//------------------------------// // 7. Brushstrokes at Breakfast // Story: Love, Sugar, and Sails // by DSNesmith //------------------------------// Tyria woke with a start. Her heart was beating rather faster than it should have been. She swallowed, remembering flashes of a dream filled with soft, yellow fabric and gray feathers. The details escaped her, but she felt with disturbing certainty that they had been extremely unprofessional. She ran a hoof down the length of her mane, trying to compose herself. Tyria supposed it wasn’t entirely unexpected—she’d been spending a lot of time with Rye—Ambassador Strudel, she reminded herself—over the past few days. Still, simply seeing him in her dreams was one thing, that was quite another. Goddess, how embarrassing. Yet part of her was disappointed the dream had ended so soon. The dream-Rye’s mane had felt wonderful on her skin… With a shake of her head, Tyria got out of bed. She combed her mane down into a half-respectable shape, and adjusted her uniform’s collar. Last night, she’d been so tired that she hadn’t even undressed before falling asleep. Her khakis were rumpled and dirty from the fight in the warehouse. Alas, all her spares were across town in the embassy. When she left her bedroom, she found that Rye was still asleep on the couch. He was wrapped in yellow cloth, his chest rising and falling softly. Tyria blushed as more memories crystallized in her mind. I wonder if his robes really are that soft… No. No, no, no no no. Stop it, Tyria. He’s an ambassador, and the son of a bloody war hero. Well, so was she. In truth, she doubted she’d ever meet somepony else who could understand that situation the way Rye could. He’s a reckless idiot. Still, that excitement in his eyes last night had been infectious, and she couldn’t help but smile as she remembered that stupid grin on his face. He’s a pegacorn. Tyria blinked, looking at the sleeping ambassador’s horn. Somehow, that didn’t bother her as much as it should. Everypony knew pegacorns were supposed to be dangerous, or feral, or mad; but if Rye was crazy, his lunacy was a kind she found strangely compelling. Life. That was it. Rye was full of life, bursting with it. The same wonderful rush of happy abandon she hadn’t felt since taking this post in a distant country, shackled by her career. Tyria turned to her painting storage racks, running a hoof along the top of a canvas. Until Rye had taken her on that silly shopping trip, painting was the only thing that had made her feel that way. She pulled out the painting of the bay that she’d started on Sunday and set up her easel. Her watercolors were hidden in a cupboard along with her tools, and she removed them to set up for brushing in the land. Tyria glanced back over her shoulder to check if Rye was still asleep. Seeing that he was, she decided not to wake him. The captain was going to have her hanged for not reporting in last night anyway, she was in no rush to head back to the embassy. Tyria dipped the brush into a golden, sandy brown, and then brought it over the canvas. She drew the brush across the emptiness, filling it with color. Slowly, she sank into that trancelike state of joyous discovery, as she revealed the painting that lay waiting beneath the blank spaces. The brush darted up and down, side to side, bringing warm earthen tones to create the shoreline. The watercolors spread and melded, creating random and intricate patterns in the sand. She added texture with a piece of sandpaper, scratching it against the wet canvas with a tender touch. She leaned back, eyeing her work, and smiled. “Wow,” came an awed whisper from behind her. Tyria’s eyes widened. She turned to see Rye, sitting on the floor and staring rapturously at her canvas. He rubbed his bleary eyes, looking suddenly nervous. “Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I just woke up, and didn’t want to interrupt you.” She couldn’t help but notice he’d left his robes on the couch. Unbidden images sprang into her mind, and she felt her cheeks heat. Oh, stop it, Tyria. She blinked. “Don’t worry about it. Did you sleep well?” “Well enough,” he said, yawning. He scraped a bit of that black dust from the warehouse off of his cheek. “That’s gorgeous-looking, Tyria.” “Thanks,” she said, feeling suddenly self-consciousness. “It’s… I guess it’s okay.” “Well, I’m no artist, but it looks wonderful to me.” He fidgeted with his hooves. “Would you, um… would you show me some more?” Someone actually asking to look at her art? Tyria’s pulse quickened. “I… sure!” Feeling a little dazed, she stood and hovered over her canvas storage racks. Dithering momentarily over the selection, she settled on a painting she’d done of the Karran jungle just outside the city walls about a year and a half ago. Withdrawing it from the rack, she spun the bulky canvas around to face Rye. “Karran Wilderness. What do you think?” she asked nervously. She couldn’t crane her head around the huge painting to see his reaction. “That’s fantastic, Tyria…” he made a little murmur of delight. “I love these trees, here. You can almost hear them rustling in the breeze. And the way the light plays off the vines in the middle…” “Really?” Tyria’s heart lifted a little. “I thought I screwed those up, to be honest with you. They’re not all quite aligned correctly, and I made the sunlight a bit too—” Rye chuckled. “I’ve yet to meet the artist who loves their own work unconditionally.” Tyria replaced the painting in the storage rack, smiling sheepishly. “Well… how about this one?” She pulled another out. This painting was a picture of the Marquis’ manor, carefully constructed during a week of leave she’d taken a year ago. Days and days spent sitting at the base of that hill, her easel resting in the grass as she captured each whorl of the wood, each shifting color of the marble steps. She’d added a number of zebras in gloriously opulent evening wear, purely from imagination. “I call this one Dinner at Zahira’s.” She set the enormous painting to her side, holding the top, so that she could see his reaction this time. Rye leaned forward, eyes wide, his hoof unconsciously tracing the air as he studied the details. “That… is…” He seemed to lose the words, his eyes flickering across the canvas. Tyria felt a strange burst of pride. He was only being nice, she was sure; these weren’t that good, not compared to a real professional. Still, her inner artist fed off praise like a starving hound. “You ever tried framing these?” he asked at last, a faint smile of wonder still on his lips. He put his hoof to his lips. “You ought to… Those gowns are beautiful. Though I think my favorite part’s the bored little zebra foal peering out the window on the left, there.” “You noticed him?” Tyria smiled. “I like him, too. I messed up his stripes a little, though. They shouldn’t be quite so black-heavy, most foals have more white in their coats.” “Tyria,” said Rye, grinning, “Look. I live in the capital. I work in the Sun Castle. I see the best paintings in the country every day on the way to my office. Trust me, this could fit right in on those walls.” “I—I…” Tyria wilted in a sudden attack of shyness. That went a little beyond being nice. Was the praise genuine after all? “I don’t know what to say.” “You ever tried doing this commercially? Selling paintings, or commission work?” “Sisters, no,” she said, putting the painting back in the racks. “My fa—I mean, I’ve never… um.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve got a good job, at the embassy. I haven’t felt the need to… try my luck on the art market.” “Hmm.” Rye tapped his chin, giving her a keen look. Tyria had the feeling he was already all too aware of how much she hated that “good” job at the embassy. To divert him, she began pulling out another painting. “And this one… Sweet Sunset.” With a grunt, she managed to haul the huge painting out of the rack. It was her longest canvas, nearly two meters on the horizontal sides. She’d had one devil of a time getting it up the apartment stairs. Rye inhaled audibly. This time, Tyria had no doubts that that awestruck look on his face was real. It had better be, said a smug little voice in the back of her head, considering how many weeks you spent on it. She internally quashed the spasm of pride. The canvas depicted the bay down at the base of the island, filled with ships. Over a hundred tiny, detailed zebras were present, racing around between the docked vessels with their loads of cargo. The sun was setting, the golden-orange disk half-swallowed by the ocean through the bay opening. The light shone through every sail, reflecting off of every barnacle and line of ship rigging. The piece was named, in a pun she hadn’t been able to resist, for the centerpiece, a zebra accidentally dropping a crate of sugar. The crate was bursting on the ground, sending a massive cloud of sugar grains into the air. All around, other zebras were shielding their eyes or scrambling to catch the crate, too late. “That actually happened,” she said, “one day while I was down there painting the ships. It got everywhere; I was still washing sugar out of my mane a week later. I figured I’d add it in.” Rye, spellbound, nodded slowly. He reached out, nearly touching the painting, then withdrew his hoof as if pricked. “This is a masterpiece, Tyria. Everything—the ships, the zebras, that sunset…” Tyria shrugged in embarrassed happiness. They were quiet for a few minutes, while Rye examined the painting. With effort, she restrained herself from pointing out the finer details. It was a much better experience to discover them on your own. Rye’s face lit with delighted amusement whenever he caught one, like the tricorn hat-wearing zebra captain with a peg leg she’d slipped in on one of the ships. At last, however, the nagging thoughts in the back of her mind forced themselves to the fore. “Well, Rye… the morning’s getting on. Captain Petalbloom must be going mad with worry that you’re not back yet. We should head out soon.” Rye tore his eyes away from the painting, apparently with some effort. “You think the streets are safe?” “I expect those pirates have given up trying to catch us, by now. If I were them, I’d be focused on getting that warehouse emptied out before the authorities arrive.” She jolted upright with sudden realization. “I need to tell Zanaya about that.” “Who?” “She’s a good friend in the City Watch.” “Ah.” Rye rubbed his hooves. “Um, all right, would, um… would you like breakfast first?” “Er…” Tyria raised an eyebrow. “I suppose. I haven’t got much food, though. I think there might be a few eggs left in there, but I don’t know if they’re any good.” Rye began rummaging through the cupboards. She watched him curiously. “Do you cook a lot?” “All the time.” Rye emerged with a single egg. He held it up to his ear with both hooves and jostled it lightly, nodding. He set it down on the counter and dove back into the cupboard. “I borrowed a few of Dad’s old cookbooks when I moved out. It’s just not the same, though… He wields a spatula the way you do a paintbrush.” Tyria wasn’t able to hold in the laugh. “How long has he been a baker?” “Nearly fifteen years, I think.” Rye emerged with another egg and repeated the shaking ritual. Walking back to the couch, he swung his robes off of the cushion and over his back. His wings poked through the holes and gave a single flap. Clasping the robes in front and fluffing them, he returned to roll the eggs into a single pocket. “That’ll do. Where’s your kitchen?” “It’s a communal one. Bottom floor, offset from the rest of the building so that the smoke doesn’t rise up through the living areas. Here, you’ll need a pan.” She fumbled through her bottom cupboard and pulled out a frying pan, made of black iron and worn from use, and a food-turner. Rye took them and nodded his thanks. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes or so. Um…” He smiled around the handle. “Thanks for showing me your paintings.” “You’re welcome.” Tyria smiled. Rye did that little bow of his, and then opened the door and disappeared. She sat back down in front of her easel, staring at the drying watercolors. Her brush sat untouched on her palette, as she thought about the admiration in Rye’s eyes as he’d looked over her work. A little tingle in her chest had started, and showed no sign of stopping with his departure. Oh, this is not good. Right? * * * Rye found the kitchen easily enough. The door, hidden beneath the apartment stairs, opened to reveal a dimly-lit room dug into the ground. There was an oven and a fire pit inside, and a pipe in the ceiling that bent toward the wall to carry the smoke away from the building. The walls were black with soot. He sniffed in disapproval. His father would have thrown a fit to see a kitchen in this state. A pile of firewood was stacked along one of the walls. He grabbed a few pieces of it and threw them into the fire pit, then wrestled with the flint for three minutes before getting the tinder to light. While the fire spread, Rye used the water pump in the corner of the room to wash his face off. Soon the flames were crackling in the pit. He found a metal rack hidden beside the oven, and set it up over the fire to support the pan. After cracking the eggs on the edge of the cast-iron frying pan, he threw the shells into the fire. As the eggs began to cook, his mind wandered. Those paintings… I've got to see if I can convince her to let me buy that one of the manor. The only question would be where to hang it, at home or in the office? He turned the eggs over idly. Goddess, I must have sounded like an idiot up there. Had she realized his talk about breakfast had been panicked babble? Rye shook his head. He wasn’t sure why he cared what his bodyguard thought. Because you’re falling in love with her, you idiot. Rye froze, and stared at the eggs. “Oh.” He blinked. “Hell.” When had this happened? About ten minutes after I figured out who her father was, I bet. Rye’s eyes tracked aimlessly across the room as he mulled over this realization. Clarity did not bring comfort; rather the opposite, in fact. She’s attractive, sure, and I’ve been desperately lonely for Celestia-knows how long, but… it’s not that superficial. This morning, when he’d watched her paint, he’d seen a fire and a passion that warmed him all over. Tyria was creative, dedicated, and kind—he couldn’t remember the last time somepony had tried to apologize for looking at his wings. The wings. The horn. Does she mind? He hoped, prayed she didn’t, but how could he know for sure? Her smiles seemed genuine enough. Rye wanted more of them. Whenever she broke her mask of professionalism and revealed the happy Tyria underneath, he felt fluttery all over. Listen to me. I sound like I’m five again, all raging hormones and no sense. A sizzling noise alerted him that the eggs were beginning to burn. He flipped them over again. I think Wheatie figured it out before I did. And he said he’d cover for us if we were late… He paused. Oh, no, he’s going to think— Rye groaned. The eggs were done, but Rye felt suddenly terrified at the thought of going back upstairs. What do I do? What do I say? Just… pretend everything’s normal? He stared forlornly down at his eggs, kicking some dust on the logs to smother the fire. Well, if he stayed down here much longer, she was going to start wondering what had happened to him. Rye swallowed, adjusted his robes, and took the pan. He left the kitchen and began walking back up to the apartment. He found her inside, painting. Rye paused for a moment, spellbound. The way her brush dashed across the canvas was entrancing, the colors it left behind spreading out to meet each other. Not wanting to seem like a voyeur, he cleared his throat. Tyria turned and smiled. “How’d the eggs come out?” “Fine, just fine.” Rye hoped he didn’t sound nervous. He set down the pan on the counter. “Got plates?” “Oh, don’t bother.” Tyria walked up and pulled her egg right out of the pan, chewing on it. “We’re late, we haven’t got time to spare.” Rye ate his own egg, barely tasting it. “Ready to go when you are.” They headed out of the apartment building, passing a zebra on the stairs who nodded to Tyria. Exiting into the street, they found that Zyre was having a sleepy Tuesday morning. A few zebras walked past, headed to work. Tyria and Rye started off for the embassy district. Rye made small talk, asking her about the city. Tyria seemed happy enough to humor him, telling him all about various activities to occupy his time in the city districts. Maybe I should ask her if she wants to see a play, or something. Rye cringed. Sisters, I’m terrible at this. They reached the embassy without incident—social or otherwise—and paused at the doors. They looked at each other with shared apprehension. “Look, if the captain tries to hassle you…” Tyria frowned with dismay. “She’s not going to be happy that we didn’t come back on time.” “You saved my life last night. That’s got to count for something.” She barked a humorless laugh. “I thought it was the other way around, actually. Those pirates would have killed me if you hadn’t knocked over those barrels.” Rye shrugged, unsure of what to say. “Whatever happens, I’ll back you up.” “Thanks.” Tyria inhaled. “Well, we’d better get this over with.” She pushed open the door. The secretary looked up as they entered. “Ensign! Where have you—” she caught sight of Rye. “Oh, Ambassador, you’re back. Thank goodness.” She looked between the two of them. “Um… Captain Petalbloom will want to see you, Ensign.” “Yeah.” Tyria swallowed. “Ambassador, your assistant is waiting upstairs.” “After this, thank you.” Rye held his head up. “I need to speak with the captain, too.” “I see.” The secretary’s eyes twinkled. “Good luck.” They walked down the hall, passing the security offices. Petalbloom’s door stood at the end, tightly shut. Tyria knocked. “In,” said a voice on the other side. Rye entered first. The captain was sitting on the other side of her desk, scowling. As Rye stepped inside, her face broke out in surprise. “Ambassador! You’re safe!” Her eyes flicked behind him as Tyria came into the room. “I need to thank you and your department, Captain,” said Rye. “Ensign Metrel here has shown exemplary service. On our way back from the Marquis’s dwelling last night, we were attacked by a gang of Vipers. The Ensign got me out safely and hid me in her apartment while the pirates searched for us. I owe her my life.” The captain, clearly prepared to begin an angry tirade, appeared to be thrown by his appearance. She looked back and forth between them. “I… I see.” She glared at Tyria. “Pit Vipers, hm?” Tyria nodded. “I need to report this to the Watch after we’re done here.” All at once, the captain's anger seemed to deflate out of her. Petalbloom sighed and rested her forehead on a hoof. “Tyria… please don’t do this again.” “I won’t, ma’am.” Tyria shrank with guilt. “I’m sorry.” “All right, go. Tell the Watch. I’ll get your report later this evening. Ambassador, you’re free to go about your business. Please be a little more discreet about your wanderings.” Rye nodded. “I will. Thank you.” The two of them fled the office. Rye gave Tyria a happy look. “Well, that went better than I expected.” “Yes, thanks for the help. She was getting ready to ream me out, I could tell.” Tyria swallowed. “Hopefully she’ll be mollified enough to let it slide.” “If not, come to me; I’ll talk with her.” “I appreciate it. Really.” She nodded. Rye paused at the base of the stairs. “Ah… I, uh, enjoyed last night. Aside from the pirates, I mean.” He grinned nervously. “And Saturday, too. I guess what I’m trying to say is, um…” Spit it out, you fool. “Would you like to show me around the city again, sometime? Maybe see one of those shows you mentioned?” Tyria gave him a curious smile. “Ambassador, are you—” her mouth opened, and then closed. She tilted her head, still smiling. “Well… I can clear Friday afternoon. They’re running The Changeling and the Princess over in the playhouse at seven.” “Great!” he said, a little too quickly. “Uh, well, I’ll see you then!” Tyria laughed, sounding slightly surprised. At him, or herself? “Okay.” She nodded. “I’ve got to go tell the Watch about the pirates. I’ll… see you Friday.” Rye bowed, and Tyria left to head out of the building. He raced upstairs, feeling like his face was on fire. Well, at least this proves that you can't die of embarrassment. But… she said yes! He entered the room he and Wheatie were sharing. The Firewing was sitting on his bed, reading. Wheatie looked up as Rye entered. “Oh, you’re back. Where’ve you been all night? I told them you’d be returning late, but I didn’t think it’d be this late.” “I stayed at Tyria’s place overnight.” Rye sat down on his bed. Wheatie’s eyebrows rose, and he grinned. Rye realized what he’d said, and stammered, “We were, uh, hiding. We ran into a gang of pirates, down on the docks. Had to get away. She didn’t think we could make it back here at night, with pirates roaming about, so we slept in her apartment.” You’re digging yourself deeper, Rye. “Then it went well, I take it.” Wheatie’s grin widened at Rye’s obvious discomfort. “What, hiding?” “Dinner!” Wheatie set his book down. “Come on, tell me.” “Uh…” Rye looked up at the ceiling. “Well, we ate at Griselda’s—I did, anyway—talked a bit about her father. Ever heard of Jerric Metrel?” Wheatie nodded, clearly amused. “Then we started walking back toward the embassy, when we ran into the pirates down on the docks.” He suddenly remembered the incredible picture of the ships on the bay. “Did you know she paints? There’s this piece she did of the docks—” Wheatie laughed. “Rye, the pirates.” “Oh, right.” Rye told him about the warehouse, and their flight from the zebras. With an interested frown, Wheatie rubbed his chin. “I wonder what they were doing.” “Probably moving goods from a smuggling warehouse.” “Did they have sugar stocked in there?” Rye shook his head. “Most of the barrels had something else in them, I think. At least, I’ve never seen black sugar before.” “Black sugar…” Wheatie’s face drew inward. “Hmm. Sounds vaguely familiar.” He shrugged, and picked his book back up. “Whatever it was, it’s the Watch’s problem, now.” Rye flopped back onto his bed, grabbing one of his books on Zyre and flipping it open to the chapter on the arts and entertainment district. He found the section on the city’s largest and oldest playhouse, the Flightfeather theater. He started reading, skimming over the words. He was only absorbing about half of them. “Rye.” “Yes?” “Can you stop humming? It’s distracting.” “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was.” “So I gathered.” Rye bit his lip and returned to his book.