Chapter 1: In Which Our Hero Has Regrets and Meets His Employer
The carriage bounces over a pothole in the road, jerking me out of my reverie. You'd think the road to Canterlot would be pristine, but apparently not. I lean my head back against the soft, plush seat back, which mostly – mostly – smoothed out any bumps in the roads. Except for that one, apparently. A private carriage might have seemed like an extravagance, but I had the money, and it left me alone with my thoughts, something I sorely needed right now.
Why did I agree to this?
Why did I think this was a good idea?
Okay, those are easy. I sigh. I've done a lot of that this trip. Bits. Shiny golden bits. Objectively – rationally – I understand why I accepted the job offer. The pay was – is – excellent. Working for the royal family does have its benefits, and getting paid directly by the royal treasury is one of them. Not that I was paid badly at my previous jobs. I was always well compensated for my work, enough to have a nice apartment, eat at good restaurants, have spending money for purchases or nights out on the town when I wanted it. But this would be a step up. I wasn't going to join the nobility on a palace salary, but it might let me save enough for a house in a Canterlot suburb. Not to mention the contacts would be excellent. Network with a few posh nobles, and when I moved on in a year or two, I'd have plenty of well-paying job offers lined up.
Why did I agree to this?
My previous employers loved me, clamored to have me back. Sure, they never knew what to call me – some called me consultant, some efficiency expert, others, a personal assistant or aide – but they all knew how valuable I was. I managed schedules, streamlined work flow, helped delegate tasks. I was my employer's right hand, anything they needed; I was ready and waiting. A million things behind the scenes to keep the wheels turning smoothly. I, Ink Blot, could have worked in any industry I wanted. So what possessed me to agree to this?
Blueblood.
If that stallion had kicked a puppy while simultaneously taking candy from a foal, I'm not sure he could be more derided and disliked than he is now. Famously arrogant, stuffy, self-absorbed, self-obsessed, rude, vain... I could go on like this for quite a while, I think. And now I am to be his personal assistant. It won't be so bad, I thought. I'm sure I can develop a working relationship, figure something out. I always have. I thought, I thought, I thought.
Come on, Ink Blot, pull yourself together! Enough with the moping around! You're a professional; act like one. I glance out the window. We're not far away from the palace now, better make sure I'm ready. I pull a small mirror out of my saddlebags and take stock of myself. Two chartreuse eyes stare back at me, and I nod in satisfaction. Everything in order. I take a deep breath, my jaw set with determination. I could do this. I would do this. No matter what.
The carriage stops at the palace gates. A guard ambles around the side, asks me to state my business. I nod to him politely and hoof over my letter of introduction. He takes it, reads it over, hoofs it back, and gives me a sympathetic look. “Go on ahead. The guards inside can show you where to go.”
“Thanks. Switch with me?” He laughs at that. I was only mostly joking.
The gate swings open and the carriage starts rolling again. This might be my last chance to turn back. If I jumped out and ran now, I might be able to make it. No. I'm a professional, and professionals have standards. I made this bed; time to lie in it.
The carriage stops at the entrance to the palace. It is quite grand, I suppose. Lots of shining white marble, checker-boarded with slightly darker marble, golden arches. It only takes a moment to unload – I travel light, saddlebags and one good sized suitcase. I tip the carriage drivers and watch them disappear down the long pathway. I brush a speck of dirt off my light tan coat, take one more deep breath, and turn and stride inside. The red carpet is pleasantly soft under my hooves. Another pair of guards wait just inside the entrance, their spears crossed in front of me. My letter of introduction is once again sufficient to get me by. I consider stopping by my room to drop off my things first, but I don't actually know where my room is, and neither do the guards, so it looks like I'll be going to meet the Prince. One of them is kind enough to offer directions. Up the stairs, right hallway, three floors up, around the corner, third door on the right.
As I walk, some of the servants give me curious glances. Some of them just ignore me, too absorbed in their own duties or too used to seeing strange ponies to care. I pass a few more guards, some on patrol, some seemingly standing guard over specific rooms, but none of them check me. They probably assume that since I got this far and I'm not sneaking around, then I'm supposed to be here. Then again, I'm not the most physically impressive stallion, even for an Earth pony. Not that I'm weak, mind you, but my job certainly entails much more writing than weight-lifting. They probably figure that even if I tried something, I'd be easy to stop. Or maybe they just don't care if I assassinate the Prince. I wonder if anyone would stop me if I tried.
I shake my head. That's a great way to start off a business relationship, wondering if you could get away with your employer's murder. Grade A work there, Ink Blot, that's going on your annual performance review. 'Considered plotting employer's murder'. That'll look great.
I'm here. Either it was faster than I thought, or I was too absorbed in my thoughts to notice. The door is right in front of me. Nice type of wood, though I couldn't tell you what. Probably very expensive. His name is engraved on a gold plate on the door. Prince Blueblood's Private Rooms. Knock before Entering. I roll my eyes. At least it doesn't say 'This means you' like some kind of foal's 'keep out' sign. I blink. Wait a minute, there's another smaller line of text under the first. I lean in, squinting to get a better look at the shrunken type.
This means you.
Well. Is there a handy window nearby? I feel the urge to defenestrate myself.
Instead of leaping to the blissful oblivion of shattering glass and gravity, I sigh a deep, long sigh. I have the feeling I'm going to need to do a lot more sighing before I'm done here. I brush a stray olive green hair out of my eyes, raise my hoof and rap at the door. No answer. I knock again. Maybe he's not in? Well, I knocked, so I guess now I'm allowed to enter. It's not locked, so I open the door just a bit and poke my head through.
The room beyond is definitely expensive. My eyes pan over the luxurious sitting room – there's a trio of chairs in the center around a small coffee table, and a long sofa against one wall. Both are richly upholstered and look very, very soft. They also probably cost more than all of my possessions combined. A few paintings hang on the walls – mostly landscapes of Canterlot, including a 'Canterlot Through the Seasons' series. Two abstract ones, splashes of color against a white background, set apart from the others on one wall. None of the Princesses – I guess it is a little weird having portraits of family members hanging in your sitting room when you can just go talk to them. There's a number of bookcases scattered around the room, a variety of hardbacked books lining their shelves. Most look like they've never been opened; they were probably arranged for artistic effect, not for actual reading.
A trio of doors lead off from the room, one in each wall. I can hear the sound of water running from the one on the right. “Hello? Prince Blueblood? It's Ink Blot, your new personal assistant. Are you here?”
A voice wafts through the right-hand door. It's him. Cultured, refined, sophisticated – and somehow managing to sound completely stuck-up. “Ah! Excellent, you're here! I'll be out in a few moments, just let yourself in. My study is on the left.”
“I still have my bags with me, is that alright?”
“Perfectly fine, just leave them in the sitting room.” Well, this is going well so far. We've only said about a dozen words to each other, but still! Progress. I stand my suitcase up against the wall and shrug my saddlebags off. The carpet is embroidered with a large design; it looks like some kind of historical scene, but I have no idea what. I recognize Princess Celestia, some griffons, and that's about it. The door to the study opens with a soft creak. The room beyond is surprisingly light and airy. A large set of floor to ceiling windows takes up most of one wall, swung open onto a small balcony over the castle courtyard. The breeze ripples the long white curtains, which practically glow in the mid-morning sunlight.
The walls are once again lined with bookshelves, but these look like they're actually used. A large, ornate desk sits with its back to one wall, clearly placed to allow its occupant to look out the window. Another sits at a right angle to it, facing the door; from the looks of it, this one was added recently. The first desk is covered in stacks of papers and small mounds of books, some propped against others with tabs to hold pages open. I pace around the desk, peering at the titles of some of the books. Precedents in Equestrian-Griffon Laws: 4th Century - 7th Century PB. Equestrian Unified Civil Code, Volume IX. A History of Interspecies Commerce Laws. Law books? Big ones at that. I pan my gaze over the assembled papers. Some are letters, most written in a tight, neat hoof – the writing of an educated pony. Others are more varied. Some are printed documents, governmental notices, excerpts from more law codes. What's all this stuff doing here? There are a lot of stories about Prince Blueblood, but I don't recall any of them describing him as being a heavy reader.
I turn my gaze to the walls. A number of letters hang in frames on the wall. Rejection letters, maybe? I smirk, then blink in surprise. They're... letters of thanks and praise, all addressed to somepony named Scales. I skim over some of them.
Dear Mr. Scales, I wish to offer my thanks for the legal opinion you offered in our recent immigration case. Your insightful analysis and incorporation of historical immigration patterns was of utmost use...
Mr. Scales, I wish to thank you for the legal brief you contributed to my defense. I know that I wouldn't have been acquitted without it. If you're ever in Las Pegasus, I owe you a drink...
Dear Mr./Mrs. Scales, Your contributions to our latest volume, Looking Forward: Rethinking Equestrian Law for the Future, have been very well received by our readers. It is always a pleasure to feature work from such a distinguished scholar as yourself...
Who in the hay is Scales? Friend of his? I didn't think the Prince had any friends.
“Ah, good. You seem to be settling in well.” I spin around – a little faster and jumpier than I would have liked. He's standing in the doorway, amber mane perfectly groomed, his coat a gleaming white. I feel under-dressed. His teeth practically shine as he smiles. He trots over to me and extends a hoof to shake. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ink Blot.”
I blink in surprise. He's... greeting me politely. I was not prepared for this. I think I might have stared a little. Luckily, I recover before it becomes too awkward and return the shake.
“Likewise, your highness. I look forward to working with you.” He waves my comment/blatant lie away as he strolls over to the book-covered desk.
“Oh, please. 'Your highness' won't be necessary. You may address me as Blueblood, or Prince or Sir if you really must.” Now I really do stare. He's.. being casual? I had expected condescension, dismissal, arrogance... not being asked to address royalty on a first name basis. Maybe this won't actually be so bad? Fat chance. More likely the true Prince has yet to rear his ugly and snobbish head.
“Is that a problem?” He blinks at me, seemingly confused by my lack of response. I shake my head to clear my thoughts.
“No, sir, not at all. Still settling into Canterlot.”
“I see.” He smiles at me. He actually smiles. “Canterlot's a fascinating city, but it can be a bit overwhelming. Is this your first time?”
“Not exactly. Two years ago I worked with the Educational Licensing Bureau as a consultant. It is my first time in the palace, though.”
Blueblood claps his hooves together, seemingly in delight. This emotion seems very strange on him. “Well, in that case I shall have to make sure you get a proper tour at some point. But until then, would you care for an introduction as to what we'll be doing?”
I give him a small, lopsided grin. “Yes, if you don't mind. The job description was a little vague as to exactly what kind of work I'd be helping with...”
He shakes his head and takes a seat at the desk. “Not a problem at all. I specifically requested the posting be rather vague – I prefer to work in private.” I frown. Why would his work be private? He might not be one of the Princesses, but he's still royalty and a prominent member of Canterlot social circles.
“What kind of work will we be doing that it needs to be kept so quiet?” I gulp as an unpleasant thought crosses my mind. “We won't be doing anything top secret or illicit, will we?” Was this job opportunity a setup? Is the Prince involved in some kind of illegal underground group? Is he a gangster or a smuggler? Or is he part of some kind of secret branch of the government that abducts rebellious ponies in the night?
Blueblood throws his head back and laughs, jolting me out of my fears. It's not malicious or rude, not a villainous 'muwhahaha' – it's a laugh of honest, simple amusement, and it's contagious. I can feel the corners of my mouth twitching upwards in a smile against my will. My worries of a minute ago seem silly all of a sudden. Of course he's not involved in anything secret – I doubt they'd advertise in professional circles if they were.
“Of course not! Quite the opposite, in fact.” He uses his magic to pull the chair over from the other desk and gestures for me to sit. I take the proffered chair with a nod of thanks. “I am a legal scholar, though I have no official title. While I do not rule on cases – that is my aunts' purview – I am often called upon to offer opinions in cases, write legal briefs, and conduct research. I also write for professional journals, correspond with other professionals in my field, and otherwise participate in all of the activities expected of an academic. Do you have any questions so far?”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. Yes, as a matter of fact, I have many, many questions. Since when are you a legal scholar, to say nothing of being an academic? Why is this not public knowledge? Who would trust you with this kind of authority? Of course, these aren't the type of questions you generally want to ask an employer to their face, so I settle for a simpler one. “Er... just one. The job description didn't say anything about requiring legal expertise, and I'm not a lawyer, so...” I trail off. I hate the idea of admitting to my employer – on the first day, no less – that I wasn't up to the task, but if I didn't have the skills, I didn't have the skills.
He waves my concerns away. “Don't worry – I shall provide the expertise. I shall merely require your organizational talents.” He glances up at me from the papers in front of him. “You are an organization expert, are you not?”
I bristle at that. Getting defensive might not have been the best idea when face to face with royalty, but I couldn't help it. I'm good at what I do, and I know it. “Of course I am! I'm the best.”
He smiles again. “Good. While I maintain that I am quite capable of finding everything I need, some ponies,” and here he shoots a glance upwards, “insist that I need some help in keeping things organized.” I cast a glance over the desk. Now that I examine in detail, it was in worse shape than I first thought – papers strewn everywhere with little organization, books piled haphazardly on top of each other, scrolls balanced precariously upon towers of paper. I might not use the term disaster area, but I wouldn't deny it if somepony else did. “In addition, I will require your aid with more general matters, assisting with research, coordination with legal libraries and archives around the country, correspondence and the like.” He raises an eyebrow. “Do you think you can handle it?”
I grin. Now this is more like it. Time to get down to business. “I know I can.”
“Excellent.” He claps his hooves together once. “That will be your desk over there. I can have the servants move it if you desire.”
“That's mine? I thought it was your partner's.” He blinks in surprise and stares at me in confusion.
“My who?”
I frown. “Scales? You know, the pony who receives all of those letters?” I point to the frames hanging on the wall. “I just assumed that was his or her desk.” His muzzle twitches, like he's trying to keep a straight face and only mostly succeeding.
“Well, yes, Mr. Scales does work here, but he's very private. He doesn't like to work with other ponies very much in order to maintain his privacy.”
“Why does he do that?” I frown. From the letters, he almost seems like a celebrity – or as much of a celebrity as you can be in academic legal circles, at least. So not very much like a celebrity at all, now that I think about it.
“I believe that he prefers to let his work stand on its own merits, so that ponies won't judge his writings based on his name or family.”
I feel the light bulb click on. I raise my hoof and point at the unicorn sitting in front of me, though I'm not really sure why. “You're Scales!”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Brilliant deduction,” he replies, his voice deadpan. I feel my cheeks burn a little. Okay, so it's not like I've solved the crime of the century, but still! Gimme a little credit! He leans back in his chair, a hoof draped over his forehead and a melodramatic sigh escaping his lips. “Alas, my secret identity has been revealed, despite all of my clever attempts to hide it from the public.”
I smirk. “Laying it on a little thick, aren't you?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel my eyes widen. I'm certain that I've overstepped the lines. I've had some employers that I felt comfortable feeling familiar with, but only after working together for quite a while. Less than an hour is not quite a while. Blueblood, to my amazement, does not get huffy. He does not seem to take offense. Instead, he chuckles, and I feel my heart resume normal functioning.
“Perhaps I am. But yes, Scales is my alias. I chose the name from the metaphorical scales of justice – quite clever, don't you think? I was quite pleased myself when I thought of it. I use it so that ponies will judge my work on its own, rather than on my name. It also offers me privacy, which is something a high society pony such as myself gets precious little of. Besides,” he cocks an eyebrow, “do you think many ponies would come to the notorious Prince Blueblood for legal advice?” He pauses and holds a hoof to his chin in thought. “On second thought, don't answer that.”
His voice grows more serious, and he fixes me with an appraising look. “That said, I trust that you can keep this between us? There are very few ponies who know of my alternate identity, and I would prefer to keep it that way. Your previous employers spoke well of your discretion – I trust I may rely on you?”
I nod. “Of course, sir. Nopony else will find out from me.”
He smiles. “Excellent. This way I won't have to have you killed to preserve my secret.” I blanch, but the twinkle in his eye assures me that's he's joking. He reaches out with his magic and tugs on a small rope strung along the wall, and I hear a bell tinkle in the hallway outside. “I shall have a servant show you where your rooms are, and then shall we get to work?”
I grin back at him. “Sounds great to me, Prince.”