Armor's Game

by OTCPony

Home Fires

The sun was sinking in the sky over Ponyville when Berry Punch staggered back into her farmhouse. She’d been up since sunrise inspecting the farm’s grape vines, and it looked like, thanks to her and her husband’s hard labour over the past year, they would have a bumper harvest.

And that, she thought, as she sank down on to her haunches at the kitchen table, was exactly the problem. She didn’t need to get the abacus and pen and parchment out to realise that nearly half the harvest would have to be left to rot. With Cherry Fizzy away with the Army down south, there was no possibility of her getting in the entire harvest on her own.

Berry put her head in her hooves and wondered what she could do about it. It was far too late in the year to put out internship offers to the agricultural departments of Equestria’s universities. She hadn’t the money to hire help, and none of the other farms would be able to spare time to help her. If half the harvest failed, she would have to cut back on everything: food; clothes; bills; the occasional toy for Berry Pinch; it would all begin to bite.

The best she could hope for was a quick end to the war. Her eyes flicked to the newspaper lying on the kitchen table. A week ago the Manehattan Telegraph had been waxing lyrical about the victory at Maneden, which had given her hope that Cherry Fizzy would soon be home. Then yesterday it had told her that the remains of the Changeling army had been completely destroyed at somewhere called Tailwald Wood. Her spirits had risen even higher then, and she’d dashed off a letter to Cherry saying how proud she was of him and how soon she expected his return. Then this morning today’s copy had arrived: the Royal Equestrian Army was on the march again, not back home, but further south in pursuit of the Changelings.

Her spirits had sunk at the sight of that, and even now she felt tears welling in her eyes at the sight of that headline. She slammed her hooves down on the table. Damn the war! Damn the Lynxes! What in Tartarus’ name was her husband doing down south fighting for those barbarians?! Damn Chrysalis, damn Celestia and damn Shining Armor for starting it all! Why couldn’t they just live in peace?!

She took a deep, steadying breath and crossed to the dresser. She opened the top draw and pulled out a bottle of cider. Breathing heavily, she set it down and stared at the bottle. She and Cherry had put this here eight years ago, the week before they’d got married. Since then it had often been taken out, but never opened. It was her way of proving to herself that she remained in control.

“Mummy?”

Berry hastily turned to face the kitchen door. Her daughter, saddlebags bulging with schoolbooks, stood there, her head cocked and looking at her oddly.

“Pinchy!” Berry quickly returned the bottle to the drawer. “How was Auntie Colgate’s?”

“She was fine. She asked how Daddy is. I said that you think he’ll be coming home soon!”

Berry sighed and knelt down in front of Berry Pinch. “Pinchy, I’m sorry, but it doesn’t look like that Daddy will be coming home as soon as we thought.”

Her daughter’s eyes widened and her lip began to quiver. “But you said he would!”

“I know, but I can’t decide when he comes back, remember? But while he’s away, it’s important that we support him, so what do you say we go down to the market tomorrow and get together some things to send him a nice big food parcel?”

Pinchy’s face broke into a smile. “I’d love that!”

Berry smiled and hugged her. “I love you, Pinchy.”

“I know, Mummy.”

Berry held her daughter closer. But will she remember that if it all falls apart?

***

The sun was rising over Canterlot when Fancypants sat down for breakfast. As always, his butler had laid an ironed copy of that morning’s Canterlot Financial Inquirer on the dining room table next to his porridge. Fancypants yawned and adjusted his dressing gown as he sat down and opened the paper. He sipped his coffee as he read, his frown deepening.

“Fancy, it’s a Saturday,” complained a tired voice from the bedroom door.

Fancypants looked around to see his wife Fleur, her usually-immaculate mane mussed from the night before, standing in the doorway. Though they’d tried before they had no foals, and they both hoped for one last chance.

“I know, darling,” he said softly. “But much as I’d like it to, the business world doesn’t do long lies. And things are even more volatile than usual with this blasted war on.”

He took the paper in his magic and floated it over to Fleur. “Take this, for example.”

Fleur took the paper. “LABOUR SHORTAGE THREATENS POOR HARVEST,” she read. “Because of the war?”

“Exactly. So many stallions who’d normally be on the family farms are away with the Army that most are saying they won’t be able to get all the harvest in. We’ve got food price hikes and failed farms coming. A bad business all round.”

Fleur sat down next to him and picked up her tea. “What’s to be done about it?”

Fancypants tapped a hoof against his chin thoughtfully. He looked out of the penthouse window over Canterlot’s spires, shining in the morning sun. “Let’s arrange lunch with the Riches. They’re big in farms. I’ll bet my mane we can bring them to arranging a solution!”

***

Not for nothing was Trottingham called the Second City of Equestria. Manehattan had the culture and Canterlot had the class, but Trottingham had the wealth: sitting on the River Rein controlling Canterlot’s access to the eastern ports of Fillydelphia and Baltimare, it was the greatest road and rail hub in Equestria, with a population and per capita income to match. Its skyscrapers were second only to Manehattan’s; its skies thronged with airships; and its boulevards were choked with carriages and ponies rushing forth between expensive shops and eateries.

In a city of such buzzing activity, virtually anything could be gained with the right bits in the right hooves.

“He paid cash.”

“Cash?!” demanded Octavia Melody sceptically. “It didn’t strike you as suspicious that this stallion had a bag of bits large enough to rent out a warehouse just in his saddlebags?!”

The security guard shrugged.

Octavia sighed. It had been a slow few weeks for her and Vinyl, and she’d hoped that she’d at last have the time to start advertising as entertainment for Canterlot’s highest-society parties, but yesterday morning the letter had come through the door of their apartment signed by Amber Spyglass himself: they were being contracted to investigate the owner of a warehouse on the outskirts of Trottingham who had supplied faulty weapons to the Royal Equestrian Army. A name and address was all that was needed, and two thousand bits would be theirs. It was proving harder than Octavia had imagined.

“You not find what you looking for?” asked the guard.

“Warehouse 224 is shut up,” said Octavia icily. “It looks to have been that way for months. All I need to know is who rented it last.”

The guard’s eyes flicked between the two of them. “You two cops or something? You don’t look like cops.”

Octavia looked to her left to see Vinyl, eyes invisible behind purple shades, her head nodding slowly, with a pair of enormous headphones over her head. Octavia hissed in irritation and cuffed her with a hoof, knocking the headphones off. “OW! What the hay, Tavi?!”

“Concentrate, Vinyl! This is serious!” She looked back at the guard. “Sorry, no. We’re not with the police.”

“I don’t have to tell you nothing, then,” said the guard decisively. “My boss takes confidentiality seriously here.”

Octavia’s eyes flicked to the guard’s name badge. “Mr Charger, this could be a matter of life and death,” she said angrily.

“Come back with the cops, then, but I ain’t allowed to say nothing till I sees a warrant.”

Octavia realised she was trying to buck her way through a brick wall. “Thank you for your time.”

“Still don’t see why you didn’t mention why we’re looking into it,” said Vinyl Scratch, as they trotted back to the taxi waiting at the storage lot’s gate.

“You know our instructions,” said Octavia huffily. “Confidentiality is paramount. The effect on Celestia’s government doesn’t bear thinking about if it were to get out to the press that the army’s been given faulty equipment.”

“So what now?” asked Vinyl. “We’ve got a shut warehouse that apparently used to be an armoury, and no name, which probably means no fee.”

Octavia clambered into the yellow and black Trottingham taxi. “I know what your solution is.”

Vinyl bounced in after her. “Forget about, hit the clubs and worry later!”

Rough Charger watched the taxi pull off back towards the shining spires of Trottingham through the glass of the security booth. He gulped, thinking of the bag of fifteen thousand bits hidden under the bed in his apartment: the stallion that had rented Warehouse 224 all those months ago had known about his money troubles, and had given it to him ensure both his silence and to fudge the paperwork so nothing could come back to him.

He had also asked him to warn him immediately should anyone come asking. Rough hastily pulled a piece of paper from the tray on his desk and quickly began to write.

***

Del Trotso was indisputably the highest of Canterlot’s many high-class restaurants. Not a single chef in the kitchen was ranked below three Bitelin Stars. Expensive wood panelling covered the walls, and light streaming in through the high windows bathed mahogany tables draped with sheer white linen and sent the silver cutlery laid there with spirit level-precision aglitter. Crystal chandiliers scattered that light further on to the paintings that lined the walls.

All this luxury was reflected in Del Trotso’s absurdly steep prices: several middle class families would have to club together to afford the soup of the day, much less the more expensive starters. And it was because of this that ponies of Fancypants’ calibre could simply not afford to not be seen there.

“Failing farms, eh?” asked Filthy Rich, taking a sip of wine. “I’ve heard about it. Not good news.”

“Indeed,” said Fancypants. He stole a glance at Fleur, who was gossiping incessantly with Regina Rich. “Food price inflation, unemployment, maybe even recession and public unrest. A bad business.”

“And you think the solution is for the two of us to invest to solve the problem?”

“Why not? You’re in the farm business, and a recession suits neither of us. And we wouldn’t be alone: once a stallion of my reputation is seeing being charitable, half of Canterlot will follow suit!”

Filthy Rich chuckled. “Good point. Let me see, if we were to invite farmers to apply for a cash handout so they could employ labour, in return for a modest cut of the profits after the harvest... I’ll have to talk to my finance people first, but I think it could work!”

“Splendid!” said Fancypants. They rejoined their wives and spoke no more of business. They stayed there for another two hours before Fancypants and Filthy Rich arranged to split the bill.

“I think I’ve got Filthy Rich on side,” said Fancypants on the road outside, waving goodbye as the Riches climbed into their carriage. “What about you and Regina?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Fleur. “He’ll go for it!”

***

Blueblood slowly lowered his copy of the Canterlot Financial Inquirer. The economic forecasters were predicting a mass failure of small private farms owing to the war. Now this was something he hadn’t anticipated, but certainly something he could exploit...

What to do? What to do? He and Radical could raise the issue in the House of Commons, but by the time they did that, doubtless Filthy Rich would have revealed the details of his new investment venture – he had heard through his business contacts that yesterday afternoon Rich had ordered his financial staff to look into some sort of new investment programme for failing farms. To try to gain political capital from a problem that was already being solved would make them look desperate. But if he could find some way to disrupt the plan...

Radical asked for a crash. Might this be it?

“Rough Charger has been in contact with me, sir.”

Blueblood looked up from the paper. His butler Cordwainer, utterly unremarkable in his dark suit, stood before his desk. “And?”

“Two ponies have been asking after the warehouse we rented earlier this year.”

“Ah,” said Blueblood slowly.

When the Emergency Budget to fund the Army had been passed, the Royal Guard had had all the designs for new cannon, but no arsenals to produce them. To that end, they had made the designs available to any company that had the right number of forges to cast guns. One of those companies was a front for Blueblood. It had been a simple matter for him to set them to work casting deficient iron guns and store them in Warehouse 224 in Trottingham. The War Office’s representatives – received by a disguised Cordwainer – had been wary about the iron construction, but they had passed proofing and, desperate for the right number of guns, they had put them into service. Of course, all Blueblood had needed was for them to pass proofing. The profits came back to him anyway, as well as the bonus of political capital from the government ordering deficient equipment.

And if the warehouse lot in Trottingham was being investigated, that meant his artillery scheme had come to fruition.

“I need your brother back from the south,” Blueblood said suddenly. “Tell him to send the necessary letters about the guns to you, and then get himself back home.”

“Sir,” said Cordwainer. “With respect, Twist Turn can’t just leave the Army.”

“Yes, he can,” said Blueblood sharply. “You know how. He knows how. Tell him I’ll add ten thousand to his fee, but I need him back here.”

“Yes, sir,” said Cordwainer stiffly. “And Charger?”

Blueblood was silent for a moment. Any investigation would probably lead to Rough Charger’s arrest, but he doubted it would get beyond that. But Charger had seen Cordwainer’s face, even if he did not know his name. That same face had been seen by the War Office representatives who had arrived to collect the guns.

And that same face had been in the Members’ Lobby in Parliament speaking to Snowy Grape the day before she had died.

Cordwainer’s face wasn’t particularly memorable, but if from Rough Charger the police were able to put a photofit together, a connection could be made that could lead back to him, and Blueblood couldn’t afford that.

“Kill him,” Blueblood said calmly.

Comments

[Magthere]

And now the game of thrones is truly about to begin, time to pray the kingdom doesn't turn into ashes during the struggle.

[OTCPony]

Alas, owing to other commitments, I fear that I may be unable to fulfil my usual policy of one chapter upload a month. However, I have been spending a bit of time preparing this map to tie in with the story, so may any of your worries be assuaged!

http://otcpony.deviantart.com/art/Equestria-and-the-continent-of-North-Amarerica-456834326

After a couple of unsuccessful tries with Photoshop, I steeled myself and dived into the yawning pit of hell that is MS Paint, an terror I hope none of you ever have to experience. Nonetheless, I think the final result isn't bad. I used the official map and the map of Southern Equestria that appears in the comics as my base then added the rest. Some of the place names are mentioned in the show, others are my own invention.

[paladinwolf]

This is a well written and well thought out tale of epic proportions. I can only wait to see how the prophecy turns out.

Keep up the fine writing my friend.