That had not been among the possible positions his mind had proposed as predictions.
"Pardon?" he asked, even as his memory supplied the relevant details.
Royal fool.
Responsible for entertaining nobles and their guests.
Artistic means of accomplishing this: song, music, storytelling.
Physical means: acrobatics, juggling, mundane magic tricks (sleight of hand).
Humourous means: jokes, puns, crude imitation of others, outlandish dress.
"Well?" asked the princess, who had just finished describing that list using different words. "What sayest thou?"
"I... do not think I would be suited for the job," said Mr. Book. His eyebrows were furrowed, his thoughts unusually unorderly. "I am no fool. I am not a circus pony, nor a comedian, nor a musician. The last time I engaged in a euphonious endeavour, it was mere humming, and I only did it to drive the guard responsible for my oversight insane."
The princess's eyebrows rose. "Surely thou jest." And then her eyes widened. "Ah! We see! What a lovely joke. Thou art perfect for the position!"
"It was no joke," said Mr. Book. "That tactic hastened my release from a holding cell. I believe the phrase the guard used when calling his supervisor was that I was doing an 'RJL20'. According to the voices on the other end of the call, that is the code for the scenario of a prisoner attempting psychological warfare and winning."
The princess was tilting her head. "Thou... speakest true. How strange."
Although he had not forgotten that this princess could detect truth, that comment brought it closer to the forefront of his mind.
"But not all fools must be fools, dear subject," continued the princess. "In truth, it is best when they art not foolish. Even if thou art unable to sing, or juggle, or entertain, we know thou canst accomplish the one thing that only the best fools can do. It is for that purpose we wish to hire thee, not the other three."
"And that purpose is...?"
"To speak truth to power," said the princess. "Like to our former secretary."
Ah. It seemed the princess did not appreciate that information on her Court was so obscure, nor did she think her secretary had been helping matters.
"And to the pompous scholars," the princess continued, levitating a copy of what was apparently Quick Quill's first article. "And to the arrogant nobility." She levitated a copy of the second article. "And to our sister." Her magic highlighted his name, printed above the letter to the editor.
It seemed that the editor wasn't the only pony who had taken notice of his ability to, as the princess had put it, speak truth to power.
"And to me," the princess whispered in a voice barely audible.
"Pardon?" he asked again, pretending he had not caught that last part.
The princess, with a pained expression, raised her chin. "We have struggled with sin in the past. Every pony in Equestria knows that we have. It would... be appreciated... to have a pony whose job is to notice our folly. And make us laugh along the way, if possible. Though if thou cannot be humourous, we can always hire a second fool – an actual fool – to fill that role."
So he wouldn't have to make a fool of himself if he accepted?
"Hmm," said Mr. Book, now considering the job offer seriously. "You are asking me to become a royal foil," he realised after a time.
"A... royal foil?" the princess of night asked in a confused voice.
"One who acts as a foil to royalty. It is the one part of the fool's responsibilities which is not foolish. The action of advisement. The goal of grounding the great and grand. The part you believe I can perform."
The princess's eyes widened, and she clapped her hooves. "Yes, yes, yes! A royal foil! A perfect correction. See? Thou art a natural!"
"Even if I were," said Mr. Book, "I am not sure I wish to accept."
"Whyever not?"
Mr. Book quickly formalised the cost/benefits in his mind.
Advantage: Potential access to the royal library, if such a library existed.
If there were any deep, ancient secrets on magic in this world, secrets which might help him escape the mirror, they would likely be found in this palace. Not the Canterlot University library, nor anywhere else. And if it couldn't be found in a book, the princesses themselves might know.
Cost: Increased responsibility, scrutiny, and danger.
If he accepted this new position, he would be forced to spend even more than fifteen hours per week doing things he would likely find unpleasant. And during that time, he would be in the presence of a powerful pony who could possibly spot untruths as reliably as bees could spot flowers.
His attendance and time commitments to the university weren't optimal for his plans, but they were amenable. He spent fifteen hours each week within a classroom, and even then he spent most of those periods reading material that interested him. The rest of his time he spent as he saw fit. Sometimes he studied, sometimes he practiced, but mostly he researched.
Accepting an ordinary job, with ordinary working hours...
"Well?" the princess pressed.
"I have a reputation to uphold as Canterlot University's only non-unicorn student," Mystery Book said aloud. It was the first excuse that had come to mind, and it was not entirely false, so it would hopefully go undetected. "Even if I am currently the best among this year's crop of students, rumors would spring into existence about my inadequacy if I dropped out before graduation, or even before finishing a single semester."
"Thou speakest true..." said the princess, "...but not entirely true. Do not fear. 'Tis easy enough to tell the wider public thou art the 'Court Scholar'. Such a title should put all rumors of inadequacy to rest, especially with thy friends in the press at thy back." Her eyes became a bit firmer. "Why else art thou hesitant to accept?"
"Less free time," said Mr. Book. "I enjoy a schedule as open as my current timetable."
"Again, thou speakest true, but not entirely." The princess shook her head. "What halts thy tongue, subject?"
Mr. Book did not answer.
His grasp on the portkey was firm, his Occlumency barriers as strong as always, his guard up, as it ever was.
And ever would be.
"Dost thou... fear me?" the princess asked, her voice quieting.
"I fear only one thing," said Mr. Book, after a pause. "And you are not it."
"Then why dost thou censor thyself?"
"Habit," he said at last. "I have much to hide. If you intend to hire me, you shall have to get used to it. Though I still do not know if I want to accept."
There was a long pause.
"We... suppose we could," said the princess. "In that case, if thou dost not disclose thy doubts, perhaps thou could say what it might take to overcome thy hesitancy?"
"Constraints," he said after a moment's thought. "My agreement would come with constraints. I am not sure you would accept them."
"Constraints?" the princess asked. "What dost thou mean?"
"Unalterable conditions for my employment," he clarified, "which I shall only share if you swear not to impugn my motives for requiring them. Furthermore, you must promise not to deliberately violate the third constraint, even in the event that my employment is rejected."
There was a pause.
"Very well," said the princess. "We shall not ask after thy motives, nor do... whatever that second thing was," she said less formally, then seemed to catch herself. "Ahem. What dost thou need to become our foil? A high salary? A noble title? Residence in the royal palace?"
"Nothing so trite," said Mr. Book, then pretended to think twice. "Though those would not go unappreciated..." He put on a thoughtful frown. "Still, I can request those after I prove myself an indispensable asset." He shook his head. "But no, my first requirement is that I retain access to the Canterlot University library in the event this new position forces me to retire as a student."
"Easy enough to grant to the Court Scholar," said the princess with a slight grin.
Mr. Book nodded. "My second requirement is that I gain access to all libraries within the royal palace, and to any tomes unavailable elsewhere, especially those that pertain to magic. I do not request classified military or personal information. But if there are tomes on ancient or lost magical artifacts, for example, or personal notes of prominent magicians of old, I would like to be able to read them. I swear not to damage or lose that which I peruse. I also do not mind being observed by the guard as I browse. Is this access equally easy to provide the Court Scholar?"
The features of the princess grew uncomfortable as she came to comprehend this request. "We... would need to consult our sister..."
"Please do," said Mr. Book. "My final requirement is that no prying efforts be made – by you, by your will, or by any over whom you hold power – into the pasts of myself or a pegasus named Silver Wing."
There was another pause, this one much longer.
"Thy final condition..." The princess trailed off, her expression even more troubled. "We wish we could ask why thou requires it... but we suppose that is the point of the request, and of thou making us promise not to impugn thy motives."
"Nor to violate the request even should I not become your foil," Mr. Book pointed out, "as you already promised."
There was a look of comprehension, followed by apprehension.
"Canst thou at least swear thou hast never abused one of our subjects in this history you wish to keep secret?"
"None of your subjects have suffered my abuse," said Mystery Book honestly, with slight mental relief at the way she had phrased that question. "Unless you count my interactions with Blueblood, Cast Steel, Waiting List, Twilight Velvet, and Spitfire as abusive. But the consequences of those incidents were no fault of my own, and all are public knowledge."
"Spitfire? We are unfamiliar with that case..."
"She is the current captain of the Wonderbolts," he offered. "Though she may lose her position before long. Poor publicity, you see."
Pause.
"We imagine there is a story behind that."
"There is, though I won't bore you with the details. Order back issues of the Cloudsdale Chronicle if you are interested."
"We- no. We are getting off the topic. Thou claimst to have not abused our subjects, and thou spoke true. Hast thou ever killed?"
"I have only killed a single sapient Equestrian creature," he allowed, once again honestly, "but I do not know if that particular entity would qualify as one of your 'subjects'. And I was only able to kill it because it threatened all of Equestria with malicious intent." Mystery Book frowned deliberately. "I shall answer no more questions of this nature. If I experience any more prying, I shall leave and not come back. If that is not an acceptable condition, then I am afraid I must reject your employment offer."
The princess sighed. "Thou makest things difficult."
"I don't see why. Most ponies have at least one thing they want nopony else to know. I simply have more than one. Is it so difficult to quash your curiosity and respect my wishes?"
"We are not used to refraining from... 'prying', as thou put it. As princess of the night, 'tis our duty to enter our subjects' dreams and ward away nightmares."
"That is a terrible violation of their privacy," said Mr. Book at once. "Worse, perhaps, than any other governmental action could be." Though not worse than Legilimency, which tracks complete, conscious thought. "If your subjects are not free from observation in their minds, where are they secure?" Then, a memory of something he said to Nightmare Moon returned to him. "Worse, if you ever stray again, that power is ripe for abuse. One who guards against nightmares could easily inflict them."
The clock on the wall was the only sound that could be heard in the room for the length of ten ticks.
"I know," whispered the princess of night in a small voice, looking at the desk in front of her. "But it's my special talent," she said, as if to herself. "I can't just... not do it..."
"Why not?"
Her gaze lifted, locked with Mr. Book's. "Don't you understand? I have to do it. I have to ward away nightmares. 'Tis... 'tis like... 'tis like breathing! 'Tis just something I DO!"
Mr. Book tilted his head. "Perhaps it is merely a bad habit you need to break. Maybe-"
"NO!" she interrupted. "I HAVE to protect my subjects! It is my special talent! It is WHO I AM! DOST THOU NOT UNDERSTAND THAT?!"
Papers flew from her desk at the force of the shout amplified by magic.
Mr. Book had come close to activating his portkey, but refrained from doing so when the shouting amounted to nothing else.
"Suppose," Mr. Book said as the princess panted heavily, "that a pony's special talent involved murder. Not combat. Not battle. Not military tactics. Murder. Specifically pony murder." He did not choose that particular moment to glance at his own cutie mark beneath his cloak, depicting an infinity symbol earned as a result of murdering a pony. "What would you tell that pony, if that pony said they had to murder other ponies?"
"Dream-walking is not murder!" the princess declared, declining to play along with the thought experiment.
"But it does infringe upon a pony's security," said Mr. Book. "I did not mean to call dream-walking murder. I only made the extreme analogy to draw attention to the overarching problem. Both are what moralists would call 'wrong'. Both are a violation of what they call 'rights' – murder of the right to life, dream-walking of the right to privacy. I know I have had dreams I would never wish any other to see-" not that he'd had any dreams in the last twenty years "-and I suspect you have seen dreams whose owners would rather have kept them private."
The princess's face became the portrait of a cartoonish blush.
"Especially the adult population," he said after easily inferring the reason behind that reaction. "Or perhaps the sexually mature population would say it better."
"Even still," said the princess, her blush not yet vanished, "I cannot just not do it!" she repeated herself. "'Tis not always voluntary! It can happen at random. Especially when a pony is in danger."
Mystery Book tilted his head, considering. That was new information. And thanks to his own restrictions, he had plenty of experience in the realm of coming up with creative alternatives to certain tendencies.
"If you must dream-walk," he allowed, "restrict yourself only to the task of warding nightmares, and only do so for ponies under the age of twelve." In addition to being sensible, that age limit would ensure Mr. Silver's privacy. If the princess allowed herself to be restricted in that way. "Allow the stallions and mares of Equestria to deal with their own demons. They are not yours to coddle."
The clock ticked five times.
"And I suppose," he added, "if you ever experience involuntary episodes of dream-walking, even if those episodes involve older ponies, you may pursue them as well. Given the nature of this world and its magic, I suspect 'harmony' would have those occasions only output uplifting outcomes."
The clock ticked five more times.
"Finally," he finished, "so as to not be tempted, if there is a way to magically bind yourself such that, if Nightmare Moon returned once more, she would not be able to do damage with your power, I suggest you take it."
The clock ticked twenty times.
"I..." said the princess. "We shall think on it."
"I quite understand," said Mr. Book. "But remember this: though hesitation is always easy, it is rarely useful. Do not think overlong, lest that become an excuse to continue as you are, without change or growth."
The clock ticked five times.
"And regardless of what you ultimately decide about the privacy of your other subjects," he added, "my dreams are off-limits at all times." If he ever had any in the first place. "So are Silver Wing's. If you want my continued advisement, that is. Oh, and I shall be needing twenty-minute breaks every three hours, but I imagine that is close to standard employment practice, and more of a housekeeping issue than a true constraint."
The clock ticked three times.
"In that case, we have a 'housekeeping issue' of our own."
He raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"
"Yes. If thou becomest our fool, thou art to remove thy reflective glasses. Or wear transparent ones."
"Why?"
"Eye contact matters to us."
He considered the constraint for a moment. Legilimency was unknown in this realm... but maybe she had discovered the art independently? If so, she would not know about perfect Occlumency. Or even if she did, she should not expect him to know it. If she invaded his mental privacy, she would only see exactly what he wanted her to see, and he would notice her doing it. Even on the extreme off-chance she could use unknown magics to bypass his barriers without alarm, her reaction afterwards should be telling enough, and he could always Obliviate her, since memory charms are also entirely unknown.
As for the slitted eyes, there was a simple solution to that. It was on his to-do list anyway, after the Blueblood incident.
"I am amenable to that requirement. Was there anything else, or may I take my leave?"
Mr. Book heard the door click open behind him.
Before he left, "You said you cannot autonomously grant my second request. When can I expect to hear back about the position?"
The clock ticked seven times.
"Less than a week," sighed the princess.
He executed a shallower version of the earlier genuflect. "Until then."
Later that day, the Artist's Association gathered at Canterlot University, as per usual.
"Keen Eye."
The introverted illusionist looked up from his present project – a glimmer enchantment of some kind. "Hmm? Oh, hello. You're Mystery Book, right? Neat. What is it?"
It was a private nook of a larger workshop, and no other ponies were nearby. But he had already erected a few wordless privacy wards anyway. No sense tempting fate.
"Are you open to commission work?"
The blue unicorn tilted his head. "Maybe. Depends on the job. And the payment."
"Twelve thousand bits," said Mr. Book, dropping the amount onto the table in the form of few enchanted gems, not raw bits. Scholars are not used to that kind of money. At least, not the ones low on the totem pole.
The blue unicorn's eyes were wide. "What?"
"Two thousand for the spell itself. The extra ten thousand are incentive for your agreement to having your memories of the job locked away for a time. Once I allow a certain secret to be known to the wider public, you will be allowed to remember it. It is not a dreadful secret, only annoying. If you cannot agree to that, I shall find somepony else who would agree. Or simply do it myself, though my own work would lack your extreme attention to detail."
The blue unicorn stared at him. "Umm... what's the job?"
"Enchanted eyeglasses."
The blue unicorn looked at the current reflective panes. "Uh...huh... can you be more descriptive?"
"If I tell you more, I shall have to seal your memory afterwards." And if not, he would obliviate the fact that he could seal away memories. "The job itself reveals the underlying problem. Is that acceptable?"
Keen Eye took a while to think. Then slowly nodded. "I don't know how you're going to seal my memory, but sure. So long as you unlock it afterwards."
Most ponies are ridiculously trusting, he'd come to realise, and so he was finally not surprised by the attitude, nor this response. He'd even decided to count on it. Or at least, he decided that he should not be so paranoid as to say nothing about it. He decided he would honestly propose the deal, and see what happens.
Still...
"In that case, please read this contract, then sign it." No, he would not trust mere words and promises. Ponies might be naive, but he isn't. "It shall ensure the terms of the agreement are kept by both parties, myself included."
The contract was written in simple language with no tricks – not quite a mandatory requirement of magical contracts, but it made the creation process much, much easier. Like with Unbreakable Vows, an understanding of the oath's intent is required, though not as deep of one. Mr. Silver's NDA had been his first publicly used contract, and 'you can't talk about what you learn' had been sufficient understanding for even seven-year-olds to sign it. That Soarin' had forgotten the contract, or not thought too deeply about it at the time of signing, was a testament to his mental abilities. Or lack thereof.
When the paper was signed, Mr. Book took off his glasses, briefly closing his eyes. "Do not panic."
"About what?"
He opened them.
There was a short pause.
Then, "Cool! Why are your eyes like that?"
He dropped the spell on his teeth as well, to make it seem like the glasses were responsible for that as well. The flat tooth illusion was static, unchanging, and therefore easy to create and maintain. Unlike the enchantment he was about to request be made.
"I am a thestral," he answered. "The purpose of your job shall be to create an illusion that disguises the fact, giving my eyes an ordinary appearance if seen through these glasses. If my race ever becomes known to the wider public, I shall allow you to remember this job. Though I shan't allow you to remember how I locked away your memories, unless that becomes known as well."