//------------------------------//
// Chapter 2 
// Story: The Castle Canterlot 
// by Honey Mead 
//------------------------------//


The Castle Canterlot:
Chapter 2



“The palace kitchens.”


—H.R.H. Princess Celestia when asked which country she most dreaded visiting.



Like a physical blow, a wall of sound struck Chronicle, staggering him and blasting back his mane. The combination of the pressure wave and the overpowering scents from within brought tears to his eyes as his ears folded back in a vain attempt to protect his hearing. He recovered in quick measure, more from experience than any natural ability. Ignoring the primal voice screaming in his head to turn tail and flee, he stepped inside.
It took a very special type of pony to work in the kitchens—the adjective Chronicle prefered was insane. 
As far as he could tell, the kitchens were their own dictatorship that didn’t so much serve the Princess as trade with her. At the top of the hierarchy, such as it was, was De Cuisine, an earth pony whose indomitable will was only matched by her girth. Beneath her, and with no less vigor, was Sous, a lanky pegasus who, if he hadn’t been seen to taste nearly every dish before letting it out of the kitchens, Chronicle would have sworn didn’t eat. The only concession to Equestrian providence were  four gold etched plinths sectioned off by red velvet ropes in a far corner, upon which sat porcelain trays with glass covers, each containing its own unique cake.
Like all well structured countries, the kitchens were divided into provinces, each overseen by a ranking noble, or in this case, Chef de Parties: Sauté, a unicorn mare whose high pitched voice was every bit a match for De Cuisine’s, Poissonnier, a short pegasus stallion from the Marelantian islands, Pâtissier, an earth pony stallion with a personality to match his favored food—dry toast—Garde Manger, the only affable one, Friturier, a pony who always left Chronicle feeling greasy just talking to her, and Rôtisseur, the only griffon—though her barony was sectioned off from the rest with a separate ventilation system for self-evident reasons. Each of these chefs had real names, but for the life of him, Chronicle had never heard them used.
Unfortunately, the structure seemed to breakdown after that. Below the Chef de Parties were an army of Commis and Scum—again Chronicle knew none of their names—who were, in theory, assigned to work under one of the chefs. In practice, however, Chronicle had no idea. Each chef moved through the kitchens like a miniature tornado dressed in a white jacket and toque of varying designs, screaming at and scolding those lower than themselves. Adding to the turmoil were the dishes, pots, pans, and all sorts of culinary paraphernalia that were floated and tossed overhead on their way to… somepony he was sure. It was a miracle that nopony lost an eye.
Chronicle waited at the entrance with his ears folded back and tail half tucked between his legs as he searched for the lesser eye of the storm. He tried not to make a habit of visiting the kitchens; and when he did, he knew better than to approach De Cuisine—a lesson he’d learned years prior. Instead, he sought out Sous, his hierarchical equal of sorts. It didn’t take too long to spot the tall, lanky stallion berating a commis near the walk-in freezer.
It took an effort of will, not to mention strength, to cross the threshold and enter the magical realm of chaos that kept the palace fed. With a stride as sure as he could muster, Chronicle cut a path toward the freezer and his target.
Chronicle didn’t waver as he moved through the mob, nor did he deviate or attempt to dodge any of the other ponies. With dexterity bordering on precognition, the commis and scum danced around him as though he were an obstacle that had always been there, a pillar that deserved no notice. His trot ended beside the two ponies he’d angled for.The upbraiding would not end simply for his presence, so Chronicle was forced to wait until it did. Once Sous finished, the thoroughly thrashed commis disappearing amid his fellows, he turned on Chronicle.
“Seneschal! Of course you’re here. The fish is twenty pounds light. We had to throw out half the celery to rot. Five bags of grain were infested with weevils and had to be tossed and we threw the rest into the freezer just in case, so we’ll have to use oats instead. Nopony ordered white rice, so all we have is brown, and apparently you can’t serve brown rice with the chicken, so Rôtisseur had to change the entire griffin menu because all we have is chicken. Garde Manger is sick and his commis is useless, so, I have to do his job as well as mine. In other words, we are right on schedule. Feel free not to bother next time, not that I expect you will listen.”
Chronicle didn’t attempt to interrupt the pegasus, content to let the scene play out as it had more times than he could count. There was a time when he would’ve tried to ask questions; it never worked out. Likewise, when Sous finished, Chronicle didn’t object to his curt dismissal. The truth was that he didn’t need to put himself through this. The kitchens were almost entirely self-sufficient, and his intrusions could only interfere with their smooth runnings. His visits were for his own peace of mind. Once, he’d left them alone, vowing not to put himself through the stress. He’d almost ruined the Cherry Blossom Festival that year as that seed of worry grew into a full blown panic attack.
When the door closed behind him he sighed in relief, tail shaking out the built up tension and ears limp from exhaustion. He waited there, alone in the hallway, until his heart beat returned to something approaching normal.
The golden pocket watch floated from his vest in a light auburn haze. He had a good hour before his meeting with the ambassador from Hackney, just enough time to check on the preparations in the Great Hall.



 — — — TCC — — — 



Festive Dust let out a wail of abject horror at the two ponies hitched to a cart loaded down with floral arrangements. “What is THAT?”
One of the pegasus mares shrunk back before glancing over her whither at the cart, as though to ensure it contained the same cargo it had when she’d loaded it. “The flowers you ordered, Ma’am.”
Festive’s skyblue cheeks darkened to a shade closer to purple. “Those are not what I ordered! Just… just look at them!” she said, pulling one of the bundles out with her magic and shoving them under the other mare’s muzzle. “Don’t you even know what season this is? Who in their right mind would order tulips and daffodils for a celebration in summer? By the Namegiver! Are those bluebells?” She tossed the offending flowers back onto the cart. “Where are my roses? Where are the peonies and hydrangeas?”
Chronicle was seated back on his haunches, waiting while the Chamberlain continued to berate the unfortunate pegasi. Nothing he could say would help the poor mares. Interference now would only cause her next outburst to be that much larger. Once Festive got started, it was best to let her peter out. Instead, he allowed himself take in the Great Hall and the decorations already in place.
It was beautiful, he supposed. Banners that displayed the rising sun were strung between the pillars separating the hall’s core from the northern and southern wings. Two teams of pegasi were in the process of hanging giant, gold and orange pennants along every wall, each adorned with Princess Celestia’s cutie mark. The two gilded alicorn statues on either side of the raised dais were already bedecked in garlands of white and red roses, while their podiums were covered in some other blue petaled flowers.
As with most public functions, the basic strategy was simple enough. The guests would begin to arrive at one in the morning. Food and entertainment would be available for the next four to five hours while they mingled. After that, around five thirty, everypony would exit to the adjoining courtyard to witness Sol’s rising. 
Chronicle had no intentions of attending for many reasons, not the least of which being exhaustion. Between his meeting with Silver Maison, the planning committee, the finance committee, his daily with the Princess, and the paperwork that had to be finished before nightfall: he didn’t hold any hope of making it out of his office much less to the party. He would be awake for the event itself, however, if only out of habit.
“I’m sorry about that.” Chronicle jolted at the sudden intrusion, turning back to face the Chamberlain. “Can you believe those ponies? Bringing—” She stopped herself, her orchid and fuschia curls dancing as she shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Where were we?”
“We had yet to begin, Mrs. Dust.”
“Really?” she asked, almost giggling. “Goodness, I could have sworn… Nothing for it.” Spinning, she threw out a hoof as though to encompass the whole hall in the sweeping gesture. “As you can see we’ve really only gotten started with the setup, but, barring a few minor hiccups,” she nearly growled, eyeing the cart on its way out, “we are proceeding a little ahead of schedule.”
“Ahead of schedule?”
“I know, right? There’s a first time for everything.” Festive let out a short giggle. “Anyway, we’ll put the dance floor there, of course,” she pointed toward the dais and the portable wooden flooring being constructed by four of her staff. “The orchestra will set up on the dais once they arrive, though that won’t be for hours yet. The buffet will be over there,” her hoof swung toward the southern wing, “with the griffon exclusive food off to the eastern side.”
She started walking north, toward the large doors that led out into the courtyard. Chronicle followed at her side. “Here we’ll have most of the tables and seating with the extras wrapped around the dance floor’s west end. Each table will have a beautiful arrangement of peonies, roses, succulents, hydrangeas, and ferns—if the foals at the floral shop can get their act together,” she said, the last coming more a hiss than words. 
Stopping at the exit, she did an about face, saying, “This, Boss, is what I am most proud of.” With a flourish, she directed Chronicle’s gaze back toward the ceiling and the small white puffs of cloudstuff. “Imagine one hundred firefly lamps strung from the ceiling, hidden amid a storm front of clouds. The first line, above the dais, will be a bright, incandescent yellow, with each subsequent row fading into orange, then red, and finally a line of purple bullseye lanterns at the rear, blasting their color across the back sides of the clouds.”
He tried to imagine it, even closing his eyes to summon the wash of colors, but it did no good. “Very clever, Mrs. Dust. It will no doubt be magnificent.”
“Thanks, Boss,” she said, still grinning madly.
They both turned their attention to the exit. A fuschia glow encased the mighty doors, swinging them open and revealing the battalion of groundskeepers hard at work tending to the lawn. Off to one side, a group of twenty ponies were busy with hammer and nail, constructing a large wooden structure. Neither pony moved to step outside, Chronicle’s head tilting downward slightly. 
“As you can see, we are already building the grandstand for the viewing. Once it’s finished, all of the guests will have a perfect, unobscured view of Sol cresting the horizon.”
Chronicle nodded, put on a small smile, and closed the doors. “Thank you, Mrs. Dust. You appear to have everything well in hoof.”
“Yes, Boss,” she said, nodding, her grin far larger than his.
“No issues worth mentioning?” he asked as his left ear twitched.
“Nope.” 
Chronicle nodded again, his smile slipping into a slight frown. Festive tilted her head to the side a little and began to speak, only for the entrance door to swing open. Both ponies turned to see two wagons full of decorations rolling in with more than twenty ponies in tow. 
“If you’ll excuse me,” Chronicle said as the pair moved toward the newly arrived commotion. “I have a meeting soon and it appears that you are needed. If a problem should arise, do not hesitate to contact me.”



 — — — TCC — — — 



Chronicle scanned the two scrolls he held in his field once again, more to fill time than anything else. The first was from Dashing Quill, Secretary Lady of the Navy, and went a long way to explaining the second, which had been provided only for the sake of completion—naval jargon and cartography were not part of Chronicle’s skill set. He frowned slightly before returning them to the saddlebags at his side and continued to wait in the small cabinet room.
Designed as a reading room, the back wall was dominated by mahogany bookshelves and the hundreds of books that filled them. A chaise longue sat catty corner to the door’s left with a canapé to the right. Chronicle himself faced the entrance, resting upon one of the many cushions centered around a low table at the rooms center. Steam rose from the silver tea pot set out next to a Stones board. Two wooden bowls, filled with polished black or white stones, were stationed on either side of the board with a pair of rods, about twelve centimeters long and two wide, sticking out of the bowls.
A soft knock on the door preceded its opening as a ruby maned colt with a darker cherry coat stuck his head in. “Ambassador Maison to see you, Mr. Chronicle, sir.”
“Thank you, let him in.” The colt nodded and pulled back, closing the door behind him. Chronicle closed his eyes as he took a breath, clearing his mind for the coming confrontation. The door opened.
Ambassador Silver Maison was of average build for an earth pony stallion, though perhaps a little on the small side. His white mane, with a single wide streak of silver, stood in stark contrast to his much darker sepia coat. He wore a tight grey vest about his barrel; the silver chain of his pocket watch barely visible against the fabric.
Chronicle bowed his head slightly, motioning to a cushions opposite himself. “Ambassador Maison, it is good to see you again. I've prepared an oolong, but if you'd prefer something else I can have it brought.”
Silver Maison wore an affable smile, though something was off about it; perhaps the corners of his lips did not curl as much as normal, or a failure to reach his eyes as it normally did. Either way, Chronicle was certain that something was not quite right. “Oolong will be fine, my friend,” Silver said as he took his seat. “I have been looking forward to this game all week.”
Chronicle maneuvered the tea cups in his field and filled them with the dark brown tea.
Meanwhile, the Ambassador’s eyes focused on the wooden board and its burnt in gridlines. After a moment’s thought, he bent his neck to the bowl of white stones, grasped the rod between his teeth and pulled it out. A single stone stuck to the tip until he touched it to the board. The moment the stone and wood connected, the magic disengaged, leaving it at the intersection of two lines. Over the next few minutes, neither pony spoke, each taking a turn to place a stone of their chosen color upon the board, sipping at their tea. It wasn’t until Maison had surrounded Chronicle’s first piece, removing the black stone from the board, that the silence was broken.
“First blood. You know, they say that’s a reliable predictor for the outcome.”
“They?” Chronicle asked, arching his left eyebrow, a motion that had taken five years to perfect—he’d given up on the right. “I'm afraid I am not familiar with those ponies. Are they the same ones who say a watched pot never boils and other such nonsense?”
Chuckling, Maison changed the subject as they continued to play. “You know, I believe this Summer Sun Celebration is my favorite of your festivals.”
“Oh?” Chronicle asked, placing another stone on the board. It was beginning to fill, many of their moves causing the other to remove pieces.
“It’s not something we celebrate back home. At least not nearly to the extent that is done here.”
“A side-effect of having the Goddess of the Sun as a monarch, no doubt.”
“It’s such a carefree holiday. I’ve found the others to have so many expectations attached that, truth be told, I don’t enjoy them all that much, not as much as I should at any rate.” He paused for a minute, considering the board before placing another stone. “You’re still single?”
“I’ve never found much time for romance,” Chronicle replied, using his magic to place another stone, “and being the lesser son of a landless house…”
Maison nodded his understanding of the unspoken. “What do you do with all that free time?”
Chronicle laid a stone, simultaneously removing four of Maison’s. “Paperwork, mostly.”
“You’re pulling my tail.”
Chronicle glanced up from the board and blinked. “Ah. No.”
“Perhaps having two wives isn’t such a bad thing after all,” Maison said with forced mirth, “better than paperwork. I’ll pass this turn.”
Chronicle considered the board. It wasn’t a bad decision; as the board sat, Maison had a clear numerical advantage and none of Chronicle’s choices were particularly enticing. Still, it was place a stone or forfeit the match. Sipping his tea, Chronicle laid his piece and set up Maison’s next move to take it and three more besides. “I think that would depend on how you feel about paperwork.” 
“Tell me, Chronicle, if you could go back and redo it all, would you change anything?”
“I think so, yes. I missed placed a stone four—”
“No, no, not the game. Your life, would you choose a different path?”
Chronicle paused, taking a long sip of his tea to collect his thoughts. He genuinely pondered on the question, though the documents in his saddlebags were never out of mind. 
“No.”
Silver frowned at that, ignoring the game as he stared across the table. “You’re saying that you are completely happy with how your life has turned out? That you have no regrets, no mistakes that you wish you could unmake?”
Chronicle stared into his cup, watching the bits of detritus that had escaped the strainer. He let the question churn in his mind for a bit more. Soon, a memory percolated up, rising into clarity. “Have you ever read the Texts?”
Maison’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing slightly. “I’ve never made a study of them. Why?”
Giving a short nod, Chronicle continued, “When I was first hired on, I thought it would be wise to read them, The Books of Sol at least. Not in search of answers so much as to understand Her Divine Highness as best I could. 
“In the third book, there is a story of the second Siege of Airagos Spire. The griffons were being supplied through a port controlled by ponies unaligned with Unicornia. The locals desired nothing more than to be left alone. To them the unicorns were no better than the griffons, bullies fighting for control of land to which neither had a rightful claim. Her Divine Highness—though she was not a princess at the time—and her generals believed they could shorten the war by raiding the supplies travelling through these lands. The locals, it was thought, would remain neutral, and without the supplies the griffons would be forced to surrender in a matter of months, rather than years. She was… mistaken. 
“That mistake forced her to take a more personal involvement in the conflict. In the end, the war did end swiftly, but it was rather more bloody than it could have been. It was a mistake that should never have happened. Her view had been narrow, you see, she had been so focused on the current conflict, on the lives of her ponies, that she failed to account for what would come after. The relations between Unicornia and the now subdued ponies became far more hostile, leading to regular uprisings and resistance movements until after the Great Migration.”
Maison started to speak, but stopped at Chronicle’s raised hoof. “There is an old saying good judgment comes from experience, and experience comes from poor judgment. Had Her Divine Highness made the correct decision, she would have learned nothing. In later conflicts, larger conflicts, she would not have had the experience to make the right call. Thus, through one tragedy another is avoided.” At this, Chronicle lifted his gaze, staring hard at the ambassador across from him. “It is important to learn from past mistakes, Mr. Maison, better still to learn from the mistakes of others. Perhaps you will relay the story to your Queen. I believe she may find it pertinent.”
Chronicle watched curiously as the ambassador’s posture snapped to attention like he’d been caught sleeping in class, trying to figure out what the teacher had just said. It was as likely as not that he lacked context, but he would resolve that on his own. More important, and less certain, was whether Her Majesty was wise enough to heed the poorly veiled threat. Either way, the message had been delivered and there was little else for Chronicle to do at this juncture.
“Not to change subjects,” Chronicle said, idly placing another stone, “but you will lose in ten moves.”