The office was striped just like I left it. The light had no reason to change, after all. The bottle of cider was still on my desk and glinted in the orange glow of the window, the liquid inside deep and bloody. My hooves fell heavy on the floorboards; the one loose board squeaked like I’d woken it from a nap.
I tossed my hat onto the desk and dropped into my chair, pouring a measure of cider into one of the nearby glasses. It went down smooth and tart, but with a lingering bitter taste, same as always. Come to think of it, the stuff was getting old. I’d have to finish it off quickly, before it went bad.
I turned to the window, looking out through the slots in the blinds. Manehattan was there, floating just beyond the pane. All its lights were on now. So many little lights. Too many to count. Unicorns on the walks, horns poking holes in the dark. Earth ponies, donkeys, and mules, grinding their hooves against the concrete and the dirt of the streets. Pegasi and griffons passing above, but never high enough to see the stars.
There would be a couple in the tenements across the way. They’d be settling in around the dinner table about now. He’d talk about work and how he’d tried to get his boss to give him overtime. She’d nod and say she understood. They’d find another way to make it work, even with the empty crib in the next room. He’d swear he’d do whatever it takes.
On the streets a donkey would be begging for his next meal. It might be his last. He’d say he’d do anything for just a mouthful of oats. And when nopony would give him bit or bite, he’d find a knife and prove he was no liar.
Down on the piers they would have seen a hundred ferries today, and four thousand new sets of hooves. Four thousand new hungry mouths. Most would only have what they wore, or what little they could save from their dark, faraway homes. They’d gambled everything coming here, tossed all their chips into the pot; now they just waited for the turn of the cards.
And Manehattan would stand above it all. Manehattan, lighthouse of a million candles. It’d hold out a hoof, prop the door open, sing a sweet word or two, and then canter on its way. A candle doesn’t care about the moths it attracts. It just keeps on burning.
Maybe one day a rain would sweep through the streets and finally douse that flame.
Now, stop that, Applejack. You won’t help anypony thinking like that, least of all yourself. I shook my head and poured myself another glass of the cider. I was just tired, is all. It was late, I was hungry, and I’d been shot at. Yeah, I know it’s petty, but it still shook me up, darn it.
The next gulp of cider was as bitter as the last, and did nothing to quiet my mind; my thoughts ran like they were being chased down a dark alley. They ran past brick walls as white fire exploded around them. They ran past two shadow-eyed unicorns as they tried to kill each other. They ran past bright diners with strange winged ponies in heavy coats and pencils in their mouths. They ran past deserted apartments with all their furniture flying through the air. They ran past a little pink mare who was scared and alone and trapped by the collapsing towers of the city around her, past the blue stallion who reached out to her despite the deep divide that separated them. They ran on until they collided with a mare sitting in an office with her problems and a hundred solutions to them.
I could turn up the name “Flying Quill” in the registry. I could look at the spyglass for any marks to trace it by. I could storm out of the office and go give the city’s rats a description of Sugar Beet and have them look for her. I could play a flute and march those rats out of the city forever. I could just walk away and solve everything.
I could go to sleep.
No. That was one thing I could definitely do without for now. I was too wound up, anyway. Rein in those horses, AJ. Take a break. You’ll feel better.
The newspapers still sat on my desk. I picked one up, held it to the light. Judging by the headline, there’d been a good fight just the other night.
Cotton Twine Steals Debate; Majordomo Trounced!
Last night’s debate ended in a sound victory for Food Commissioner Cotton Twine against his opponent, Judge Majordomo.
Continuing from the previous debate, both candidates presented their arguments on the issue of rising food prices. Mr. Twine noted the fluctuation, but assured all present that his office was doing everything it could to ensure higher returns for the public. Mr. Domo then broached the subject of corruption, especially concerning food shipments from Canterlot. He accused the Commissioner of complacency, at which point Mr. Twine retorted:
“If there is to be a hoof-pointing, sir, let it be pointed at the proper target. Let it be pointed at the hoarders, the hijackers, the criminals who prey on everypony’s well-being in favor of their own. Let it be pointed at the immigrants, who continue to wrest jobs as well as food from deserving Manehattanites, and who continue to swell the ranks of the gangs which now plague our city. Let it be pointed at you, sir, who, lest we forget, have let the leaders of these gangs walk free from your court time and time again. Make as many accusations as you will, but at the end of the day, Mr. Domo, they are but words. Words won’t fill anypony’s stomach, and neither will you.”
The Commissioner's words were met with raucous applause. Mr. Domo failed to make a retort, though he did make a statement following the debate. In it, he denounced Mr. Twine’s accusations, saying that they distract from the real issues at play. He pointed to the rising crime rate as an example.
“Mayor Wood failed to corral this problem, and now it’s only gotten worse. Mr. Twine refuses to acknowledge it, and instead tries to shift the blame. Maybe he needs to spend some time in the courts, learn about what’s really plaguing our city,” he said.
Both Mr. Twine and Mr. Domo will be hosting press conferences as Election Day approaches.
Leave it to the Messenger to provide unbiased coverage. Not a pony in Manehattan could miss the influence of Cotton Twine, Metropolitan Food Commissioner. I didn’t envy him or his position; whether ponies were fed or left to go hungry, he was the one who got the blame. Of course, he also had plenty of power in Manehattan, and there was no shortage of rumors about what he did with that power. Probably paid newspaper editors certain favors.
Majordomo… now he was an interesting case. Lawyer for many years, district judge for the last five, his career seemed to spin on cases from the Lower East Side. There was some truth to what the paper said; a number of those cases had involved the gangs which ruled that part of the city. The big fish in the pond was one “Papa” Greenback.
“Papa.” That little meeting in the carriage. “One of Papa’s, then.”
All right. Now I was thinking about the case again. I pulled the registry and flipped through the pages. There he was—“Flying Quill”, 56 Thirteenth Street, close to Harmony Square. No phone number, but that was no surprise. Bridleway hogged all the wire on the south end. I’d hit him up tomorrow; I still had some ideas of common decency, and few ponies would care to answer questions so late, anyway.
That left one other lead. I pulled the spyglass from my coat, turning it over in my hooves. No special marks, no logos. Fine, custom craftsmanship. You’d need a specialist to build one of these, and it’d be expensive. That narrowed things down a bit.
I turned back to the registry. Glassmakers. There were about a dozen of them in the city. Judging by the names, they were all headed by earth ponies. Except for one: “Auric Aspect - Specialty Lenses, Magically Crafted.” A unicorn glassmaker, with all the magic needed to enchant a night-vision spyglass. What’s more, he was located on Barnyard, near the Lower East Side. Perfect.
A shadow suddenly fell on the book. It crawled in through the frosted glass of the door window, flowing up my desk. Another joined it. Two silhouettes, in the hall. One of them reached up and there was a knock, rattling the pane.
Slowly, quietly, I stood up and crossed to the back wall. I opened the safe there and stowed the spyglass away, just as the knock sounded again. It was hard, each beat perfectly spaced, like how a professional knock should be.
I settled into my chair again, placed my hat on my head, skewed just right. I waited for the next knock.
It came. “Door’s open,” I called.
With a slight creak, it swung open. There were two of them, all right. One was slightly taller than the other, with close-cut tawny hair and the sort of attentive eyes that’d look proper whether he was smiling or frowning. The other was the kind of pony who could just be there and say everything with his level gaze and the professional sweep of his mane. They walked across the threshold with the steady, calm steps that spoke of some experience in narrow streets and back alleys and other places where the light doesn’t like to go. At their waists were holsters, with long-barreled pistols waiting.
They also had badges and uniforms.
“MPD, Officers Coal Felt and Sunny Bonds,” said the tall one, motioning to his partner. “We’d like you to come with us, Miss Applejack.”
I gave a leisurely glance at my watch. I’d forgotten to wind the darn thing again. “Late shift, draggin’ some ornery broad down to the precinct… You guys sure got the short end, didn’t ya?”
He should have been an actor. He had a good face for that. “Please come with us, Miss.”
I straightened to my hooves, stretched them. “Is this really a request, or do you have a reason to bring me in?”
“There are some questions we’d like to ask, on the record.”
“And you can’t ask ‘em here?”
He really should have been an actor. “That’d be off the record, Miss.”
I nodded. “Well, I’m always willing to help Manehattan’s finest.” I stepped between the two of them, smiling. “You brought your own wheels, right? I’ve done enough walking for today. Go on ahead, I’ll lock up.”
I did just that. They stayed with me the whole time, though. And all the way to the precinct, down many dark streets.