.
Something was very off.
A thin brown layer had formed on the milk.
She shuddered helplessly and carefully commanded the spoon to dive back in the mug and roll up the icky skin before it could do any further damage.
With that done, the cup’s contents once again looked perfectly innocuous. A warm, inviting hue of cloudy hazel.
And who could possibly resist it?
Pleased with herself, Lyra opened her mouth and let one of the marshmallows plop between the floor of her mouth and her tongue.
And as she chewed and let the sweet, vanilla-like goo seep over her gums, she went to carefully lower five more marshmallows into the cup.
Five. No more and no less. Just the perfect ratio of marshmallow.
She watched them bob up and down in the brew, and she soaked up the warming aroma as they soaked up the chocolate flavour. She was no chef, but she knew what she liked.
She lowered herself back onto the floor with all fours and magically commanded the cup to follow her.
If this wasn’t going to make it up to her boss, she didn’t know what could.
She knew that Mister E had specifically told her not to bring it up again. But she just had to show him her gratitude to him somehow. She didn’t have to mention anything.
Behind her, she heard two heavy human shoes step into the narrow room. They were followed by a familiar-sounding sing-song.
“Da sah auch mir ins Auge, der fremde Wandersmann… und füllte meinen Becher - ja Becher - und sah mich wieder aaan....”
That is, the voice sounded familiar. The sing-song did not. Quite to the contrary. The sing-song seemed unthinkable.
“Und füllte meinen Becher - ja Becher - Und sah mich wieder an!”
Before she even had the chance to put on her most modest smile, she turned to see her boss standing in the kitchenette’s doorway, grinning at her with glistening teeth.
“Hei, was die Becher klangen, Wie brannte Hand in Hand:” he sang on. His voice deep, simmering and passionate, and his chants slow and luxurious.
She began to panic again.
“Oh! Hey. Mister E… I tried to reach you-”
He hushed her with a raised finger
“‘Es lebe die Liebste deine - ja deine, Herzbruder, im Vaterlaaand.’”
She couldn’t help but gape at the human singing his ditty.
“It’s beaut-”
“Ah! Lena, canon! C’mon!” he ordered before continuing, swinging his fingers in the melody’s leisurely rythm, “‘Es lebe die Liebste deine - ja deine, Herzbruder, im Vaterland!’”
“Uh…”
Estermann chuckled slightly as he stepped over to a poser table. “Ah fuck it, you couldn’t have known. It’s German.”
“Wow...”
She couldn’t help but notice that his voice sounded a little uncoordinated and forlorn.
She turned around, the cup of cocoa still in her sway. “I… never took you for a singer.”
“I was in a boy’s choir once. Mezzo.”
The sight of Estermann surprised her. The tall, skinny human was as tall and skinny as he was two days ago, but something was different.
His cheeks and nose, which she remembered being so pale and lifeless, were all but gleaming a ripe red.
And though he looked admittedly a little rattled, a warm, affectionate smile still bloomed on his lips.
“Where were you yesterday?” she wondered. “I was getting worried. I didn’t see you check in last night.”
“I’m pretty sure you didn’t.”
He leaned onto the table, and let his moony gaze sweep over the ceiling above them.
Timidly, she stepped forward and let the cocoa float on the table in front of him.
“Here you go, sir. I made it just for you.”
“Say... do you ever long for the old days? University?” he asked.
“Why… sure I do.” she answered, though hesitantly. She had mixed feelings about her time in the Canterlotian. It was frustrating. Very frustrating.
“For decency… virtue? Ideals? Brotherhood?”
“Uh...” she mumbled, not quite sure what he was going for, “Sometimes. Anywho, here's a little Equestrian specialty I've conjured up: hot chocolate… with marshmallows!”
Estermann reacted with a weak whimper.
Then he grabbed the steaming drink and began gulping it down, his train of thought all but abandoned.
She was confused, to say the least.
Never, not even at his most casual, had she seen her boss like that before, whimpering pathetically, grinning sentimentally, and drinking hot chocolate with the restraint of a five year-old bison.
The haggard human standing before her was like a completely different person.
It was the same human… wasn’t it?
“Mister E… is everything okay?”
He nodded and mumbled something as he finished up, then smashed the mug back on the table like a cider stein.
“Yes, yes. Never better. God. I haven’t had Trinkschoggi in years.”
His smile was genuine. There was no trace of sarcasm or forced nicety in his words. Weird.
“Uh, anything for you, boss,” she said and smiled back.
“Tell me, Lena, what’s new?”
“Uh... Lyra,” she mumbled before she could stop herself.
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“Oh, okay.”
Secretly thankful that her boss’ curmudgeonly mood seemed to have been blown away once and for all, she puffed out her chest and trotted closer. “I looked over your notes about Trot, like I said I would.”
As if from nowhere, he lifted his suitcase onto the table. He straightened his robe out and ruminantly began fiddling around with the zipper.
“That’s great.”
“And, uh…” She grew more contemplative as she went over the details in her head another time. “I was right, not everything adds up. I compared it to all sorts of archive material, and… there are differences between her version of events and… and everypony else’s, by the looks of it.”
She shook her head as she tried to reform her words, “W-which isn’t to say the Queen lied or anything. Maybe… maybe the data from the archives is off somehow. Maybe it’s been altered, maybe?”
“Mhm.”
Finally, Estermann managed to break his zipper free of some blockage and pulled it back all the way up to the cravat with a satisfying buzzing noise.
Anxiously, she approached the saddlebags she had left in the corner, and pulled out a solitary piece of paper.
“Take this. I jotted down all the tiny - and… not so tiny - differences between the prosecution’s version of events and the Queen’s. I… hope you can read it fine. It took me the better half of last night to get it just right.”
She sent the page flying over to her boss.
“English, right?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Latin alphabet?”
“Mhm!”
He took a short glance at it before folding it a few times and putting it into his trouser pocket.
“Much obliged.”
“You… uh… one can never know if you’ll need it. Just in case.” She leaned in. “You... know they want to bring out a witness today, right?”
“Of course I do, I don’t come to these things unprepared.”
He glanced up in thought. “Floret… Oats. Age, 993 years. Occupation, restaurateur. Do you know something about her?“
“Me?”
Lyra tried to remember whether this was the same old mare she had spotted at Prosecutor Pierman’s side in the cafe that fateful evening.
The name still rang a bell, though.
“Not... much more than anypony. Owns the Trotter Shoals, down in Vanhoover. My neighbour’s accountant celebrated his wedding there.”
He snorted and shook his head. “993 years. I still can’t believe I read that. It’d make her… a whopping nine years old the time of the Trot thing. And a couple of years older than William the Conqueror.”
“What do you make of it?”
“Well, the prosecution is evidently proud of the yarn spinner they’ve found,” he chuckled.
She raised her eyebrows quizzically.
Estermann tapped his ear. “Remember what we talked about?”
From the boonies of Equestria? She remembered.
“And a good thing too. For they are about to exploit one of the International Criminal Court’s greatest flaws.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“The International Criminal Court... has flaws?”
He chuckled at her naivety, then shook his hand to soften his words a little.
“Oh, not… inherent to the ICC itself, of course, but it’s got this... winning combination of criminal law applied on a global scale, and local authorities of dubious-at-best trustworthiness. You see, the ICC love their eyewitnesse; they swear by them, because they can’t by anyone else.”
She nodded.
“Yeah. Understandable. I mean… They’re the greatest proof of something you can have.”
He eyed her in disbelief.
“Did I… say something wrong?”
He sighed theatrically.
“Lyra… Eyewitnesses are complete and utter imbeciles. They misremember, they misinterpret, they forget, they fantasise, they judge, they distort, they believe whatever you tell them to, and they plain make shit up. Say what you will about written documents and photographs… They can be meddled with, they can be faked, but at least they don’t change every five minutes by themselves!”
He stroked his scalp. “The thing about eyewitnesses is… they bring a human dimension to the crime. And that’s the problem.”
Her ears curled downward. Like that could be that bad a thing.
“Our judges adore that because, more often than not, that’s the only kind of proof they can get of a crime. I mean, if there was an extrajudicial execution committed in some tribal village at the edge of the known world that’s under the control of some cocaine-powered Generalissimo, you can’t exactly trust the local authorities to pick up shell casings for you, much less send them over. So the judges heavily tend to grant eyewitness accounts much more gravity than any other single piece of evidence . Certainly more than they deserve. Cases have stood and fallen by eyewitness testimony alone.”
“Well… that’s terrible then,” she nodded.
“Indeed…” he mumbled. “Though… curiously, not as terrible as you might think. You know what the problem with yarn famously is.”
He left a meaningful pause.
She shook her head, a little intimidated.
“It burns.” he answered, sinisterly, “The staler, the older... the better.”
She nodded. But his analogy was very grim.
“Will… will you need my help today?”
He sat upright.
“Now that you mention it...”
But a small cardboard box tumbled out from under his robe and smacked on the tiled floor.
“Ah, shit...” he sighed and walked after it.
Instinctively, she followed suit and quickly clutched the box between her forehooves.
“You can bin it. It’s empty.”
“What is it?” she inquired as she went - admittedly a little intrusively - to pry in it open. The label betrayed that it was meant for a very elegant-looking pair of burgundy-red designer glasses, wrapped in silky designer cushioning.
With heavy breaths, Estermann leaned against the table, his cheeks burning proudly.
“You need... glasses?” she asked, surprised,
“Not me. Your mother.”
“My…” she repeated, somewhat slow on the uptake. “Queen Chrysalis?”
“I… uh… saw them in a shop window on my way home yesterday. So I picked them up. I had to. As a... little sign of my… well...”
Instantly intrigued, she approached her boss and glanced up with him with wide eyes.
“W-what’s she saying?”
His lips curled into a smile, even as he was seemingly still focused in the glasses.
“Well, at least as of yesterday evening, the Queen was very pleased with our performance. Very happy customer. She… well...”
His cheeks reddened as he began began to chuckle. It looked as though he was succumbing to some unintentional hilarity he saw in that box.
No, she realised, it wasn’t hilarity. It was delight.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you this happy before,” she breathed.
“Really?” he agreed and sniffed, to get a hold of himself a little easier. He lowered the box and deposited it on the table. Somewhere near his chest.
As she basked in the glow of his cheeks, she decided to summon all her courage and address him.
“Were you with her… all night?”
He gazed back at her, his expression unsure.
“Oh… no… no no no. Of course not. I went for a long walk after our talk. By the sea. God, I love the sea so much.”
“Yeah, you... sure love your walks by the sea,” she observed cheerfully. “And when did you return to the hotel?”
His eyes met the ceiling again.
“I don’t think I did.”
A hint of worry coloured her thoughts.
“Then where did you sleep?”
“Didn’t feel like sleeping. I was… teeming with... Tatendrang!” He clenched his fist for emphasis, “I still am! I must have walked all over the damn city. You’d think there would be more sailing schools in this country.”
She gave a pause. “Sailing schools.”
“I never tried my hand at sailing. Must be great though. Sailing,” he said, sunken in some past dream. “A little yacht cruise never hurt anyone. And don’t ask me how I got that idea, because I don’t know. It probably came up in conversation somewhere some time ago.”
“Okay then...”
Her curiosity peaked.
She crept closer to the human leaning against the table. Maybe she could espy a better look on his face, study his human emotions in all their subtle details.
It looked a bit oily. It had been pouring buckets the whole morning, so that wasn’t surprising.
“Would you… like to freshen up?”
He looked up.
“Why? Do I have something?”
His eyes widened and his hand instinctively went for his cheeks.
At first, she thought she was seeing things.
“Your eyes...” she mumbled.
“What?” he asked and blinked repeatedly, “They’re not red, are they?”
She would have laughed.
His darting, lively, intelligent eyes, they shone - beamed! - in the most beautiful, august hue of all.
“Nuh-uh,” she mumbled. Her knees felt weak at the sight. Something stirred deep within her.
And before she could even figure out what might be wrong with him, her mind seemingly already had. Her twinge of worry faded away. Her thoughts settled. Nothing to worry about. It was all good.
“They’re magnificent,” she just said.
He gave her a relieved, confident smirk.
“Well… a compliment’s a compliment.”
He stretched his arms and panted.
“Something else, Heartstrings. A thought occurred to me last night, on the promenade. Couldn’t shake it since then.”
For some reason, she could feel the answer coming up. She cantered over to him and stalked by his legs.
“Yes, sir?”
It was like the refrain to a famous song that she knew by heart. The singular, slightly cryptic thought: brace yourself. This little courtroom outing was reaching its end. For now, great things were going to happen.
But before Estermann could say anything, he hesitated, then smiled.
“Nothing. Forget it. It’s stupid. I’m starting to think I should have taken a small nap after all.”
But the way he said that told her something different altogether.
To Lyra, his face was awash with hundreds of whirling thoughts, each unspoken, but each creating visible tumult behind his eyes.
In fact, it was the same kind of restless craziness she saw inside him that she felt within herself once in a while.
"Do you... feel that?"
"What?" he asked.
Her cheeks and eyes found themselves infused with sudden, otherworldly warmth.
An invisible, cozy warmth that seemed to pass effortlessly even through the walls and floors.
She led a hoof to her fluttering heart. The same warmth that had visited her so often already in the past few days. It could only mean one thing.
It was none other but the Queen’s presence meandering through the court building.
"The Queen has arrived."
"How do you know that?" he boss asked, but a quick glance at his face confirmed that he felt it too, on some much subtler level.
She winked at him.
“Uh… Say… hi.”
“Of course.” he replied, nonchalantly yet clearly absent-minded. “I think I’ll at least go splash my face first.”
He stepped for the door, thinking aloud.
“Actually scratch that. I’m going to sit down... somewhere.”
But Lyra trotted after him.
“Mister E!” she cried.
He turned around.
She distinctly remembered she planned not to speak of ‘it’ - but, in a split-second decision to be brave, she decided to buck that plan.
“I, uh… I still know what you told me about staying away from the Queen.”
“Yes?”
“Do… Will...”
She looked up at him with pitiful eyes. “All I want to do is serve. But… Am I ever going… Will I really have to avoid her forever and ever now?”
The warm smile returned.
“Ach, Forget what I said.”
Her heart jumped.
“Circumstances have changed. We have to stick together, don’t we?”
She could have cried out of sheer relief.
“...Yes, sir...”
He snapped his fingers and pointed at her, clinging on to the doorframe with his other hand.
“God, I almost forgot. Change of topic! Lyra, how good is your Trotish Ponish?”
The question came too fast for her. “I… Not good. I only ever did one course on-”
“Do you know any certified linguists specialising on it?”
“Actually, I do! My old professor’s ex-wife’s-”
“Good!”
He twisted his hand and looked at his watch. “What time is it in Equestria right now?”
“Uh… early afternoon, I guess.”
He silenced her anew and whipped out a bundle of papers.
“I want you to ask her to make translations of all the passages I’ve underlined in here. There’s twenty of them, each no more than five or six words long. And please have her include the phonetic pronunciation of these words. And make it quick.”
Without a warning, he threw her the thin folder, and she struggled to catch and hold onto it with her magic.
“H-how quick?”
He checked his watch.
“Well, the hearing starts in about five minutes. We won’t be done until at least twelve. There will probably be a recess of some kind… Just get it to me before the end.”
She bit her lip.
“It’s gonna take a little bit longer than that.”
“Why? You have a phone, you have a fax.”
“I mean… to conjure up a full written analysis…”
He struck the sentence down with a finger.
“Just the highlighted parts. Jot down what she said it says. If there’s any paperwork to be had, she can send it after. Just ask her to include her qualifications. Pronunciations, if at all feasible.”
She skipped towards the door.
“Should I inform the registry or...”
He just gave her a shifty eye.
“Hold off on that. This is just a hunch of mine. If I’m wrong and nothing comes of this inquiry, we won’t bring anything up either.”
“I’ll do what I can...”
And so he disappeared from view, and was gone.
Going his way to join their queen’s side, surely.
Oh, how much she would have given so much to go with him. With so little time left…
But then he dove back in a third time.
“Last thing, Heartstrings… Please hold back on the context. Give her the case number, make it all prim and proper, but the fewer times you... drop Chrysalis’s name into the conversation, the better. I don’t want the translator get hung up on… you know."
"Right."
"That’ll be all! Good luck.”
And he left. This time, for good.
She sighed, and turned to the grey sink to make another cocoa, this time for herself. A moment of such inexplicable happiness called for something sweet and warm.
However, as she went, she did get a small fright.
For an instant, she thought she could see a certain blue pegasus’ eyes examining her through the closing door. Before she could steal a second look, the door had already shut.
“Rise and shine, cupcake.”
Estermann, his thoughts interrupted, glanced up and turned. He realised he might have drifted off.
Chrysalis nodded at him and smiled cheekily.
Momentarily confused as to where he was, Estermann adjusted his robe, sat up in his chair, and grinned back.
Chrysalis lowered herself back down on her haunches on the floor, softened only by a pillow and her pile of chains. Two bored bailiffs flanked her, hands folded behind their backs.
Estermann sighed.
He found himself overcome by a deep, dragging melancholic sensation.
Even as he peacefully observed the already familiar courtroom, with its desks that were as homely as those of his favourite tavern, its seats that were arrayed with the levity of three dozen easy chairs, windows as inviting ad terrace doors in early autumn, and cameras and spotlights hanging above him like gently beaming night lights, he asked himself:
What the hell was he getting all sentimental about? This was a courtroom. It wasn’t idyllic and it certainly wasn’t snug.
Was he really going to miss this place so much once it was over?
The ride wasn’t nearly finished, and yet he was already feeling nostalgic about it?
It was like he was in a movie, the ending of which he had already seen, but couldn't recall.
This aura of conclusion and finality felt completely alien. It was like the textbook definition of 'false sense of security'.
There was no way this trial would end with any meaning of the word ‘quickly’ - no matter how dandy - or badly - it went for the defence. There was too much work to be done. And yet… why was this voice in the back of his head, assuring him that this was practically over?
This was stupid. He had to blow away those cobwebs. So he glanced over to the Queen once more. He couldn’t resist the temptation.
Chrysalis’ gaze had continued to wander. Now lost in thought herself, she gnawed on an itchy lip of hers with a fang, and her eyes fixed on the chains on her haunches, which she rocked up and down, as if she was trying to estimate the weight. Her surroundings, she ignored, and rather minded her thoughts.
Not unlike he himself did at the moment, Estermann realised.
Yes, he did probe into the possible future developments with Queen Chrysalis a bit the other day, but… What was yesterday all about, anyway? He had explicitly reminded himself that he would restrict himself to one shot. Just one.
But he clearly remembered taking a second one. And that was apparently enough to ensure that this was the only thing he remembered of that evening.
A blackout. How embarrassing. This hadn’t happened since his university days. Had he really not learned over the past decades to say no?
What must the guards have thought of him?
He couldn’t resist another peek. She was wrinkling her nose. Adorable. Oh, what wouldn’t he give to know what was going on in her head at the moment?
Anyway, aside from a slight buzz between his temples and a warm energetic burning in his cheeks, thankfully not much had come of his and Chrysalis’ late afternoon revelry. Infinitely better than being struck with thunderous, debilitating headaches.
No need for sunglasses in the courtroom after all. No sunglasses for Queen Chrysalis either, thankfully. She didn’t need even more Nurembergian imagery.
He gazed at her yet again. No, her new, wine-red reading specs did the job just fine. And thank goodness they did. They were expensive enough. Designer-grade. Italian!
No, she looked stunning. Absolutely gorgeous. So gorgeous, in fact, that he considered for a moment reaching out and adjusting them for her. She’d like that.
Thankfully, he got a hold of himself at the last second, and resolutely turned back around.
After all, Prosecutor Pierman still had the floor.
She was in the middle of arguing her case, her voice hoarse and her forehead shining increasingly with sweat.
“The Republic of Trot,” she explained, “was the breadbasket of the Western coastal region of Equestria. As the only warm water seaport connecting to the North Luna Ocean, the city was a major trading hub and transfer site for foodstuffs to the entire North-Western seaboard. Up to four million metric tonnes of fruit, vegetables and grain, imported from the southern regions by ship, entered the Equestrian territories via Trot per month.”
Pierman was trying hard to ignore the two court officers setting up a flip chart board next to her table. On it was fish-like shape that Estermann took two or three looks to recognise as a bird’s-eye view of a city.
The modern, computer-generated layout plan presented a reconstructed view of what looked like a sizable seaside port, erected on a fairly narrow peninsula protruding westward from a hilly coast into a vast sea speckled with thin strips of barrier islands, reefs and spits.
What caught his eye were the root-like docks flowering out on all sides, a gorgeous complex of castles and courtyards and a vast accompanying marketplace that sat on the utmost tip of the land strip like a poppy’s head, and some very intricate fortification to shield all that wealth.
The town was surrounded by the sea on three sides. Only the fourth, eastern side was connected to the various vineyards and olive groves stretching into the hinterland, and it was separated from them by a massive bulwark of a wall. And then another one. And another. The city had been broken up into three easily defensible tiers, presumably by a master builder who had once thought himself very prescient.
“At the time of the siege, the Republic of Trot was a sovereign city-state that encompassed eighty-three square kilometres of coastline, the northern outskirts of which overlapped with known settlement areas of four changeling hives, each hosting a population of some four to six thousand creatures, based on the appraisement of Exhibit 2c - the Equestrian year 20 edition of Magister Haycart’s Western Wildlife Chronicle.”
She waved at the ushers to speed up their installation efforts. Next to the city plan, they clamped on a map of the region - a largely non-descript stretch of coast that occasionally intertwined with mountain ranges further inland. On one of those ranges, the prosecution had affixed four red arrow stickers, each dryly assigned a number from one to four.
“In the years preceding the siege, the tribes and Trot came repeatedly into conflict, and there were well over one dozen recorded physical altercations between changeling warbands and Trot-based farmers, necessitating Trot to increase military presence to safeguard their territory and local agricultural operations. In Equestrian year 17, this culminated in the decision of the Trot Patricians’ Council to erect a string of nine forts along the contested frontier. However, owing to the remote position and persistence of Changeling aggression, these were soon abandoned as untenable. This left the stretch of land between the Four-Hive territory and the City of Trot in de facto control of Changeling raiders. I refer to Exhibit 2d - collected dispatches of the Trot Legion, Summer of the Equestrian year 30.”
She held aloft a paper copy of a crummy, handwritten letter.
“On the 8th day of the 2nd Summer Moon of the Equestrian year 30, an anonymous message reached the command headquarters of the Trot Legion, cautioning the commander, Admiral Flotsam, that the suspect, Her Royal Highness Chrysalis, had arrived in the region. It was claimed that she was travelling from the easterly direction and was now northbound towards one of the four Hives. The letter further claimed that the suspect sought to garner support among the local Changeling leadership for a possible organised military offensive against Trot, with the ultimate goal of complete military subjugation and annexation.”
Pierman shot Chrysalis an ugly glare. “As the suspect had already garnered a certain amount of infamy in the Equine states, owing to her…” She bit her lip. ”...to the reports of her leading the attack on Timbucktu, the Trot Patricians’ Council passed legislation invoking a state of emergency and ordering the general mobilisation of the populace to effect the defence of the city, on the 10th. I refer to Exhibit 2e - the minutes of the relevant sessions of the 8th, 9th and 10th.”
Chrysalis, rather tellingly, pouted in feigned interest, then lost it and gazed up at the cameras above her with an expectant, almost comical, cock of the eyebrows.
Estermann felt compelled to tell her that the live broadcast of the trial had been cut for the benefit of the investigation. But then he wondered what else could possibly keep her on her best behaviour.
“The city government expected a large airborne offensive to take place, much in the style of the Timbucktu assault, and adjusted its defences accordingly. Even though scattered reports of considerably escalated Changeling raids on surrounding homesteads did reach the military command, the anticipated great organised ‘push’ on the city proper remained absent.” She sighed. “On the 13th, there were fifty thousand persons inside the city walls. Nineteen thousand were military personnel. Thirty-one thousand were civilians, of whom at least nine thousand three hundred were refugees, taken in from the countryside.”
Estermann couldn’t help but feel a little perplexed. He wasn’t a military strategist, but wasn’t that was a slightly unusual soldier-to-civilian ratio? Almost two in five!
Pierman furrowed her brows and paused, “An unknown number of the latter group consisted of Changeling combatants, disguised as civilians.”
Then she wiped her nose with her handkerchief. “At 10:15 am, a train encompassing approximately twelve thousand five hundred further Changeling combatants was spotted approaching the city from north-westerly direction on the Princely Highway.”
She bowed over her table to try and pinpoint the road in question. She then gestured at her own robe, grabbing it as if to make a point. “This group too had magically altered their forms to disguise their identity as a Changeling-based military formation, and give the appearance of being civilian in nature, and of belonging to the...” She checked her notes to make sure she was using the right words. “...horse ethnicity, which is mostly found inhabiting the Saddle Arabian territories, located on the southern tip of the Equestrian continent. This should further give the deceptive impression of peaceful intentions, as the Saddle Arabian Territories were considered a faction politically neutral to the ongoing Changeling-Equestrian armed conflict, and was furthermore in contact with the Trot state exclusively as a partner in commerce.”
This ruse did sound oddly, unnervingly familiar to Estermann. Chrysalis had mentioned it. But had they not been donkeys the last time around?
“This effect is reflected in detail in the personal account of the siege survivor and councilmare, Missus Abysmally Rich, who died in 1491…”
He thought he could hear his client snicker immaturely. But he didn’t dare to turn and make sure. Either way, he couldn’t blame her. The name was just silly.
“...released on the 3rd day of the 1st winter moon of 1470, as found in Exhibit 2f. Miss Rich described the the news of the horse train as a ‘relieving, becalming display’, even going on to comment that ‘the news of such exotic merchants had been a welcome gust of hope in the face of the ever-mounting changeling dread that seemed to hang over us’.”
She turned a page. “With the acquiescence of the military units tasked with defending the city perimeter, the disguised changeling force made camp in the immediate vicinity of the outer wall. In the confusing situation that arose out of the deception, the Trot military leadership elected not to have the perimeter forcefully cleared out, but rather to seal the defensive ring around the city ‘prematurely’. All city gates of the first tier were closed at 11:30 am.”
Or, to put it in layman’s terms, let the horses fend for themselves, he mused.
“Despite this, at around noon, a group of around forty Changeling combatants managed to bypass the defensive perimeter and gain entry into the Lower City here…” She strained herself from all the pointing, “...Vanhoover Gate, and proceeded to pass into the Upper City via the… Mews Alley Barbican. At 12:30, the group arrived at the Grand Market, at the foot of the State Palace.”
Her finger shifted towards the defendant’s corner. “The Prosecution was able to discover a live witness who can confirm that Her Royal Highness, Chrysalis, was not only part of that group, but led it through the city.”
Here it was. Pierman’s magnum opus. Everyone seemed to lean forward a little in anticipation.
“The prosecution would like to submit Exhibit 2g, the account of Witness One, who had found herself in the vicinity of the Mews Alley Barbican at the time.”
That was Floret Oats she was talking about, though her name was tactfully eschewed for her own protection.
Estermann could no longer resist a glance.
He turned around and whispered to Queen Chrysalis, as soundlessly as possible.
“Ring any bells, your Highness? Mews Alley Barbican?”
She returned a predictably empty stare.
“Should it?”
Pierman continued, trying perhaps a little too hard to ignore the defence’s chit-chat.
“At 12:15 pm, the - as of now unchallenged - group of changelings and the suspect were engaged in talks with members of the Trot Patrician’s Council exiting the City Palace, amongst them Missus Rich. Topics included the terms for a retreat of all disguised and undisguised changeling combatants on Trot territory. Alternately, the peaceful surrender of the city was considered, with allowances being made for the undisturbed vacation of all pony inhabitants from Changeling-occupied territory.”
She slapped her notes on the tabletop, as if to make a point. “Both solutions were promptly rebuked by the suspect with the words, ‘You misunderstand the situation. I am your master and you are my slaves. No pony shall leave this city but wrapped up in my webs.”
Amused, Chrysalis cocked an eyebrow and sat back, her chains jingling.
“Around 12:30 pm, negotiations broke down entirely. It was at this point that the suspect approached the individual Patricians’ Council members and…” Pierman hesitated, as though she herself had trouble comprehending her own words, “...and made use of her innate magical reserves to place them in a coerced hypnotic trance.”
Now even Estermann couldn’t help but cock an eyebrow of his own.
“This hypnotic trance aided in achieving compliance and connivance to the Changeling demands to bring about an unconditional surrender of the city. At 12:40 pm, soldiers of the Trot Legion began reopening all city gates, some on direct order of Patrician’s Council members, others at the discretion of local commanding officers that had also found themselves under hypnotic coercion of the suspect.”
The claims really did sound as bizarre out of Pierman’s mouth as they did in the original documents.
Justice Suruma seemed to have similar chord struck, as she, looking at her two fellow judges with consternation, raised a silencing palm.
“So, my learned friend. Was the prosecution able to go into further detail as to the nature of this ‘coerced hypnotic trance’ or its specific effects?”
Even Pierman's eyes seemed to blank out for the briefest of moments before returning. “Magically induced hypnosis is a frequently documented and often-cited method of ensuring an individual’s, or even a large group of people’s, obedience in a variety of situations. It typically evokes within the victim an extreme, often fanatical - and ‘unnatural’, to quote the account of Witness One - sense of... affection for the ‘hypnotist’, and likewise strong… sympathies for the ‘hypnotist’s’ actions,... even in direct contrast to the sympathies and relationship towards the ‘hypnotist’... expressed by the victim herself immediately before the initiation of this treatment.”
Estermann felt his skin prickle in excitement. She was speaking off the cuff. Rambling. She had no idea!
“In other words,” she continued, “the victim is rendered in a mental state typified by... obstructed cognitive capabilities and an impaired judgement,...and is thusly manipulated by the ‘hypnotist’ to enter a state of greatly elevated risk-taking propensity… animated to act against her own will and both her own wellbeing and that of others. The victim is, for the duration of the effects of the hypnotic trance,not to be seen as not criminally responsible for her actions,... having been rendered non compos mentis and thus unable to distinguish right from wrong.”
Justice Suruma tapped her long nails, exchanging glances with a very convincingly-nodding Magistrate Fori. “My learned friend… There appears to be a rather formidable medical component to this matter. A psychological component at that. And, not least, a magical aspect - a scientific field in its own right. I think it would be proper if the prosecution’s evidence would reflect that objective scientific angle. Beyond eyewitness accounts.”
Estermann chuckled. That was surely putting it mildly!
Pierman smiled weakly. She seemed embarrassed by the digression that was thrust upon her. “I agree completely. Unfortunately, the criminal investigation has yet to yield such a scientific angle on magically induced hypnosis, though there is no doubt that there is a solid, well-explored factual basis to support this practice does exist within the Equestrian scientific community.”
Sated for now, Suruma nodded and jotted it down in her notes,
“Very well, Miss Pierman. I expect this matter to be expanded upon in a future session. Please continue with your elaborations on Trot.”
She nodded and sniffed.
“Following this interaction, Changeling forces were allowed to enter the city and disarm the Trot Legionary forces, rendering the City of Trot incapable of offering armed resistance.”
She rounded her desk and advanced upon the clipboard with an outstretched hand. “They proceeded to occupy the State Palace, the city armoury, the Trot Charity Hospital, four schoolhouses and fifteen warehouses storing foodstuffs and trade goods. All defence structures, gates and harbour installations were placed under Changeling control. Changeling forces also seized fifty-six marine vessels, twenty-nine of whom had been previously ordered set aside by the Trot Legion to facilitate a naval evacuation of civilians to the trading post of Vanhoover and the West Strip coastline in case of an assault. By 3:00 pm, the city of Trot and its surrounding countryside had, in its entirety, been effectively placed under control of Changeling Forces, commanded by the suspect.”
Pierman’s eyes closed in on said suspect with a lethal glare.
“Within the same day, the suspect promptly installed a martial regime in the city that took action against ponies and other non-changeling citizens alike in a repressive and brutal manner. The suspect issued a directive to evacuate all Trot denizens, irrespective of their combatant status or lack thereof - this includes minors - from both public and private buildings and gather in various public spaces. Some thirty thousand civilians were restrained and enlaced with changeling secrete, in a manner identical to the one reported from the sack of Timbucktu.
“These civilians were forced to spend the night from the 13th to the 14th outdoors, where they were exposed to cold temperatures, high winds and rain.
“Civilians who resisted in any fashion, or who tried to safeguard their homes and businesses against looters, were brutalised by Changeling combatants and forcibly deported. The post-siege Trot population census of 30 - Exhibit 2h - notes that, in the time frame of 3:00 pm of the 13th to 9:00 am on the 14th, a grand total of twelve thousand five hundred Trot combatants and civilians were forcibly removed from the city of Trot on foot and presumably deported to locations beyond Trot sovereign territory into the mountainous, forested hinterland in the disputed Changeling territory. No information concerning their whereabouts and fate exist from the 14th onward.” Her voice uttered the last couple of words with poignant softness, the implication being clear.
But Estermann wasn’t impressed. She was hesitating. Choosing her words wisely. He would put a pin in that.
“Others again, while kept in detainment inside Trot, were also subjected to hypnotic coercion. Some five hundred civilians and combatants were forcibly hypnotised and thus made docile, though some reports set the number as high as fifteen hundred.”
More of the same. Estermann rubbed his temple. He was too dazed by this to even roll his eyes.
“At around 10:00 pm, green-tinted fires broke out in the docklands, simultaneously at different corners of the mercantile and port districts. These fires were allowed by the occupation forces to spread across the entire harbourfront, mostly consisting of wooden or majority-wooden structures. Amongst the buildings that were completely razed were thirty-eight warehouses and assorted counting houses, storing goods worth three hundred and sixty million US dollars. These warehouses also carried at least one million tonnes of foodstuffs - including the full municipal strategic grain reserve - which were subsequently entirely destroyed or rendered inedible.
“Outside the harbour area, the occupation forces inflicted property damage numbered at an approximated one hundred and ninety million US dollars, a majority of which was private property that was either destroyed, damaged or stolen from private households.”
She continued with a relief-like sigh.
“On the morning of the 14th, around 10:00 am, the first units of the White Tail Cavalry Division of the Royal Equestrian Guard arrived in the vicinity of the City of Trot, commanded by Princess Celestia.”
Instantly interested, Estermann jerked forward. Chrysalis, who looked electrified at the mention, raised her ears.
Celestia.
The name of the dreaded one had been uttered. Now all odds were off.
“The following is taken from Exhibit 2i - the report to the Canterlot Royal Guard General’s Staff from the 28th: The Equestrian troops were part of a relief force that started from White Tail Woods Garrison on the 12th, at the urgent behest for assistance from the Trot Patrician’s Council, received by way of messenger on the same day.
“Upon reconnoitring the situation of Trot’s sack, the Equestrian units were directed to surround and lay siege to the marauding Changeling troops. The siege ring around the city was sealed around noon, during which a convoy carrying eighteen hundred seventeen civilian prisoners, departing from Trot and northbound, could be halted and liberated.
“The report describes the prisoners being in a ‘foul, squalid’ condition, as ‘weathered’ and barely healthy enough to move at a slow walk. Their psychological condition was described as ‘petrified with terror’, and every interrogated victim either refused or was otherwise incapable of detailing the situation inside the city.”
She pressed her palms together meaningfully. “Further it is mentioned that many of the drivers of this convoy were themselves Trot civilians and soldiers. Many tried to force the convoy through the Equestrian lines and attacked soldiers with, quote, ‘fanatical zeal’. All were later diagnosed by Royal Guard Corps-Stallions with symptoms of hypnotic coercion.”
Estermann harrumphed. The interesting part was yet to come.
Chrysalis, for her part, had grown visibly tense. A slight nervous shiver ran through her limbs,
That sight alone provoked an instant pang of sympathy in Estermann, tempting him to swing his chair around to her to keep her aching form in view.
“At 2:00 pm, Princess Celestia, in her position as the commanding officer of the relief force, initiated a dialogue with members of the occupation force inside the city.”
“So is that what she called it?” a sarcastic voice asked almost immediately.
Estermann peered around in giddiness, only to realise, far too late and to his horror, that it was he who spoke, while his still preoccupied with the Queen.
The three judges gave them a stern glance as he covered his jaw in shock. Even the Queen herself seemed surprised, though it might not have been because of him.
Pierman continued, unfazed.
“Around 3:00 pm, individual Changeling units had broken away from the main force and begun exiting the city in a bid to lay down their arms, which the Equestrian forces accepted, and took these soldiers prisoner.”
That wasn’t right. Estermann looked into Chrysalis’ eyes as he tried to remember. She had told him that the changelings themselves had been put… under some spell. Wasn’t it something like that?
“This wave of surrender soon spread to more units, who successively, and peacefully, vacated the town and too were taken prisoners of war.”
Estermann saw the Queen breathlessly mouth one word.
“Liars!”
“However, some two thousand soldiers, still loyal to the command of Queen Chrysalis, refused the opportunity to surrender. Instead, the suspect, in accompaniment of these remaining forces, exited the city on the northern seaside and retreated, airborne, into the Changeling-held countryside. The Equestrian relief force did not find itself in a position to oppose her movement or pursue.”
A pained “What?” echoed through the room.
That, Estermann realised almost in relief, really was Chrysalis this time. She had an expression on her that was both offended, and horrified, and hurt. All humour that may have been in her tone before had dripped away.
Justice Suruma leaned forward. “Your Highness!”
Chrysalis gazed into Estermann, pleading for help. ‘You know what’s wrong with this, don’t you?’ she seemed to scream, ‘I told you everything! This is bullshit.’
He didn't know if 'bullshit' really was the word she would have used, but still.
Either way, Estermann felt that his sympathies lay entirely with her. He felt strongly compelled to scoot closer and give her some sort of reassuring pat, but hevwas thankfully interrupted by Justice Suruma chiming in.
“That’s thrice I have warned you now, your Highness. If you insist on interrupting the proceedings with your incessant commentary, I will have removed for the remainder of the proceedings. Have I made myself clear?”
“We’ll see about that,” she hissed and reluctantly died down, “Pathetic… travelling circus.”
Suruma sourly nodded at Pierman, who continued in a huff,
“At 5:00 pm, after it became evident to the Equestrian command that no more Changeling units were willing to lay down their arms, the force took the city by storm. During the operation, it is reported of changeling combatants demonstratively placing groups of civilian captives in dangerous positions at strategic locations in the city, in order to deter Equestrian units from advancing further, and to make it possible to the Changeling combatants to exploit the chaos and magically disguise themselves as non-combatants.”
Pierman mentioned that in something of a weirdly pleased tone. At last, she had found a count with which to punish the shapeshifters for shapeshifting.
“A total of fourteen hundred Changeling combatants were captured during the operation. The report described the scene they found as follows: Civilians and combatants, still huddled in tightly packed groups and restrained with secrete, had been forced to spend the night without shelter all across the city. No exceptions had been made, neither for minors, nor the elderly, nor the ill or injured. Nor had any arrangements been made for… sanitation.”
A subtle, involuntary squirm crept over those present.
“In the aftermath, nine hundred and sixty persons were admitted into medical care as a result of their harsh treatment and unsanitary conditions under Changeling detention. Amongst them were one three hundred fourteen cases of croup and five hundred ninenty-one cases of horsey hives, an Equestrian strain of measles. Later, a swamp fever epidemic struck the recuperating population of Trot, infecting sixty-four hundred and thirty people.”
Unconsciously, she laid a hand on her belly, “The situation was worsened greatly by a famine that lasted two weeks following the occupation, owing to the burning of the foodstuff warehouses and grain reserve, as well as a subsequent shortage of food that could be imported, owing to the security situation in the conflict-torn countryside. At its peak, rations had to be lowered to 500 grammes of grain and hay per day - an insufficient amount of nutrients to sustain even an earth pony foal. As a result of these combined factors, four thousand and ten people ended up... succumbing while still in treatment.
She glanced left, as if to direct her attention at all the other victims she had overlooked,
“Of the five to fifteen hundred victims of hypnotic coercion, only twenty-one were reported to have suffered no long-term psychological traumas. Reports exist of individual victims remaining in treatment as late as the Equestrian year 82, fifty-two years after the attack.
Now she looked to the right. “Thirteen thousand combatants and civilians were declared missing - a majority of whom were very likely evacuated by Changeling forces prior to the arrival of the Equestrian relief force. There are no reports of these thirteen thousand missing persons being found or otherwise resurfacing.”
She laid one hand into her other as she wrapped up her recounting of these tragic statistics.
“The advances of the Changeling forces under Her Royal Highness, Queen Chrysalis, was in so far calculated. The occupation, albeit short-lived, had dealt severe damage to the town, from which it never managed to recover. News of the assault on Trot, the disappearances of its citizens, the perceived air of ready collaboration of Trot citizens with the Changeling occupation force and their meticulous destruction of trade goods, spread across the Equestrian peninsula. This caused a majority of the state’s trading partners to distance themselves permanently from the location, citing, in part, also economic insecurity due to the extended presence of Changeling troops in the region and continued, sporadic fighting.
This severe economic hit, exacerbated through the population’s decimation, triggered a severe downturn. In the year following the lifting of the occupation, the GDP of the state - per capita at purchasing power parity - fell by sixty-two percent. This, in turn, encouraged more citizens of the region to emigrate to the safety of southern and south-eastern fortified urban centres, particularly those inside the Principality of Equestria.”
Her words softened and slowed as she seemed to lay the city to eternal rest.
“The once equine-dominated countryside became severely depopulated. Trot would remain a politically disputed territory, a ‘no-man’s land’, for several decades onward. Citing Exhibit 2j - the 1001 Equestrian Demographics Census - to this day, only an estimated 10% of the Trot diaspora remains settled on the Western seaboard. It is a fact that the suspect’s actions led directly to the eradication of equine settlement in the region, by way of deportation, mass death and displacement.”
She drilled a finger into her document stash.
“A military incursion and assault on a major civilian settlement, under the use of the unlawful ruse of masquerading military personnel and other combatants as non-combatants. A military occupation marred by wanton destruction of strategically insignificant private property and flagrant, widespread, repeated, brutal abuses of protected rights of non-combatants and hors-de-combat, as guaranteed by international law. Worse damage could only be prevented by the timely intervention of the Royal Equestrian Guard.”
Celestia, the hero. Chrysalis, the villain.
Naturally.
Lastly, Pierman rounded out her tirade by unleashing the increasingly familiar deluge of counts of indictment. Her voice was raspy and teetering on hoarseness, but there was glee in it yet.
“In the timespan from the 13th to the 14th of the 2nd Summer Moon of the Equestrian year 30, Changeling combatants active in the vicinity of the City of Trot have become culpable of…”
Seventeen. There were seventeen counts that Pierman had squeezed into this incident.
Three counts of genocide against the Trotish Earth Ponies. By inflicting murder, severe physical and mental harm and conditions of life to bring about the destruction of the entire people, she had essentially run the whole gamut. Destruction of hospitals, schools, public services, the strategic grain reserve, and denial of warmth, shelter, nourishment, medical supplies and basic sanitation. A succinct recipe for wiping out a race of people in the long run, apparently.
Six counts of crimes against sapiency, which further elaborated what had been described as genocide, but plus imprisonment, plus forced disappearance, and plus the freshly added violation of the sanctity of the mind. Yes, he knew he would have to circle back to this sore thumb.
Eight counts of war crimes, which were the previous six counts of crimes against sapiency warmed over, but updated for the surrendered Trot Legion - since brutalising civilians was an athemar, but brutalising soldiers alongside them was a double disgrace - and garnished with the malicious crimes against property, which totalled up to - a measly, considering all that came before it just now - 550 Million dollars.
It took Pierman a solid six minutes to read all counts out aloud.
Estermann was well within his right to be aghast. Other suspects of the ICC had barely received a quarter of the counts for their entire careers - much less for one incident.
Pierman, meanwhile, seemed no longer interested in the trial as much as winning the world’s most perverse bingo game.
“The suspect, Her Royal Highness Chrysalis, has made herself culpable of these counts by ordering or overseeing these actions, once again in her position as the commanding officer of the Changeling military force in the City of Trot.”
Estermann found the Queen with her eyes shut, her breaths short, as she seemed to try and desperately keep a hold of herself in light of what she had just heard.
The Trot affair seemed to have a much more profound impact on her than the Timbucktu one. Which was understandable.
After all, Celestia didn’t turn up in Timbucktu.
“Thank you for your exhaustive presentation, Miss Pierman.” Suruma sighed. “Mister Estermann? Would this be a convenient moment to for Her Royal Highness and the defence to take a brief recess?”
She was alluding to yesterday. She was expecting him to take another long moment to pause and think about what he was about to say and do.
It sounded sensible. But almost immediately, Estermann found himself furiously shaking his head at the suggestion.
No. There was no time for respite. A brief glance toward his client’s beaming eyes affirmed him. No. First, he was going to show that melodramatic pygmy Pierman.
“That won’t be necessary this time, Madam President,” he declared, swelling with pride and adrenaline, “We would like to proceed with the examination immediately.”
Anger was boiling up inside him, a lot of which he couldn’t place. But it was genuine alright.
None too amused, Suruma acquiesced.
“Before we move on, I would like to direct your attention to exhibits 2e, 2f and 2h. All contain multiple instances of… I suppose an interesting word choice.”
Pierman rolled her eyes.
“Can my esteemed colleague direct to the instances of the suspect being referred to by name?”
He dodged her deadly glare and shrugged comically, “I suppose it promises to become a running theme at this point, but I do earnestly believe that the designation that the suspect is given in these documents is, in itself, imperative for his or her positive identification.”
She flung open her booklet and tapped on the first page she saw.
“I refer my honourable friend to Exhibit 2e, Page fifty, paragraph 4. For example.”
“Yes...” Estermann mumbled. “The translation supposes that the sentence is, ‘It is a sad given that measures taken against the horde under Queen Chrysalis may, if necessary, inconvenience commerce and shipping’, et cetera.”
Unsure of where he as going with this, Pierman agreed.
“Yes, that is correct.”
He tapped his lips in thought.
“I regret to admit that I am not acquainted with the Equestrian languages in the slightest, however it caught my eye that every word and letter combination that has been translated as meaning ‘Queen Chrysalis’ inside these three exhibits look… distinct from the ‘Queen Chrysalis’ mentionings in the remaining Equestrian-language documents.”
She let out an exasperated huff.
“The words appear to be different,” he enunciated, “Could my esteemed colleague offer an explanation for the translation adamantly referring to both these words equally as ‘Queen Chrysalis’?”
Her arms flailed a bit. It looked irreverent, like the buildup to an angry shrug.
She barely regained her composure to sift through the pages, when a helpful whisper from the orange earth pony, the special counsel for the victims, caught her attention.
Pierman nodded and declared,
“All Equestrian-language exhibits concerning the Trot incident were written in Standardised Equestrian, or a derivation thereof. This is the formal version of the Equestrian language, as it has been in use in the City of Canterlot and in government correspondence over the last 1000 years. Exhibits 2e, 2f and 2h, on the other hand, were written down in Trotish Ponish, an Equestrian dialect that is exclusive to the Western Seaboard, and which is related to, but not identical with, Standardised Equestrian.”
She looked up. “So what my learned friend has found here is merely a difference in spelling. Both words were translated as ‘Queen Chrysalis’ because they mean the same thing.”
He nodded warily.
“Who was the translation provided by?”
“The Equestrian Civil Service, with assistance and certification from the Royal Canterlotian Faculty for Ancient Linguistics.”
He realised he couldn’t do anything with that. Not yet. He had to put a pin in that too.
He bowed his head graciously and settled down.
Suruma took the cue.
“Very well. Miss Pierman. If I am not mistaken, you wanted to proceed with the presentation of the prosecution’s next piece of demonstrative evidence.”
Pierman nodded, almost as eager to get on with it as Estermann himself. “That would Exhibit 2m. The Four Scarabs.”
Suruma hailed the bailiff and ordered the exhibit to be fetched. Estermann, briefly realising that he had lost track, immediately went to search for the relevant entry. ‘The Scarabs’... It was not the first piece of evidence that sprang into his mind.
He looked up to see two bailiffs march into the centre of the room. The first one carried a folding table under his arm, the second one balanced a tray. And on the tray sat four shiny black, shoebox-sized, beetle-like stones. At least the etymology of the ‘scarabs’ was self-evident.
The table was assembled and the Scarabs laid out.
“Madam President, may I and my associate enter the well to finish setting the equipment up?” Pierman asked
Suruma nodded, and Pierman ushered the earth pony mare that sat on the other table to her right - the same one Estermann kept seeing the last couple of times but couldn’t quite figure out her purpose - to join her in the well.
Estermann saw Chrysalis mutter, so hoarse as to be inaudible, with her eyes wide and glassy, “Sweet heavens… I haven’t seen one of those in years...”
“This,” Pierman continued, “is a Changeling-constructed artefact that was recovered by Royal Equestrian Guard troops inside the Vanhoover Gatehouse in the City of Trot on the 14th of the 2nd Summer Moon of the Equestrian year 30. The ‘Four Scarabs’, as it’s been colloquially named in Equestria, It is one of a number of identical long-distance communication devices that function on the basis of innate magical energy. It has seen well-documented use amongst members of the changeling race, both military and civilian in nature, to enable the two-way transmission of visual and sound signals in real time, very similar to a video phone, or a video chat connection.”
Together, the woman and the mare went to slightly shoving the rocks around on the desk with tiny, artful nudges.
“In the Equestrian year 999, researchers of the Archeological Faculty of the Royal Canterlotian University in Canterlot successfully restored this machine, and opened access any information that has been saved upon it.”
She picked up one of the stones with a sweaty hand and showed it around the room, “The stones, made from a mineral similar to onyx, function, if placed in the right formation, as a transmitter and receiver of this information-carrying magical energy. The energy has been discovered to leave microscopic imprints on the material, comparable to the procedure of imprinting information on optical discs. This makes it possible to review previous interactions with the calling party - that is, from the perspective of the receiver.”
Estermann crossed his arms and nudged forward on his chair impatiently.
“Using a special incantation, the researchers were able to successfully date a certain series of imprints to the time during Summer of the Equestrian year 30. Several imprints could be successfully recovered that clearly reveal the suspect, Queen Chrysalis, as a speaker, interacting with the user of these Four Scarabs, in the Summer of the Equestrian year 30.”
Chrysalis huffed at the revelation.
“Ah,” Suruma sighed, “So you are of the opinion that the footage depicting the machine’s use by the suspect, in combination of the approximate dating of the footage and the location of the machine, can serve to establish the suspect’s whereabouts at the time of the Trot attack?”
Pierman nodded in relief, probably glad that her ramblings actually made sense to someone.
“Indeed. Madam President. The footage that we will show in a moment serves as inculpatory evidence against the suspect, since it unambiguously proves her integral role as on-scene commanding officer during the timespan in which the violations took place.”
She placed her scarab down again, only for the earth pony mare to twist it around carefully and array it in what looked like a perfect square.
“The scarabs have been pre-charged to enable this demonstration.” the mare explained, trying to sound helpful.
After a few more seconds of positioning, a high-pitched vibration suddenly shook the room.
One after the other, the pitch-black, massive stones began to glow in bright green flames.
Estermann was in awe. He had never seen such a phenomenon before. He didn’t even notice that the Queen, just as captivated by the sight, had begun gnawing on the tip of her own, hole-ridden hoof, at least as much as the chains allowed it, until a few seconds into the spectacle.
The stones began to fold open, as though they were mechanical. The bright energy shot out and jumped from stone to stone, infusing each with the others’ power, their pace increasing rapidly.
Lastly, the scarabs began sprouting something by far more solid - something resembling thick cobweb-like roots that made the scarabs themselves grow into the air like unholy fungi.
At some point, the green energy they kept discharging bundled in the air above the stones.
Like a St Elmo’s light, it danced in the air like a gradually growing balloon of green fire.
As some point, around the time it had swollen to the size of a small fridge, it stabilised.
Inside the flame, an eerie image appeared, white and flickering.
The judge panel looked, at best, daunted by what they saw. Colm was suspended in lethargic shock as he held onto his pen for comfort. Lexy Fori, while not necessarily amazed by the magical display, still looked very much intrigued.
“I suppose this isn’t the footage quite yet?” Suruma made sure, her tone wavering, sounding like she was moments away from summoning the firefighters.
“It will be visible in a couple of minutes, Madam President.”
It only took a few seconds.
From one moment to the next, the entire room - defence staff, prosecution, judges, spectators and Chrysalis - found themselves gazing at the blown-up image of a human woman’s face.
Her dark hair was unkempt. Her pale unwashed cheeks glistened with sweat. Her beady brown eyes were cold and piercing, yet agitated.
It didn’t take long for the chamber to drown in uncertain mumbling.
Estermann, mystified by the unexpected sight, glanced over to Prosecutor Pierman and her earth pony companion.
The two were trading concerned stares as they waited for something - anything - good to happen.
They clearly had no idea what was going on either.
On the other end of the line, the mysterious woman’s mouth began to move.
A stuttering “Hello?” came from the image.
“Who the hay is that?” Chrysalis inquired in a sharp, annoyed tone. Her remark was contested by no one.
But so, just as suddenly as she appeared, the mysterious woman was gone, disappearing back into the bright white void that had seemingly birthed her.
Immediately freed from her shock, Pierman flung herself upon the four scarabs on the table, frantically repositioning and pleadingly gazing at the impotent white cloud above her.
Estermann could see her mouthing a breathless mantra of “Shit! Shit Shit!” at the pony. The pony was also stammering something incoherent as she tried to lend Pierman a hoof.
“Is there a problem?” Suruma carefully asked, as the other two justices all but held onto her robe out of excitement, “Who was that?”
“I don’t...” Pierman began to stammer, “Where is the footage? Why isn’t there any footage?”
“Miss Pierman.”
The beleaguered prosecutor looked up.
“Is something wrong?”
“I… I must make sure...” She gazed impotently at the bewildering magical artefact, “...that the impression wasn’t… eroded by that… interference. I was assured by the faculty that the imprints on the Scarabs are very fragile… I must make sure it hasn’t been… overwritten.”
There was a horrified moment of silence.
The word seemed to linger in the room for eternities.
“My learned friend, am I understanding this right?”
“I… need to go back… I...”
Her eyes glazed over. Her voice faded away.
“Are you… still able to present the exhibit?”
Pierman didn’t answer.
Both Justice Suruma and Magistrate Fori, whose large pony eyes were now round as saucers, called for the bailiff almost immediately.
“Court officer!”
“We’ll conduct a recess!”
“Thirty minutes!”
Estermann did not want a recess. He was still itching for a fight.
But even so, he suddenly couldn’t stop chuckling.
As the three justices begged their leave, Estermann was already on his feet before they had walked out the door.
There was an unearthly force flowing through his body, spurring him on to do something proactive.
“Is everything okay, Mister Estermann?” a gravelly voice asked him from behind.
It was Garibaldi. Estermann had barely noticed him during the hearing. Nor had he noticed that Garibaldi was not wearing glasses. He had hidden them away long before either Estermann or the queen even entered.
Either way, Estermann’s eyes were pulled back towards the new red frames sitting on Chrysalis’ own muzzle, and the powerful green eyes that sat behind them.
Her subdued ire was letting them beam in an even more saturated green than before, and the sentiment was all but contagious.
Even as three bailiffs shuffled her off through her separate hidden defendant’s doorway, Chrysalis’ trembling face infused Estermann with a veritable kill order.
If he had been a knight of hers, he would have drawn his sword for her at that moment.
But there was some semblance of professional posture left in him, and it managed wrestle back control over his temper, if only temporarily.
He was parched, he needed something to drink.
His quest for a water tap led him out of the courtroom and into the tight corridor branching off towards the bathrooms and mini-kitchen.
As he tried to muster his thoughts and process what he had - and what he hadn’t - just seen in a more sober manner, he spotted Pierman standing mere feet away from him.
There she was. The troublemaker. In the flesh.
She stood huddled in the cramped hallway with her two henchponies, the demure earth pony mare and the constantly ruffled-looking pegasus stallion.
They were in the middle of a very fraught discussion.
“How the h… how on earth could that happen?!” she inquired.
“I don’t know, Prosecutor,” the mare responded, “Some… foal back in Equestria must have activated another machine at just the wrong moment. It was bad timing, nothing more.”
Pierman tried hard to sound less irate than she really was.
“You can say that again. We’re can’t stand out there looking like idiots. We need to bring the Queen’s recordings back, or else they’re gonna savage Missus Oats’ testimony when it's her turn.”
The Schadenfreude that wormed its way through Estermann’s chest at that moment was highly satisfying.
He took a spirited step forward. Mocking a person to their face was always something that Estermann had always tried to avoid. He knew it should be below him, though it very often wasn’t. It made him feel common, boorish.
But no, not in that moment. He licked his lips.
“Need a hand?” he asked.
The three conspiring creatures turned to gaze at him. Pierman was the first to react.
“What do you want, Estermann?”
Estermann took his time with answering.
“Was a bit of a dud just now, wasn’t it?”
As Pierman realised where this was going, she moved to turn back away from him.
“Just... stay out of my way.”
But Estermann wasn’t done yet.
“You must be one of the most pathetic people I have ever met, Pierman.”
He held up two fingers for reference. “Can’t even establish the suspect’s involvement twice in a row. ”
The orange mare clutched Pierman by her robe and tried to drag her away.
“Come now. Let’s go,” she hushed, “If we can’t get manage to restore the impression on the thing, we’ll need to get out the photos and the recordings…”
But Pierman did not follow along. She held up a silencing paw as she looked back over to Estermann. Then she picked up the gauntlet.
“Wait. Are we… somehow suggesting that any of this wasn’t your client’s accomplishment? Really, Mister Estermann?”
She looked at him incredulously. “Let’s not kid ourselves here. You know it was her who sent those fifteen thousand to their deaths. Left their extended families on the street to rot and die. You know - better than anyone in that room. Except for her, of course.”
Estermann grinned and scoffed at her accusation.
“Just look at your smirk,” she muttered hatefully.
“Do I now? I suppose you can prove that about as well as anything else you tried your hands at.”
He threw a patronising glance at the two ponies at her feet. “Makes one wonder what the Equestrians see in you. They’d be well within their rights to want their money back.”
This seemed to strike some chord within Pierman.
“Did you not hear me? Fuck off.” she growled, as best as she could.
Estermann smiled as he realised the gloves were off.
“Tell me, do you lick up all the shit they toss you? A propaganda pamphlet here, a conveniently detailed field report there, a... poem…”
He emphasised the last one forcefully that he began to chuckle involuntarily.
“All from the same fucking palace, no doubt. A useful idiot for the Equestrian crown, that’s what you are.”
He took a step closer. “What a public service. How kind of you to try and pull out the greatest thorn in Celestia’s side. Send her greatest adversary to the stockades for her.”
The mare looked appalled. The stallion was seething.
“Oh, yes,” Pierman agreed sarcastically, he voice trembling, “The Equestrians are clearly the bad guys here, aren’t they? How rude of them to clog your precious changeling hives with their own decomposing bodies!”
He just snorted.
As he sat in the courtroom, he had been toying with the idea of just bursting out then and there the accusations about the volcano that Celestia shoved Chrysalis and her army into. He knew it was a stupid thing to do at that stage. That’s what he told Queen Chrysalis back then, anyway. But as he read the distraught faces of the ponies flanking the prosecutor, he decided to take some delight.
“Ask your Equestrian handlers about Old Palm Mountain!” he requested, the humour in his voice lost, “Ask them what happened up there, to Queen Chrysalis and all her children, right after Trot” he stated, leaning forward in thick mockery, “At this point, you’re trying to make it look like they all... just barrelled out Trot’s backdoor as soon as Celestia came marching down the road. I mean… Weren’t they ‘imprisoned’? Wasn’t that the official story?”
Pierman looked uncertain at first. But she recovered in time.
“Oh, who told you that? Chrysalis?” She raised an eyebrow and spat, mockingly, “Did she confess to you?”
Estermann grit his teeth, wondering momentarily if he had said a bit too much just now.
A pained yet cruel smile welled up on her face as she struck back.
“I don’t give a shit what happened on some godforsaken mountain that might not even exist.”
She pointed at a spot in front of her feet. “I only see what’s laid in front of me. And what I see are war, famine, pestilence and death. But all courtesy of only one horse: The Queen of all Changelings.”
She crept closer, closing the distance between herself and Estermann ever so slightly, “Chrysalis is going to burn in hell. And so will you, for putting your hands in hers, you repulsive lapdog.”
That hurt a little, Estermann admitted to himself as he looked down at her.
“You spiteful midget.”
Pierman chortled tearfully.
“Whatever you call me, you’ll still be a dog.”
She paused. “But who am I to judge? I guess this is in your people’s DNA anyway, isn’t it?”
Estermann left his mouth hanging open.
“Excuse me, what?”
She shrugged theatrically.
“Sucking up to autocrats and killers? Playing bookie for them? Stashing their pillage for them? Fighting their wars for them? That’s what you Swiss always have excelled at.”
She cocked her head to the side teasingly, “Perhaps I should look up the surname ‘Estermann’ one of these days. Let’s see what tumbles out of your family tree.”
That hurt a lot more, Estermann realised.
“Fuck you.” he snapped as he bolted a few forceful steps closer to the prosecutor.
But he found himself stopped by a gust of wind, followed by the barrel of the pegasus putting itself between him and her.
The stallion held out a threatening hoof as Estermann tumbled back reflexively.
“Go ahead,” the pegasus cried, “Give me a reason.”
Estermann chuckled bravely.
“You go ahead! Hit me. It worked out so well for your princess yesterday, didn’t it?”
At that moment, the floating pegasus was shoved to the side as Pierman fought her way back over to Estermann and practically lunged at his face.
“Fuck me?” she asked, a growing anger piercing her voice, “No. fuck you! You and your degenerate client. You and your... pathological deference to her. That changeling hypnosis we talked about-”
Estermann interrupted her with a loud, showy laugh.
“Ha! There your go again with your rubbish! What was that armchair psychology meant to be?”
“Oh, it’s real,” she protested and struck a finger at his face, “and you’re the living, breathing proof. You got a screw loose, as far as I’m concerned. You’re no longer of sound mind. The whole morning, you looked like you tried a bit too much of your client’s ketamine.”
Was she trying to say what he thought she was trying to say? Was she really trying to implicate him in her charges next? Oh, the gall of that woman.
He struck out a finger back at her, his tone sharp and reprimanding.
“You watch your fucking mouth, Pierman. That’s not a road you want to go down. Could get you disbarred.”
Here the pegasus, still floating next to him, struck out with lightning movement and slapped Estermann’s pointing hand away from Pierman’s largely defiant face.
“Back off, monkey! You hear me? You leave her alone before you’ll get a taste of me!” he spat.
Though Estermann made a point of not addressing him directly, he still put up his other to defend himself.
“Pierman...” he wheezed, “Call off the cavalry charge, will you?”
“Leave him, Beam. He just isn’t worth it.” Pierman moaned, reluctantly acquiescing.
But ‘Beam’ took a few moments of his own to stand down.
“Before the day’s over, you and your ‘Queen’ will choke on your own guilt. Got it?” she growled.
Estermann ignored him, and lowered his own hands.
Pierman straightened her robe, and tried to calm herself a little. She pulled out the inevitable handkerchief and dabbed her nose.
“Listen, Estermann,” she began, in a tone that was supposed to be a lot calmer and more civil, but didn’t quite make it. She looked him square in the eyes, to emphasise the importance of her words. “You will get to cross-examine an eyewitness today. She is nine hundred years old.”
She paused. Then her voice fell to a near-whisper. “And I swear to God, if you as much as breathe on her out there, I will end you and your pathetic excuse of a career.”
She shook her head, as threateningly as she could muster. “Don’t think that I can’t.”
Estermann also took a moment to straighten his robe. Then he snorted, almost automatically.
“Why? You think your nine hundred year-old spinster is gonna pose a threat to my Queen?”
That was enough fun for one morning, he concluded.
“Good luck with your four beetles. Now, pardon me.”
He stepped forward and pushed past Prosecutor Pierman, Beam the pegasus and the largely silent and stoic earth pony mare, and headed as far down the corridor as he could.
As he disappeared out of sight, Pierman almost wanted to collapse.
She exhaled the rest of the air that she had kept in her pent-up belly to keep her spine straight, and buried her welling face in her handkerchief.
“May God have mercy on him,” she muttered, in a futile last-ditch effort at forgiveness. “What a moron!”
Harshwhinny trotted up to pat her leg a little, feeling as though this was the least she could do in that moment.
Beam, on the other hand, followed Estermann with his eyes as the defence counsel turned a corner.
Within moments, he fluttered after him at a wary pace, as though to make sure that he really was gone.
“Beam… come back. We don't have time,” Pierman called weakly as he flew off.
“Should we inform the justices about this?” Harshwhinny asked.
She snuffled.
“What for?”
Harshwhinny nodded, as though believing to understand.
“Tell me, Prosecutor… Did you get a good look at his eyes?”
Pierman hesitated.
”What? No. Why?”