//------------------------------//
// Confessions of an Equestrian Opium-Eater 
// Story: The Ninety-nine Nectars of Princess Luna; Or How Twilight Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Her Wings 
// by NoeCarrier 
//------------------------------//


Chapter Ten


“Confessions of a Equestrian Opium-Eater”


                                   
The Palace at Canterlot was no stranger to singing. If it wasn't some bawdy number, howled by the nottlygna during their traditional nightly revelry, or a working tune sung by the innumerable ancillary staff that kept the wheels of that grand edifice oiled and turning, then it was the whistling and humming and general merry vocalisations carried in the hearts of all as they went about their business. For if anything could be said to be found in the souls of every pony, be they feathered, magical or otherwise, it was song.

It had been truly an age, however, since it had last heard prayer.

Princess Luna first heard it when they stepped out from Celestia's surreal demesne and back into the real world. The sound had a certain cadence to it that normal music lacked and, though song and prayer were close bedfellows, to a divine entity such as herself it was as opium to a poet.

Strange memories stirred in the massive, ordered lattices of Silver Shod's mind. Patterns and sequences that had no logical place within the structure of her thoughts boiled upwards, but jarred to a halt just shy of true remembrance. They hammered at the veil, beseeching an answer of her, demanding recognition; but they were as the princelings of a fallen nation, waving about their icons of former status and inheritance over the smouldering ruins of their father's halls, the refined language of their mother tongue unheard in the ears of crass barbarians.

The Princess knew all of her nottlygna personally. She, or instantiations of her, crept through all their dreams. This was a far less interesting process than the more scandalous rumours that circulated amongst the low classes made it out to be. Most dreams were far too baroque or nonsensical to be of any particular use or interest. The few oneiroforms she did ever bother bringing to lucidity were usually for her intellectual curiosity, the psychological benefit of the mind it had emerged from, or for taking a reading of the collective unconscious of the herd.

However, the nigh on automated process of dream reading gave the Princess access to an enormous wealth of internal thoughts and feelings. So, when Base picked up on the sounds of prayer coming up the huge staircases of the Tower of the Day and into the Court of the Zenith, and began to look quite nervous and almost ashamed, Luna was at something of a loss. Can it be that they think I do not know of their ways? Have they forgotten so much that, just because I outwardly seem to only sit upon my throne in the depths and drink wine, that I am not 'in touch'?

“Mother--” Base began, as they trotted out across the marble court.

“Yes?” Luna said, turning to face her, locking eyes with her. Let us see.

“When you were away, we--”

“Prayed?” Luna chewed the word, stressing it like it was a cherry stone in her mouth.

“It isn't like that!”

“It sounds as though it is. Should I be concerned? If I were to look, would I find a zebra shrine in the common quarters of your barracks? Would I see there also their rock idols and carved glyphs? Or perhaps you think that when you die, a great feathery gryphon will come down from on high and carry you off to feast forever?”

“No! We are loyal, Mother, on my hooves I swear it.”

“Then explain,” she said, making a show of hearing the prayer drifting up from below. “Use your own words.”

Base sighed deeply and settled herself down in front of Luna. Even though she was middle aged, a mother, and a senior member of the military, it still looked as though a naughty schoolfilly was presenting herself to an ever-suffering schoolmarm for punishment.

“My dam, her whole generation, they did it. They said you'd never have liked it, but that it was good for morale. That we'd been doing it since you were indisposed. They said you'd probably approve, overall.” Base sighed and stopped trying to look Luna in the eye, as it was making her dizzy. “My foal's generation looked at it differently. Perhaps something changed in their blood. Magic is a strange creature. Perhaps they liked the stories of other religions that came to us. Whatever the reason, they are true believers. They've the same look in their eyes as I see in those zebra folk, the ones that actually talk about their religion.”

Luna took off her crown with a wisp of magic. It was a tiny thing, a trio of rounded, jet black points in a half-circlet, the centremost taller than the other two. The sooty glass held a subtle, triangular gem of some material which seemed to repudiate the very concept of light by the intensity of its darkness. It was as though herein was the source of all night, all shade, of which every other was but a paltry and insulting reflection. Base felt the autonomic flight response wind up. Something incredibly primitive was demanding she place herself in whichever position was furthest away from the crown.

“On the sixth hundred day of First Hoof, six weeks before the First Intercession, and nine hundred and eleven days after our race fled from over the sea, I made this crown. From the Hill of Tithes I took jasper, agate, carnelian, onyx and jade. I bathed them in the unceasing light of my moon and so forged them,” Luna floated it down to Base's head height and rotated it so that she could see. “The ponies in my retinue called it harsag zalazalag, 'the brilliant peak'.”

“I don't follow, Mother.”

“These things are Godly things, as of the likes of the zebra Monad, and the Dog in the Desert.”

“Yes, I wasn't saying that--”

“Then from where do you get the idea that I would not approve? That I would frown on veneration and elevation?”

Base noiselessly mouthed a few half-formed words, then looked down at the marble and shook her head.

“I do not know, Mother.”



*



Emboss was being introduced to the true nature of Port Dauphine's night. As soon as the sun had slouched languidly back below the horizon the humidity had gone right up. It was as though the city had been placed within a bain-marie and left to simmer. The air hardly moved it at all and, when it did, it had an awful, sluggish nature to it that did more harm than good.

It hadn't helped that Truth had rather aggressively tried to jump his bones as soon as they reached the room they'd rented. Whatever peculiar mixture had been in the confectioneries had achieved its outcome. Naturally, Emboss had kiboshed that course of action very quickly and, after half an hour, during which she complained loudly and questioned his sexuality, she had fallen into a deep sleep.

The windows of the Gusset only opened part of the way, almost as though to tease newcomers to the city with a glimpse of fresh air, though the room was fairly large, seeming as it was to have been appointed for use by minotaurs. The bed was three times as long and wide as it needed to be, and the shower stall could have accommodated a small giraffe without fuss. Curiously, beside the bed there was only one other item of furniture in the space, a broad and low mahogany table with a cute hoof-stitched cloth over it, and it was here that Emboss began rolling out maps and planning the next stage of the trip.

Dunya's rhyming words sauntered around in his head as he did so, kicking things over and generally making a nuisance of themselves. It had now been almost a day since that moment in the shrubbery when Truth had discovered them and therefore been roped into this mad adventure. Sweet foals above have mercy, we could die out here. We could. This is the bloody edge of the world, where gryphons and changelings and diamond dogs start to bleed in. How can it be so small? Six hundred miles, a few hours in the air, and we've our hooves on the precipice. These locals might not eat ponies, but they could if they wanted to. Are they really going to be so tolerant in two thousand miles of sea? There hasn't been a sword drawn or even a harsh word said in twenty five years, but that silence is deafening, isn't it?

Emboss settled onto the floor and rested his head on the table, seeing some skewed and out of focus detail of a map of places they'd long since passed. What if this is just part of her plan? She'll probably come to our funeral. Oh, poor Truth and Emboss, lost with all hooves at sea, what a tragedy has befallen ponykind. Oh, those sweet, innocent foals of theirs, growing up without a sire or a dam to shelter them from the cruel world. It'll probably happen right before the Thiasus comes along and kills everyone else.

Hm. I wonder who you talk to, to hire a boat in this town?


*


Princess Luna had been about to launch into a speech she had been carefully crafting for the last five minutes, on the nature of alicorns and their relationship with organized religion, and the various thorny social, cultural and political issues that surrounded them. Unfortunately, at the exact moment her carefully ordered mind reached for the first words and concepts that she hoped would put to rest the tremulous nottlynga's concerns, and several miles away, down on the low slopes of Mount Avalon, the hydrogen stores exploded.

For many years, equine trade had relied on airships. As versatile as the old-fashioned pegasus drawn carriage was, when it came to bulk transport, they simply couldn't keep up. Equally, the mobile cities that were the aerial homes of that clade had a maximum speed of no more than a few miles a day and, though this was suitable for the cyclical, seasonal shifts of culture-bearing cities, designed to spread the wealth of art, culture and breeding stock with the rest of the world, it was no good for fish, peaches, strawberries or anything else that needed to be in Canterlot five minutes ago.

Naturally, the most effective and immediately available substance to lift the airships, and the one that required the least co-operation and agreement between the various magical orders who would have been needed to contrive an airship powered by arcane means, was hydrogen. By applying a standard thaumic current, one that could be generated by any journeyman unicorn, to ordinary water, the gas could be obtained. And obtained it was, in vast quantities, which, due to the physical properties of hydrogen, needed to be stored somewhere with a lot of free space. Naturally, and as with all things to do with the state's various logistical organs, this somewhere was hummed and hawed about for years, eventually resulting in the frustrated, piecemeal construction of what would later become a bizarre warren of individually owned ceramic tanks, lined with thin mineral coatings to prevent erosion.

Normally, due to the excellent staffing and operational procedures of the various guilds, charter-houses, private ponies, and other entities with financially vested interests in the whole place not exploding, everything was very safe, or at least, as safe as you could be when sitting on several hundred million cubic liters of astonishingly volatile gas. When the prevailing state of national drunkenness had swept over this complex, all their entirely justified concerns about safety and fire-prevention had gone out the window, along with their taboos about public sex, appropriate consumption of alcohol, the proper placement of barbecues, and all of the reasons why these things put together are not conducive to the aforementioned cause of things not blowing up.

The Tower of the Day was made of stern stuff, and did not so much as sway in the resulting overpressure wave. Some of the glass above them cracked along random lines, sounding like cannon fire as the pressure released itself. The rainbow images playing across the floor distorted and shuddered. Luna winced, and her ears folded back against her skull. Base was not so lucky, and she ended up on the floor, mouth gasping silently in pain for a moment. Then, the poor nottlygna let out a horrible groan, blood trickling out of the punished sensory organs in her eyes, nose and mouth, likely pulverized.

The Princess knelt down on her foreknees and laid a wing over Base, nuzzling her snout gently. The mare's eyes were unfocused, stretched open as wide as the tiny muscles would allow. She seemed to be staring at something very far away, which was too large for her to see all of. Erratic twitches ran up and down her body and, between the far smaller booms of further, undetonated pockets of hydrogen going up, all that could be heard were the sounds of Base's armored hooves thudding gently on the Day Court's opulently carpeted floors. Faults in the design, too much noise produces shock states. Trade offs for greater capacity, extra senses. Could have built in a limiter. Should have done. Luna closed her eyes and ran her wing-shoulder around in comforting circles against the metal on Base's flank. Strange days when I made you, wild days. Days when I could just think, and the world moved to my whip. Bad days.

The Queen of Tides stood up and wandered over toward the big windows that had let in so much of the ferocious sound and pressure. Unlike the glasswork of the ceiling, which was a labor of adoration and respect on behalf of an artisan, the windows themselves were magical. Though they deflected intruders and the constant stream of high-speed air that buffeted the tower at this height, everything else they let in. The cantrip-studs embedded in the big steel frames were still glowing from the transfer of the energy that had passed right through them, the paint around them bubbling and sizzling.

A pillar of black smoke dominated the entire western skyline. The city below, already in disarray from the rioting and general civil disorder, had been cowed for a moment, shaken into stillness. Luna could see the shapes of ponies wandering around in confusion, many now running, panic and fear in their motion. Silently, some of the buildings on the lower terraces of the Hill were beginning to fall apart, sending up clouds of white dust and startled pegasi.

Behind her, Luna heard Base try to get up, then begin to vomit wretchedly. She turned, and saw the mare staring at her between gasps for air and the seizures of emesis, terror and confusion filling her big, brown eyes. A blood vessel had burst in one of them from the force of her expulsions, reddening the iris with a ruddy kiss.

“Please join me downstairs, when you are ab--” Luna started, then remembered herself, and was forced to conclude that the nottlygna would figure it out on her own.

With that, she left Base, her quick hooves in neat step flowing past her like a haughty shadow.



*


When the medical orderlies had carried her down the long staircase to the bottom of the tower, Zo Nar had been feeling absolutely terrible. Her thoughts were slow and confused. It was like a dream, and she was so dreadfully tired. All she wanted to do was close her eyes, and more often than not, she did. The tuft-eared nottlygna figures that kept shaking her back to some vague awareness were incredibly irritating, though she had not the strength to strike out at them with her hooves.

There had then been a long feeling of nothingness, disconnected from the world, but still somehow together. Nar's perception was one of distant white shapes, gradually receding, their hushed tones and words mostly gibberish. She saw an image of Canterlot, which came up out of the roiling blank spaces around her liberated form like a firework in flight. It burned, the points of the conflagrations dazzling, like stars on the canvas of an Old Master. The immediately identifiable tower of the day began to fall, breaking into sections as it plummeted. Almost as quickly as it had appeared, everything vanished. There was the sound of water being poured, the scent of nightshades in full bloom, and the feeling of being observed.

Then, suddenly, looming ten times larger than life, the Princess of the Night herself swept over her. I've died, Nar thought, without much concern for anything. It's over. The pains of her body, and the slow numbness of it all later on, had drained away. This is how they said it would be.

Nar's vision, for want of a better word, traced the path of Luna's long, shadowy form. All at once, it merged and melted away, bursting into weird, geometric patterns, like the stinging, smarting after-images in the eyes after being struck. Out of that melange came an idea of a lake, then Nar saw the lake that she had thought of, and Luna was once more out above it, wings gently beating. She was silhouetted by her moon then, turning her head, seemed to invite Nar to take a swim.

The mare suddenly had a body again, though it was naked of her armor and uninjured. She breathed deeply, reaching for air, and the strange, peppery smell of nightshades filled her nose. Sand shifted beneath her hooves as she trotted forward, unsure of whether or not she was in control, or merely in the unthinking state of a dream-trotter, following the non-lucid commands of whatever her subconscious had in store. Something caught her attention, drawing it away from the vision of her Princess suspended above the surface of the water. Tiny, pale white crabs, no bigger than a bit-piece, softly scuttled over her hooves and the sand, all moving in the same direction. They had no eye-stalks, and seemed to be moving not by perception, but by the diction of a group mind.

The water did not lap or shift, as though it were a proper lake, but was deathly still as Nar entered it. She had never been swimming, but deep instinct whispered quietly to her that it was safe, and that she did not need to fear drowning. The water was warm, and smelled salty, but was absolutely crystal clear. Even the disturbances that Nar's hooves made on the bottom did not kick up sand for long.

Now up to her withers, and standing before the Princess, Nar looked up, just to watch the elegant being. As though waiting for this cue, Luna stared down, eyes full of imperious majesty, terrible force and unknowable, maddening fury. Then, she smiled, but it was as though a dam was smiling at a foal which, standing for the first time, slick and shivering, had begun to nurse.

“This is my mercy,” the Princess said, plainly. “Do not fail me.”

Zo Nar opened her eyes. The far side of a majestically decorated, though decidedly mundane room, one she recognized immediately as the Adjutant's office, just off the Welcome Hall of the palace, greeted her. She expected pain, or some other worldly thing, to mark the transition out of the dream. Nothing presented itself, quite the opposite, for a wonderful sensation now rolled up her flanks, over her withers, down the back of her neck, everywhere. It was as though an expert lover's muzzle was exploring her body in preparation for mounting, or at least, how she had imagined it would feel. Nar inhaled deeply, and could not help but let out a pleasured sigh.

“Selenesi clementia, one hoofsweight of the standardized extract,” said a disinterested, somewhat disapproving, voice from somewhere behind her. “As you can see, with the hypodermic administration, the effects are nearly instantaneous.”

“Whoozat?” Nar burbled, turning her heavy head round to look down her flank.

Various rubber tubes had been inserted under her left front leg, and they coiled up and out, connected to a series of bladders and sacs, suspended from a polished oak stand on little hooks. Several nottlygna were sat on their haunches, studying her body. Nar had never felt any sort of shyness over her form, there were no such taboos in her culture, but now their interested gaze, the curious, attentive eyes, made her feel as though she were being eyed up for dinner.

“I am Physician Sound Rebound, and these are some of my students,” said one of the larger nottlygna, who had a narrow face, a tiny pair of spectacles perched on his muzzle, ears that were too tall for him, and more fluff and fur on his chest than would ever have been thought appropriate. “And you are lucky to be alive. I hope you do not mind my use of your injuries as a teaching aid, but I have always thought that--”

“Why do I feel so lovely?” Nar said, unable to suppress a smile.

“The Princess has bestowed her mercy on you, via me,” Rebound said, adjusting his glasses with a roll of his nose. “It is a rare privilege, hence why, even in the current climate, I thought it wise that my protégées witness it.”

“Oh, good,” Nar murmured, laying her head down on the most comfortable gurney she'd ever been on. “Any of you want a turn on me? Stallions, mares, I don't care.” She laughed again. “This just goes on, and on, doesn't it?” Nar giggled furiously, trying to sit up, but failing miserably. “Come on, any of you, I'm a virgin, you know.” She gave what she presumably imagined were bedroom eyes to the nearest nottlygna, who regarded her pitiably. “A dirty, dirty virgin!”

“Whilst the physiological effects of the extract are, in as of themselves, quite significant, the psychological effects are far more profound,” Rebound said, ignoring her attempts at solicitation. “Now, it doesn't tell you much of this in the literature, but--”

Nar had lost interest entirely. The world was wonderful, and wonder was the world, and nothing, at this moment, could change that. Within moments, she'd fallen into a comfortable sleep.

“--of course, this is nothing, for as you will have noted in the patient record, we are to administer a second dose,” the doctor concluded, somewhat too enthusiastically.


*


Nar was standing on the edge of the shore again. This time, everything was far less solid and, as far as color palettes went, less dreary. Luna was there, but she was playing in what was now a merry surf, lit by the same moon, but somehow brighter. Purple tinges complimented the silvery glow. She was quite sure that she had never seen the Princess acting in this way before, gamboling around in the waves, laughing and singing to herself. What's more, she seemed to be wearing something around her hips, which looked like a very short dress, or some kind of girdle. Her mind, moving faster now, grasped for the word, and moments later, found it. Bikini.

Dumbfounded, Nar laid down to think. As she did, a dozen little voices, squeaky and angry, yelled in protest. She sprung back, growing more confused by the minute. The tiny crabs were nowhere to be seen. Instead, hundreds of nottlygna foals, black, gray and midnight blue, danced between the micro-sized mountains of sand. The ones she had displaced gazed up at her, shaking their hooves for a moment before getting back to the dance.

“I don't feel very well,” she said, voice flanging and phasing, seeming very close and very far away at the same time. “I think I might be sick.”

“That's just my mercy, pay it no heed!” the Princess called, pausing, waves washing between her legs.

“Do you think ponies can be sick in dreams?” she muttered, wanting to lie down, but fearful of crushing the Lilliputians beneath her.

“The more important question is, what are you going to do about your maidenhood?” the Princess shouted, over a sound that had been rising steadily in the background for a few minutes, but which Nar was only now noticing. “Do you not care about the species?”

“The species?” Nar echoed, trying to focus her eyes on Luna, but failing. “I love the species, I love everything about it, I love foals!”

“Then prove it!” Luna was bellowing now, peering up at the sky, which pulsed a red and violet, growing in intensity. “Prove it!”

The dream ended, as sharply and without warning as before. She was still, and always had been in, the Adjutant's office. All the false sensory perception vanished, except for the noise. Something had exploded, was exploding. The rattling, rumbling, stomach-churning vibration ran through everything. Fractures ran up the plasterwork in the office, pieces of the ancient building falling and crumbling. Worried shouts and the smell of fear followed the disturbance.

Without really knowing what she was doing, Nar scrambled to her hooves, or tried to. She fell from the gurney, rolling over her shoulder and onto her back. There was a sharp, slithering pain as the tubes were tugged out of the veins under her leg. She caught a flash of their needle tips, glinting in the soft candlelight. She lay, panting, trying to recover her strength. A certain abandon filled her and, after a second or two, she was upright, shaky and unsure of her body.

Her cherished armor was gone, removed during her dreaming. Bandages marked the place where she had been pierced, spotted with bleed-through in the center. She barely noticed. Something unswerving and single-minded had taken control of her. Prove it! Luna's oneiric words echoed through her. Prove it! Nar dove through the dashing gaggle of ponies. The medical team was nowhere to be found, let alone Physician Rebound. The nottlygna battle order had completely fallen apart, it seemed. Some had been rendered totally insensate, writhing on the floor in agony. Others, not injured so, were trying to tend to them. Foals and cadets, terror in their eyes, nipped helplessly at mares and stallions.

All of a sudden, Nar realized she was galloping at full tilt. The big, wide-flung doors of the palace passed her in a black and brown blur. Grit, flung up by the force and speed of her movement, stung her belly. Her heart hammered in her chest, and sweat beaded up, trickling down her taut muscles, mixing with the trail of blood that oozed from the former cannula sites. Prove it! The dream had hold of her, and as she made for somewhere, as fast as she could, she did not question why.


*


Luna's appearance on the scene of devastation that followed after the shockwave could not have been more different than her last arrival. Gone were the smiling, adoring faces of her legions of nottlygna, replaced with horror and confusion. They were not used to such ferocious enervations, as the ordinary form of warfare, at least for them, involved lances, weighted horseshoes and other, decidedly kinetic tools. Even cannons, against which they were occasionally arrayed, were not as loud and disorienting.

It was not for some minutes, therefore, that the Princess realized Zo Nar was missing. Between issuing reassurances and explaining the effects of hydrogen, oxygen and a source of ignition, her search became more frantic, at least as far as the term could be applied to her. Finally, she trotted up behind Physician Rebound, who was busily and, somewhat merrily, suturing a nasty flank wound with the aid of several assistants. The elder stallion still had his wits about him, and turned after a moment, even at the nearly soundless hoof falls of Luna.

“Your Majesty,” he said, smiling and spitting out a long needle, one which would not have been out of place in the sewing room of a cultured mare. “I am so glad to see that you are well. What news?”

“Where is Zo Nar, the young mare I had brought here not half an hour past?”

“Ah, yes, the recipient of your mercy,” the physician said, glancing around, bushy eyebrows furrowing. “She was just here a moment ago...”

“Did you heal her wounds and administer the Clementia?”

“That I did, your Majesty.”

“Did you also ensure that she was well restrained before doing so?” Luna slowly began to tap her hoof, ears flicking forward and back.

“No, your Majesty--”

“Does it not say, very clearly, and in extremely large, unmistakable lettering, on the vials, instructional materials and,” Luna said, pausing to take a deep breath. “In the vast piles of medical texts you have undoubtedly read to attain your position, that all those who receive this therapy are to be restrained before use of the drug?”

“Y-yes, your Majesty, but the poor mare was in such a bad shape, there was bleeding inside of her, and she had lost much of her blood volume, and--”

“How many times have you, personally, administered my mercy?”

“Four times, your Majesty, all to those very near death...”

“And on those four occasions...” Luna's hoof tapping became faster and more percussive. “What happened to those patients?”

“They, um, died, your Majesty.”

“Before that, you wittering fool.”

“They experienced a series of intense dreams, as well as pronounced psychological shifts toward... certain proclivities...”

“What do you think might have happened to your patient?”

“She likely...” the Physician trailed off, then seemed to realize something. “Oh dear.”

“Please organize a search party at once.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” Rebound bowed deeply. “So sorry, your Majesty...”

“Just find her, before she impales herself on some poor unfortunate.”


*


Black Ode had been busy sleeping in his tiny office on the top floor of the Theater of the Two Sisters when the explosion happened. The stallion jolted upright in a panic, falling over his own hooves as he extricated himself from the confines of a plush leather sofa. The building shook, then swayed. Fear and terror began to swell in the confused, somnolent corridors of his mind. The theater was built out of limestone and granite. Whatever was happening now, it was tremendously forceful.


Staggering to his hooves, still half-asleep, Ode barreled through the heavy ponyoak office door and into the wide hallway beyond, breaking into a gallop. His heart began to hammer under the combined stresses of sudden exercise and adrenaline. Ponies were not good with fear and enclosed spaces. That was why they always built sturdily and always had public buildings that could never fail to be described as spacious or imposing. Yet even with these additions, Ode still felt a tug at the back of his mind, a primordial yearning, begging him in unknown tongues to flee.


Skittering across the varnished wooden floors, Ode reached the end of the hallway and came out onto the balcony that ran all the way around the top level of the domed entrance hall. Overhead, through the curved panels of cut glass, equine shapes moved drunkenly about. The light filtered in unhindered by cloud, and the blue skies did much to calm his spirit. Peering down into the atrium, he saw what had caused the commotion.


The ornate steel doors, once a present to the city from a zebra king, lay shattered and ruined across the swirls of the polished black and white marble. The intricate, mechanical workings of their locks were visible scattered in amongst larger chunks of silver inlay; the mythological scene about a divine bard previously etched into the frames now but a memory.


Over them marched dozens of ponies, mostly unicorn mares. Some had their foals with them, and others seemed to be dragging husbands, who looked far less enthusiastic. Even from the top of the atrium, it was possible to see that their faces were curled into hateful scowls. The angry shouting that rose up from them was even worse. It was filled with a murderous rage, one that Ode recognized only too well from the public readings of some of his less flattering poems. Then Ode realized that every pony below him was wearing a red and white sash. As he did, a pair of ponies carrying a long, bundled package stopped in the center of the atrium. Working together, they used their magic to unfurl a large, professionally printed banner.

The Outrages Against Public Decency Committee? Who in Equestria are they?

Ode didn't have much time to think. His attention was drawn to a fight which had broken out near the destroyed entrance. The black and gray coloration of a nottlygna could barely be seen beneath a flurry of pink and blue. The sound of hooves thudding harshly against flesh peeled out cleanly above the general ruckus. Whichever poor soul had dared challenge this mob rule, they were greatly outnumbered. Ode could only look on in horror as the beating continued. For a moment the nottlygna managed to lift up out of the crowd, trying to gain height away from her attackers, but then magic came into play and she was once more lost in a sea of violence. High pitched squeals of pain followed.

There was some cue from the mob and the kicking finished. The limp remains of the guard, unmoving and bent at unhealthy angles, were dragged outside into the street. Ode could see that those closest to their victim were covered in blood. Their faces and hooves dripped with it, like butcher’s dogs. None had ceased their vile bellowing, though, in fact, it had only gotten more elated. Mares danced about, whooping and cheering.

Ode whimpered, and slipped down as far as he could onto the floor, hiding behind the wooden guard rail He'd never seen such depravity, or heard of it happening. Even the gryphons and minotaurs, with their martial, predatory cultures, had standards and rules. Some of their philosophy and behavior was at odds with traditional pony mores, but they, at least, had a morality. What he had just witnessed was an absence of that, a complete anarchy that almost defied description. Had the part of his mind responsible for art still been functioning, he might have laughed at the grim irony of the sign that they had unveiled prior to the beating.

Presently, Ode worked up the courage to leave his hiding place. The crowd below didn't seem eager to leave the lower floors of the atrium, or perhaps had simply not found their way there yet. They were far more content in trashing everything they could get their hooves on. The theater stored all of its permanent material, all those things required to simply run a building of that size and age, in a collection of cellars and rooms around and directly below the atrium. Every time Ode popped his head up above the guard rail, he saw another priceless piece of furniture being smashed to matchsticks, or irreplaceable work of art shattered and burnt.

Fortunately, it was the end of the Theatrical Season, and much of the installed fabric of the place was off site undergoing restoration. Likewise, there were few actual ponies in the building, which was why Ode had chosen his office on the upper floors for a quiet nap. The production of the 32nd was in full swing, albeit a confused and schizophrenic one, and there had barely been a moment's rest since the impromptu meeting. I can't stay here, Ode thought, as he wove his way as quietly as possible through the empty senior office suites at the top of the theater, heading for the emergency escapes. But how do I get past that lot?

Just as Ode reached the stairwell, it occurred to him that whilst there were indeed only a few ponies in the building, they were entirely composed of those auditioning for the chorus. This was a role which could only possibly be played by nursing mares, as called for by the rather sarcastic playbook liner notes on which the 32nd was based. Adrenaline spiked in him again as his harried brain put it all together. The auditions were taking place in the main theater hall. Everypony auditioning would undoubtedly have a foal with them, or otherwise be vulnerable, as they would be in some stage of pregnancy. And the main theater hall is only a few double doors away from that dreadful mob. Ye Gods!

Clattering down the emergency stairs, Ode moved like a stallion possessed. It was suddenly clear to him what he had to do. Putting on a further burst of speed, he set a course for the small, fire-proof room located just below the main stage.


*


Emperor Shining Armour was on the roof. Very few ponies, even those newly employed to work in the imposing edifice that was the Crystal Palace, knew that it actually had a roof, assuming quite logically that a spire lacked such things. Fewer still would have ventured up here had they known. Access was by means of a set of hidden stairways and catwalks once designed for foal servants of the former master, and so was not only hidden, but at a glance appeared to be nonfunctional, made for decoration or ventilation, as it would not cross the mind of any right-thinking Equestrian that anypony would have made slaves of foals.

Furthermore, the roof was nearly three kilometres from the ground, without any guard rails or other safety mechanisms, and the flat panels of its construction offered little purchase, especially under hoof.

Shining Armour flexed and twirled the narrow metal rod he held suspended in his magic, feeling the psychothaumic feedback down the threads of energy that drifted unseen from his horn. His keen eyes, honed by years of military experience and training, kept an unbroken lock on his target. Unconsciously, his mind began working through the complex physical equations required for this act, just as sure as it was fitting the telekinetic equations into those, ensuring a complete unity of thauma, corpus and animus. The wind dropped suddenly. It's time.

“Fore!” he shouted, and struck the golf ball, which was perched neatly on its tee.
The little pink orb, emblazoned with both his own mark and that of his wife, shot off into the distance at terrific speed. For a moment he tracked it, sailing through the cold afternoon air of his empire's capital, before it was lost somewhere amongst the neat rows of town houses below. Getting closer, he thought, licking his lips. That had to have been almost next door!

The twin peaks of the Gryphish embassy building, freshly occupied for the first time in half a millennium, jutted up between a crystal wholesalers and a mare's shoe shop on the far side of the foreigner's district. It had once been a perfectly lovely example of Hippodamian-inspired architecture, neatly integrated not only into the street plan but also into the character of the buildings surrounding it. Then the gryphons had gotten hold of it and made their votive alterations in the shape of the Autumn Crown, and now it was a grotesque eyesore.

But we cannot possibly say anything, he thought, sarcastically, and in the accent of his wife. The diplomatic ramifications would be unimaginable! There would be war! Yeah, well, bring it on, I say. Let them come. We'll drown them in the bloody Dauphine and say no more about it…

Shining Armour was about to send another golf ball flying toward the offending gryphons, but found that at the last moment his swing was halted by a familiar tendril of pastel pink energy. He sighed and sat down on his haunches, offering no particular resistance.

“Hello, darling.” he said, not turning round. “Fancy meeting you up here.”

“I've just had the Gryphish ambassador downstairs,” Empress Mi Amore Cadenza growled, in a fashion most unbecoming of somepony so pink and regal. “Apparently, someone has been shooting golf balls through their windows all morning.”

“Oh dear, how unfortunate,” Shining Armour said, barely stifling a grin. “We shall have to send the guard out at once to apprehend those responsible; probably the nationalists trying to stir up trouble again.”

“Did you stop and think for even a second?” she said, floating one of the balls into his field of vision. It was heavily scuffed, and had a crack in it, right where his own cutie mark was printed.

“That's why it's the perfect plan! Not for a moment would those half-castes think it was actually me. ”

“You're trying to start a war, aren't you? That's it. You're actually trying to start a war. Last week it was the bird's nest soup. Now you're pitching golf balls at the embassy!”

“Oh come on, dear. It's just some harmless tomfoolery,” he said, turning to her and putting on a foalish pout. “All the cool empires do it.”

“We're the only empire!”

“Exactly. We've got to be cool. With it. Otherwise we risk becoming marginalised on a national stage,” he said, unscrewing the head from his golf club and policing the last of his balls. “We've got to appeal to ponies of my sister's generation.”

“Just promise me you won't go too far.”

“Dearest, everyone gets up to this kind of thing,” he said, placing the golf bag around her neck via its elaborate silk strap and giving her a comforting peck on the cheek. “Who do you think it was that left all that grass and hay in the throne room last week?”

“The gryphons did that?”

“The zebras, actually.”

“But why?”

“It's a game they play, one which we must also.”

“Why didn't I know about this?”

“Well… it's for the stallions, isn't it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, the mares and hens get up to statecraft...”

“Really now?” Cadence huffed and unhooked the bag, popping open the clasps. “For the stallions, is it?” She grabbed a likely-looking five iron from the ermine interior, roughly extracting it with her magic. “Mares and hens are only good for statecraft, are they?”

“Darling, that's not what I said...”

“I'll show you statecraft!”

Cadence dramatically selected one of the remaining golf balls, making a show of holding it up and examining it. Satisfied, she affixed it in the air, held up the club, and swung. Immediately, there was a sound like thunder, and a flash of heat rolled over Shining Armour's skin and fur. Behind a glare of brilliant white light, it was just possible to see the ball as a fast moving ember, zooming along a flat arc into the city below.

Blinking the after-images out of his eyes and moving as fast as he dared on the precarious open roof, he made his way over to the edge to get a better look. His horn began to vibrate in sympathy with the remnant magical frequencies, the anger behind the intent clear as day. At first, it seemed as though the ball had simply boiled away into gas, such was the output of thauma. But then Shining Armour noticed smoke rising from the rooftops, indicating some fragment of the tortured ball had made it to the ground.

He turned to his wife and shot her a look of severe annoyance. The five iron she was still holding was bent out of shape and missing its head, which had been replaced by a glowing red stump. Droplets of metal fell onto the crystal tiles beneath her hooves, where they began to solidify rapidly.

It was at this moment, and quite without any fanfare or warning, that the Gryphish embassy, with all its strange devotional additions, collapsed. The sound of its crystalline construction shattering could just be heard, even from such an altitude.

“Oops,” Empress Cadenza said.



*



The Rock of Ignatius glowed brightly in the night, illuminating the blizzard flowing round it with a ghostly aura. Though the rock itself, along with its crumbling complex of towers and vaults, was not actually visible, the intensity of the light it put out made it unmissable even in the worst of weather. It was as though the slowly undulating snowy desert was under a constant, repeating dawn, forever trapped in the moment just after sunrise.

Emperor Shining Armour sipped his mint tea and looked blearily out at it all through the thick panes of the train carriage, trying to fight off the urge to smash things. The aftermath of his wife's little accident had not been at all fun. First, the gryphon close protection detail had come storming into the palace, hot on the heels of their ambassador, who had thankfully survived the destruction of his embassy mostly intact. The fighting had begun almost immediately, as the praetorian guard looked very dimly on angry, clawed predators invading the home of their emperors at strange hours of the day, entirely unbidden

Naturally, as soon word spread amongst the crystal ponies, who were a tremendous lot of panicked gossipers, used to the expansionary behaviors of the previous ruler, riots broke out. One group had assumed that war had been declared on gryphons in general, and went abroad in the streets to engage in the time-honored tradition of beating up foreigners. Another group, this one composed of more forward thinking ponies, had objected strongly to the supposed declaration of war on gryphons in general, and began to surround the palace to protest this turn of events. They had, of course, run afoul of their war-minded countrymares, as well as basically every pony, gryphon and zebra else, including the inevitable criminal element taking advantage of the disorder to rob and pillage.

So this was why they were now aboard the official imperial train, heading for a brief, impromptu tour of Equestria. His wife had launched into it with her usual merriness, fussing over a wide selection of well-printed tourist information, a whirlwind of heavy paper and lithograph prints of vineyards, chocolate shops and scenic spots she wished to visit. They would, it seemed, be otherwise entertained, at least until the heat died down at home, and the praetorian guards once more had a grip on the social situation.