//------------------------------// // On Forensic Accounting & Choral Singing // Story: Obiter Dicta // by GhostOfHeraclitus //------------------------------// On Forensic Accounting & Choral Singing a serious study Leafy wasn't pleased. At all. “I’m not pleased,” he said, redundantly, “At all.” Balanced Ledger made a face. This caused her thick horn-rimmed glasses to slip forward and down her muzzle, and she had to scramble and hold them in place with a hoof, somewhat ruining the effect. “None of us are, Mr. Salad. If we don’t handle this appropriately the result will be disastrous for the Equestrian economy. The president of one of our oldest banks has been dabbling in insider trading and embezzlement, and doing so poorly, at that,” she said. “I don’t mean that. I’m not pleased we haven’t arrested him already. Normally when this happens Dotty and Sky Scribe go and make, like, a mountain of skulls in lower Manehatten to put the fear of Celestia in anyone else thinking about funny business.” “I don’t think Her Majesty is who they are afraid of,” said Balanced Ledger, with a sly smile. It was a well known fact that the mere prospect of being audited by Sky Scribe was enough to cause bankers to leap out of their office windows in stark terror[1]. Somewhat less known is that Dotted Line had to move Sky Scribe’s office from Manehatten because every time he strolled down to get a sandwich for lunch he’d pass by the stock exchange and cause the market index to drop twenty points. [1] Pegasus pony bankers, admittedly, but still, the thought was there. “Well, yes, point is by this time in most cases we’ve arrested all the executives and anyone standing next to them just for good measure.” “Ah, but those were clever crooks. Well, clever by the limited intellectual standards of financial criminals, at any rate. Their investments worked out. Gilded Guilder, on the other hoof, lost all the money he siphoned off his bank. As a result a major Equestrian bank—one of the big five!—has about the same capitalization as a lemonade stand. It’s running on good will, credit, and nopony realizing what had happened yet. When they do, there’s going to be a run, ponies are going to figure out the bank is a hollow shell, the bit will fall like a brick, and before you know it, the Equestrian economy is a smoking crater. Canterlot Mercantile Bank is important.” “This just sounds like more reason to arrest him now before he flees,” said Leafy, peevishly. “He agreed to cooperate fully in exchange for us holding off for a week.” “That just gives him time to make good his escape!” “Probably.” “But—” “We need that week. If we act fast and spend a terrifying amount of bits we can issue short term bonds, then acquire insurance by arranging for a rate swap with a major Qillin bank, say, then buy a put, right, on bonds nominally in Zebrican Dr—” “Right. Right. Magic. Dark wizardry. Hold the eye of newt,” said Leafy massaging the bridge of his nose. “You can’t—and this comes straight from the Secretary—arrest him for embezzlement, fraud, any financial crime at all until a full week has elapsed.” “Yeah? You can tell Dotty that—” “—he wants your word on this, Mr. Salad. He insisted.” Leafy sighed. “…fine. I give my word. I won’t be arresting him for embezzlement, anything financial at all, until a full week has passed. I promise. Does he want that signed in blood?” “He said he’d get back to you on that.” Leafy walked down the palace corridor, nearly trembling with fury. He couldn't be mad at Dotted—poor fuzzy bastard's only doing his job—but he could be mad at Gilded Guilder—greed of a dragon, brains of a small buttered turnip. And since he was going to be mad, he was going to be productively mad. It was time to get creative with the law. For all that he was seething on the inside, he appeared calm, walking with practiced precision, one hoof in front of the other, with small delicate steps. Only his wings—fluffing and re-fluffing—betrayed how unsettled he was. By the time he got to his office, his wings looked as if he had just flown through a hurricane and then stopped and gone back in a few times more just for the heck of it. He stormed past his secretary with a mumble that could be, with a certain generosity of spirit, interpreted as a greeting and flung himself in his chair. He leaned back and shut his eyes, thinking. Can't arrest him for what he did. Can't arrest him for what he didn't do—well no, I can, but I can't make it stick. So what do I... Cooperation, eh? Full cooperation? Well. There was a thing. What if we— —he was roused from his plotting by a quiet cough. He opened one eye a hair, and saw his principal private secretary holding a tray with a sandwich on it. This merited the attention of both eyes. He leaned forward intent on the sandwich. "Oh, Celestia, sweet and full of grace, you are a life-saver, Quillstroke." "This is widely known, yes." Leafy grinned. "You do realize you don't have to make me lunch, right? Your job description is light on cookery." "I thought it prudent to do so, sir. I saw that your mood was... stormy, and decided it would be best for the both of us if it were less so. Hence sandwich. If you were a volcano I'd be looking for a suitable virgin sacrifice to toss into the caldera. Luckily, you are easier to mollify. Pay attention to the almond-stuffed olives and the bell-pepper relish. They are exquisite." Leafy bit down. They were. "Still," he said, his mouth full, "still, you are making me feel guilty. For starters I definitely owe you lunch." "Guilty, you say? Good. May I ask that you remember that guilt when time comes to determine the magnificence of the lunch you owe me?" Leafy chuckled, and attacked the rest of the sandwich with gusto. Warm and comfortable in a post-prandial glow, Leafy settled back to do some serious plotting. After about half an hour, he had all he needed. He heaved himself out of his chair, and sauntered out of his office. "Off somewhere?" asked Quillstroke. "Yup. To be the victim of a terrible crime. Don't wait up for me." Gilded Guilder was going through his papers, making sure that the payment for passage to Zebrica was untraceable when the door exploded, flying off its hinges. Half a dozen Royal Guardsponies rushed in, armed and armored as if they were here to evict a somnolent dragon, and formed a perimeter around him. Behind them, quite slowly, came Leafy with the air of someone taking an evening constitutional in a park. He squeezed past the vast armored bulks of Corporal Swift Wing and Sergeant Hyacinth with a polite "Sorry" and a half-bow, and walked up to Gilded's desk. He leaned on it, then, hooves on the paperwork, and gave the banker his very finest grin, the sort light reflects off of with a faint metallic 'ting!' noise. "What's the meaning of this?" Gilded asked, trying to mask how terrified he was. "Your pony, Dotted, said that it will be a week before--" "Oh, no no no! Hah! No! Before you are arrested? Heavens forefend! We aren't here to arrest you—isn't that right, Sergeant," said Leafy, all smiles. "Nossir," said Hyacinth. Her expression wasn't all smiles. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was the sort of expression they presumably taught you during guard training, the one that said “Don’t run. You’ll only die tired.” "Then why are you here," asked Guilder, suspicious. "Well, you promised full cooperation, yes?" "Yes. But—" "Well, we are here to be cooperated with. To be cooperatees. Cooperands? Anyway. I'm going to go through your papers, you see." "Sky Scribe already went through—" "—and now I'm going to do so again. You know. Second opinion." "And the guardsponies?" "Oh, they are just my bodyguards. Can't be too careful, you understand." "So you want me to—" "—give me your ledgers and stay put while we go through them." "Then you'll leave?" "'Course." "Fine. Here you go. Please be quick. I still have a bank to run." "Oh, of course. And you've done such a cracker-jack job of that." Gilded supressed a growl, and hoofed a pile of ledgers over. Leafy grabbed them, and opened the first one. He ran his eyes over the page thick with numbers and yawned. He flipped a page and yawned again, extravagantly, spreading his wings to their full extent, before snapping them back. "Celestia! This is boring work, isn't it, Gilded? It’s so easy to lose your place and all. Well. How 'bout a cheery sing-song to keep our spirits up? Lads, Sergeant? How 'bout it?" "I don't—" Before Gilded could get more than a few words of protest out, Leafy leapt up into the air, powerful wings causing instant chaos in the paper-strewn office. Gilded could only watch, helpless, as his precious ticket—to Zebrica and hence to freedom—got blown out of the window. He looked after it, despair beginning to settle onto him, and just as he was considering going after it—damn not being able to fly—Leafy began to sing. "One thousand bottles of beer on the wall! One thousand bottles of beer! You take one down, pass it around..." The guardsponies dutifully chorused after him, faces carefully blank, and eyes focused on nothing in particular. Several hours, and nine hundred and fifty six bottles of beer later, Gilded started to seriously consider chewing his own hoof off to escape. He wasn't entirely sure how that would help, but that's the sort of thing you did to escape when desperate. And, heavens, was he desperate. The singing was bad enough—more than bad enough—but this Salad fellow was the clumsiest pony alive. He managed to crash into the little cabinet of spirits for important guests and get liquor absolutely everywhere. The office smelled like a distillery exploded inside a dive bar. The carpet was probably a write-off, too. Then, then he had accidentally set fire to one of the ledgers and in the mad scramble to put it out—still singing—had accidentally triggered the little switch on Gilded's desk that opened up the compartment with the special ledgers. The ones with the routing numbers he meant to take to Zebrica. Of course the idiot didn't notice anything, but the ledgers were right there. And then the lunatic pony climbed onto his desk to belt out the four hundred and fifty first bottle of beer—apparently that was the best one—he slipped and swept all the secret ledgers into Gilded's lap. That meant he couldn't even move. If he even tried, not even the idiot pegasus would miss a small mountain of paper sliding to the floor. So Gilded sat rooted to the spot, praying Salad would run out of beer bottles soon. "Forty-four bottles of beer on the wall, forty-four bottles of beeeeeer, you take one down—I must say you've been a terribly good sport about this Mr. Guilder, very cooperative—pass it aroooooooound—" "Yes—well—anything to help out..." "Forty three bottle of beer on the waaaaall—of course, now we'll have to go through your mail, too, and, yes, also your tax returns. Thoroughness is very important, after all." "But—I—tax returns?" "For the past ten years." "That's preposterous!" "You know, I think you are right." "I am?" "Yes. No idea what came over me." "Yes, well, good, I—" "Twenty years. At least." "But—" "And we'll need a comprehensive list of everypony you've employed, of course, and depositions from all of them and—oh, damn and blast," said Leafy. For the first time he looked genuinely upset and distraught and his smile slipped off. "What now?" "D'you know, I've completely lost count. Which bottle were we at again?" "What?" "Stumped too, eh? How about you officers?" "Nossir," said Hyacinth. "Really?" "Nossir. No idea whatsoever. We were just following your lead." “Astonishing,” said Leafy, who was astonished. “No head for numbers. If we had one, sir, we wouldn’t be in the guard,” said Hyacinth solicitously. "Ah well. I guess we'll have to start again. One thousand bottles of beer on the wall, one thous—" And it was then that Gilded punched him. Hard. It seemed like the thing to do. A second latter the world became a blur of pain, and when he came to he was being held down, expertly, by six musically inclined guardsponies. One would have been enough. Three, overkill. Six now, was just a farce. He was as thoroughly arrested as anypony in history. Leafy rubbed his jaw, but kept his grin. He ran a hoof across his mane, smoothing a few hairs back into place. Satisfied that, whatever the state of his jaw, at least his coiffure was intact, he spoke. "Ow. Why didn't you say you weren't a music lover, Guilder? Oh dear, oh dear. Assault on a public official in pursuit of official duties? That’s a very serious crime. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. And I thought we were friends, too!" "But I—" "—but nothing. As I said, very serious crime. It’s a class four felony, in fact. I’m a lawyer by trade, and trust me, it is dire. It has to be prosecuted, a case of compelling state interest without the possibility of nolle prosequi. But don't worry! I'll put in a good word for you at your bail hearing about, um... about a week from now, actually. Heh. Funny how that works." "But you—" "Oh and look! You found us some more ledgers," Salad exclaimed, quite cheerful, "you really are being very helpful. Tell you what, I'll have a word with the judge myself. To make sure things go well for you. It’s the least I can do." "You—you—" "Aw, shucks, you don't have to say anything. You are welcome. Now, take him away, please. The law is the law, after all. See you in a week, Gilded me old china." The highly befuddled Gilded was taken out by most of the guardsponies, and Leafy calmly gathered all the new ledgers and made a mental note to thank Gilder's maid for the incredibly helpful information. Astounding what you find when dusting, apparently. He loaded the ledgers into his saddlebags, signed a clipboard for Sergeant Hyacinth who was grinning openly now, in defiance of all ancient guardspony traditions, and sauntered out of the office, pausing to check again that his mane was still in perfect order. It was. The headline read “TIRED AND EMOTIONAL BANKING MAGNATE ASSAULTS PUBLIC OFFICIAL DURING ROUTINE AUDIT.” Just below it, in slightly smaller type was “PERMANENT SECRETARY SALAD SAYS NO HARD FEELINGS.” Spinning Top was very good at her job, after all. “But I thought we—I—no, we agreed not to arrest Mr. Guilder,” said Luna. She was holding the newspaper down with both hooves, as if trying to keep it from escaping, and regarded it with very nearly cross-eyed intensity as she tried to decipher it. Modern times hadn’t been that hard to adapt to, but the Equestrian press was hell on someone not used to it. “Oh, yes. Dotted Line gave explicit instructions to Mr. Salad not to finagle any way of arresting Guilder,” Celestia said. “Then he disobeyed…?” “Dotted Line said financial crime. This is not financial.” “It seems careless of Mr. Line.” “That he gave imprecisely worded instructions to a pony who, when he was practicing law, was widely known as ‘Loophole Leafy?’ Oh, yes. Quite unlike him.”