Blueblood pulled tightly on five leashes. Five musicians followed behind him as he walked the garden rooftop of his compound. His hired help had taken to calling it The Kennel. He supposed it was an apt description, a significant improvement over compound at least, but he did not care for their naming system.
He had not implemented it, but his hired help now referred to themselves as his 'hounds,' and had implemented a rank structure based on that premise. He passed a few lowly thugs, 'mutts' as his help called them. He nodded to a few dachshunds, or more precisely, his small scale brawlers. He sat down on a park style bench, and tied off the five leashes on a nearby post. He considered his view of the surrounding city, and smiled to himself.
From here he could see almost everything that happened in the city. The Canterlot skyline glistened in the rising sun. There was nothing quite like an early morning walk. His musicians would agree with him if he allowed them to speak. But he knew better than that now. His pets must not speak, that had been their first lesson. He gazed at them, they did not return his glare. That had been their second lesson.
There had been countless lessons after that; 'Play', 'Take', 'Sit', the usual sort of thing pets were taught. Teaching them had been difficult. They were intelligent, but also stubborn. An intelligent pet was still a pet, but a stubborn pet was more easily put down than taught. However, with his slim pickings, he had no intentions of putting any of these pets to sleep. He had to build up his collection first, and then he could afford to be a little more selective.
The pianist would probably be the first to go, unless he stopped being so stubborn. He would never tell the pet of his intentions. That would break his first rule: only use one word commands. They had to know what they were to him, and he would never be able to train them if he made the mistake of treating them like ponies. No, he would not tell the pianist of his intentions.
But perhaps he could let them overhear a few choice words of his. He could simply mention it in passing to a hound. Yes, that would do. Perhaps one of the mutts would do. He could make it appear to simply be casual conversation.
"Heavylift," Blueblood addressed a buff stallion, who abruptly stopped his morning run.
"Yes, Prince," Heavylift trotted in place. He was quite focused on his morning exercise.
"What do you think of this little ensemble?" Blueblood gestured to the leashed musicians. "They're very well trained." He smiled. "They make a nice little pack." He relaxed on the bench. "Wouldn't you say?" Blueblood gave Heavylift a sly wink, and subtly pointed at the pianist.
"I don't know, boss." Heavylift stopped trotting. "That scrawny one doesn't obey very quickly." He looked down at the cowering stallion. "Might have to put it on a tighter leash."
"True." Blueblood nodded. Heavylift was always quick to pick up on these things. He was perhaps the only earth pony who could understand the finer details of social interaction. "Perhaps we should begin looking for a new one." He urged Heavylift to continue by rolling a forehoof.
"I'm not sure, Prince." Heavylift poked the pianist in his ribs. "This one might just pull through, but it's so stubborn." He looked back to Blueblood. "That's a bad sign for a pet." He agressively rubbed the pianist's mane. "I hate having to put one down." He scratched the pet's chin. "I can start looking for a new one."
"Just keep an eye out, Heavylift." Blueblood untied the leashes from the post, and handed them to Heavylift. "Would you see to it that they get their morning exercise?" Dusting off his hooves, he stood quickly. "I would do it myself, but I'm expecting a guest."
"Of course, Prince." Heavylift tightened his grip on the leashes, looking the pets over. "I'll work 'em hard." He began trotting in place again. "Can't have 'em getting weak on you."
"Indeed." Blueblood nodded as they parted. He liked the way Heavylift immediately caught on to things. Perhaps he could promote him to Dachshund, maybe let the boys know that he approved of their ranking system. Make it nice and official. Yes, it would give the gang a sense of solidarity. He did not much care for theme naming, but it worked well. He always set aside personal feelings when they interfered with what worked. For example, he didn't enjoy kidnapping those who would not be his pets, but it didn't stop him from doing so.
He pressed the call button for the lift at the far corner. Tapping his hoof impatiently, he raised his head to look at the wall clock situated on the lift. He scowled, and trotted into the lift. He hated how slow it was. For thirty stories he tapped his hoof impatiently, beating out a slow simple tattoo. He took a moment to consider the beat.
It was a section of a refrain from a once popular work. Unable to remember the name of the piece, he considered the pet who had played it for him. Scowling at this thought, he considered the musician who was now lost to him. Her name did not matter, but her talent was incredible. So young, but quite capable. He regretted losing her. She had been stubborn, but she would have been worth the extra effort. It was shameful that he had lost her. Seething, he cursed the pony's name who had cost him his last collection of musicians.
Blueblood had lost his pets, wealth, estate, and title because of that fiasco. Because of one white knight he had lost it all.
"Fancy Pants." He muttered as the lift opened to the basement level.
He was to blame for this. He was the reason that Blueblood now resorted to more brutal methods. Without his vast sums of money, his methods were all he had left. He despised getting his hooves dirty, but honest work was impossible to come by, especially for a fugitive. He fumed as he entered his spacious bare office.
He took a moment to regard his new sofa. He had quite enjoyed making it. Working with his hooves was something he rarely indulged in, but he liked to make an exception for his little projects. Not to mention that no artisan would work with the material he preferred.
Leather. He rubbed a hoof across its smooth texture, and reflected on the hired hoof who had so graciously provided the material. Well, some of the material. One pony was hardly enough for an entire sofa. Fortunately, Swift Club's family had a remarkably consistent coat pattern. Blueblood sat down on the mauve leather sofa.
Glancing at the clock, he realized that his guest would be here any minute now. Assuming, of course, that his escort was timely. He hated wasting hired hooves, but he was in need of an armchair for his study. He didn't particularly enjoy his more barbaric methods, but he always acted as was necessary. Five minutes until their time was up. Five minutes until he could make plans for some new furniture.
Three thugs -Retrievers, as the others called them- entered his chamber. Two of them bowed low, and the other thrust a large sack on the floor. After doing so, the other bowed as well.
"Prince," One of them said as they lifted their faces. "Mr. Keeper is here to see you."
An old stallion struggled his head out of the large sack. He spat blood, and wiped more from his nostrils. Gasping for air, he revealed that he was now missing several teeth.
"Fact Keeper," Blueblood addressed him, nodding to the refrain caught in his thoughts. "I trust your trip went well." He lounged on the sofa. "Were you comfortable?"
Fact finished struggling out of the sack, and sat upright. "Where am I?" He looked around.
"That's not important, Mr. Keeper." Blueblood tossed a photograph to him. "You are the curator for the Canterlot Museum, correct?" He waited for Fact to nod. "I want you to take a close look at it." He stomped a hoof. It was not out of anger. It was a mere repetition of the maddening refrain stuck in his head. He still did not know what work it was from. "I need to know if you recognize that armor."
"I..." Fact patted down his vest pockets. "I seem to have lost my glasses."
One of the Retrievers placed a pair of cracked bifocals on the old stallion's face. Blinking, Fact adjusted them so that the large crack in the right lens was no longer directly in front of his field of vision. Lifting the photograph to his face, he began scratching at the blood on his chin.
"This is sixth century Unicorn Tribe ceremonial armor." He looked closer. "Rather, a reproduction of it. The head lance actually acts as protection for the wearer's horn." He ran a hoof along it. "It's quite a piece. If it were original, I'd be amazed." He looked up at Blueblood. "The rust is clearly faked though. It's a very well done fake." Fact laid the photograph down. "If you have the piece I can take a closer look."
"Unicorn?" Blueblood nodded. He was at least one step closer to confirming the identity of the armor. "No, I don't have the armor." He dismissed them all with a wave of his hoof. "Hounds," He addressed the Retrievers, "See Mr. Keeper home. It's hardly safe for a fellow to walk alone these days."
They thrust Mr. Keeper back into the sack, and bowed to Blueblood before leaving. Blueblood took a moment to appreciate the muffled screams of the old curator. It was a nice break from the refrain embedded in his mind. Realizing that he was still tapping out the rhythm with his hoof, he paused.
A unicorn. Most likely male. Most likely someone he knew, or had wronged in the past. Some pony with enough income to create a reproduction of sixth century ceremonial armor. Some pony who knew Canterlot well enough to track down his gang. Adding these facts in his mind, Blueblood came to one conclusion.
"Fancy Pants," He raged to himself.