//------------------------------// // Martingale // Story: Crystal heart // by A pensive Squirrel //------------------------------// The door was wide open. The pretty cottage estate was overgrown with thistles and brambles and all genus of vine. Salem entered the main foyer; a low-ceilinged oaken area filled with bespoke drawing tables. There were more tables than there needed to be. He sniffed the air and it was feculent. There were traces of vomit slicked over the entrance to what looked to be the lounge. Salem grimaced and stepped over the porridge-like puddle. The lounge was typical in appearance, more low ceilings, a roaring fireplace, and small ornamental owls watching from the tops of display cabinets, which in turn were overflowing with even more owls. It just went to show how very little Salem knew of his commander. He couldn’t see the insensibly plastered officer anywhere in the room. The house was completely silent, that is until there echoed a disquieting moan from the landing. Salem snuck into a nook before the rickety staircase and put a hoof to his mouth. “Martingale, are you functional?! I told you to clean up your act.” A glue coloured zombie wallowed down the creaking steps, tripping before he was on solid ground once more. He pretended it didn’t hurt. It was likely the lush had drunken himself into a state of analgesia. The strong smell of cheap spirits wafted into Salem’s nose and it made him lightheaded. “And I told you that this was how I kept my head straight.” “Keep your head straight? You can’t look me in the eyes you’re so far gone! There is to be an election. You are to tout up the votes.” “You lost them then? Serves you right, hobbyhorse, it’s about time things changed around here.” “Precisely, and you are going to help with that. Ballot will be taken this afternoon. Change is swift. Can you handle this duty?” Martingale clung to the bannister as his legs decided to fall asleep. He picked a bottle up off of the step and wearily gawked into it. “Who are you to be bleating orders anyway? You gave in the sash, Salem, so no one has any obligation to you.” Salem freed the squared bottle from the goon’s hoof and set it down far from the avaricious stallion that sought it. “I’m surprised you managed that statement. Just look at you, you’re a shadow of your former self. I remember a dutiful, charismatic commander at arms. Where is he now? How we have fallen.” “You judge me? I’m still the controlling force behind the cavalrymen. What will you do now? You had a Kingdom, your lovely castle, all your smuggled riches, you will have nothing.” As the stallion stared at the ground to correct his footing, Salem pounced on him and drove him into the bottle, the resultant shards shredding his back and neck. “You’re insane!” “Ponies change. You changed. I inevitably have changed. That looks sore.” “I’m losing my eyesight, Salm…” “I will heal you, but only if you do one teeny weeny little thing for me. Is that fair, you scratch my back, I stop scratching yours?” “I’m sorry.” “Oh, don’t pander me with your empty apologies. Lunatic thinks I’m out of the picture, that I’ve resigned my post. Yes, you are still the voice they obey, but I will be speaking through you.” “I’m not your puppet!” The gored stallion refused. He tried to slither across the slime of his own blood to the lounge but his body was weak. “Puppet, that’s an interesting analogy. You’d be my dummy, and I’d be the ventriloquist. Don’t feel bad. I am the only unicorn skilled enough to bring you back to health. So, there’s your dilemma. Do you sulk with your Applejack Daniels in arm and die on your own, or do you do the smart thing and be my dummy?” There was no clever reply, no banter. The faint nodding of Martingale’s head was enough to appease Salem. His eyes became red and they leaked shadowy purple flames. His horn grew redder at the tip and onyx arcs of lighting struck the foyer that engirdled them. Glass blades pealed from the lower lumbar of the petrified pony and gradually the colour returned to his face. He was lifted to his feet and allowed to stand. He was steady now. He was no longer drunk. “I’ll do whatever you want.” The commander grovelled. “Wonderful.” Salem seethed as his eyes slowly normalised. He floated back to the ebony floor and made appear a scroll from thin air. “These are the candidates that will be elected. Rig the ballot. This fundamental decision cannot be left in the hands of those plebeians.” “A little harsh don’t you think? What happened to your views of equality and parity? This is…” “I’m sorry, Victor, did you enjoy having that half bottle jutting out of your back. Its insertion can be arranged. I know they are poor because of the high taxation that I championed, but that won’t be a hiccup for much longer. The namby-pamby public will vote for lower tax, better living conditions, even safe drinking water! This isn’t Mesopotamia. We’re stuck in a snow globe.” “Read you loud and clear. What’s going to be done about the snitch?” “That’s no longer my business. But I want him found and I want him tortured. He was communing with the Lunatic somehow.” “I shall set up a search party. Even if they have been killed, they will still be in the walls.” Victor claimed. He stamped a hoof to punctuate the motion and stiffly saluted. “These ponies are curious. One of them must have noticed the smashing glass and loud exchanges. I cannot get involved with anymore peacekeeping rigmarole. Ensure that my favourites win. If you do find Pretorias, I will be the first to know, understood?” “Yes sir.” Salem promptly absconded and vanished into the obscurity of normal life. He headed straight for the café he liked; they had a special way of making the Viennese swirls that he was particularly partial to. It was his cathedral, his mecca. It was a rather strange addiction. It was better than sugar cubes. Vincent Martingale was a long serving officer of the crown. His mane had thinned over the years, his poll nearly naked. It was usually secreted under his uniform beret, but in his recent tumbles he had lost sight of it. He crawled into the lounge and clambered upon the waiting settee. He saw his diluted reflection in the cabinet mirror and bashfully flattened his few rebellious hairs. “What’s gotten into him? Maybe the pressure has been too much. He is right though, I must kick this habit, and for good. I’m getting old. He didn’t seem like himself, he was someone else. In that brief moment when he was resurrecting me from my grave, something dark read in his eyes. Still, he intends for me to fix the election. It can’t hurt. He’s a wise leader after all…” Vincent knocked over a photo as he rolled onto his side. He lurched up to reclaim it but the photo was free of the frame. It was black and white, and somewhat out of focus. Nevertheless, the griffon shown holding a parasol was very dear to him. He wiped a tear from his deprived eye and safely slid the photo back into the casings. “If you could see what he’s trying to do, you’d be so proud. It’s true. Things change. Friends move away.” He tucked the last corner of the photo in and calculatedly replaced it on the table. He reached for the last dreg of sauce in his entire house but he snatched his hoof back.