The Prince's Hounds

by TheTobacconist

Lights Out.

Blueblood lounged on his leather sofa, and nodded to the stallion in front of him. He regarded those in the room around him. Six retrievers made for quite an impressive entourage. He considered the quadruplets in the corner. Singers.

Singers were significantly more difficult to train than musicians. The inherent nature of their talents allowed them to hold on to their psyche longer. It was troublesome to say the least, and nearly impossible to convince them that they were less than what they imagined themselves to be. Of course, he did not keep singers. They were certain to rebel. However, that did not mean that he was incapable of training them.

He considered the bruises on their white hides. Yes, it was necessary to be more forceful with them than he was with his musicians. Essentially, physical reinforcement of lessons had to be increased to ensure their obedience. They cowered in the corner. He repressed a sigh at that show of emotion. Emotion was wasted on animal. It was not fit for them to show it. Unfortunately, he could not discipline them at the moment. That action would make his guest uncomfortable.

"So, twenty thousand bits." Harsh Sentry thoughtfully nodded. He placed his gold helmet on the coffee table, and let his blue mane free.

"And the weapons," Blueblood added, "You mustn't forget about the weapons."

"Right, right," Harsh Sentry agreed, "Do you think your-" He looked up to the retrievers. "-help can handle them?" He straightened, visibly uncomfortable on the leather armchair. "Shock batons aren't easy to use."

"They'll learn," Blueblood insisted, "These dogs are young, after all." He waited for his hired help to give their rough nervous laughter. "Tricks are easy for them."

"Are you sure?" Harsh Sentry leaned over the coffee table. "Because for a mere five thousand more I'll train them in proper usage."

"Three thousand," Blueblood offered, "You will receive your first ten thousand upon our receipt of the weapons." He looked over his sofa at the four yellow maned mares in the corner. "The rest of your bits and your bonus will be delivered after you train my hired help."

"Deal." Harsh Sentry extended his hoof, and Blueblood bumped. Sentry considered the cowering mares in the corner. "So, uh?" He rose to his hooves, and walked over to them. "They'll do anything? Anything I want?"

"Once their re-education is complete, yes." Blueblood lounged back on his sofa, and crossed his hooves behind his head. "I'll have them ready soon, I assure you." He rested his head lazily. "They'll do anything for you after that." Blueblood hid a grin behind his foreleg. They would obey, perhaps for a long time, perhaps not, but they would never be the pets that musicians were. Harsh Sentry did not need to know that, of course.

"D'you think I could take one for a test run?" Harsh looked back to Blueblood. "See how well they do the deed?"

"Sing," Blueblood ordered.

The four looked to each other. They knew the word, but they did not know what he specifically wanted.

Blueblood sighed, and then screamed, "Solfege!"

"Sol do do," One of them began, and was joined by another, "Do re mi sol re do."

Blueblood went back to lounging. He considered this form of singing to be of the lowest caliber. It could certainly not be called art, but he could not allow them to sing anything with real words just yet. They would have to be better trained before he could allow that. Solfege allowed for them to maintain their voices, but would keep them from thinking of themselves as actual ponies. Sighing to himself, Blueblood closed his eyes, and tried to enjoy the singing. If it could really be called that.

"That's nice, but-" Harsh Sentry rubbed the back of his head. "-I meant something a little different." He stroked the mane of one of the nearest singers, putting an abrupt end to the foray into solfege. "Well, very different."

"Oh." A scowl appeared on Blueblood's face, but only for a brief moment. "I suppose you could, but not now." He leaned back. There were many undesirable things he had to do. He supposed this was just another one. "Personally?" He clicked his hoof on the floor. "Solfege," He ordered again, and waited for the mares to continue. "I would never do that with a pet," He resumed speaking to Sentry, "It's demeaning."

"They're just animals, right?" Sentry tickled one's chin, causing a slight waver in the singing. "You can't really demean them."

"I didn't mean that they would be the ones lessened by your action," Blueblood explained.

"Well," Harsh Sentry harrumphed, "The weapons will be ready by the first of the month." He walked to the door. "Do you want them delivered here?"

"No," Blueblood straightened up, "I think it best if we meet in a neutral territory." He stretched. "We'll contact you on the first."

"Very well." Harsh slammed the door behind him.

"Heavylift?" Blueblood addressed one of his retrievers. "Do you know what I hate more than anything?"

"I wouldn't want to make any assumptions, Prince," Heavylift dodged the question.

"Go on," Blueblood demanded, "It's fine." He looked up to Heavylift. "Guess."

"Disrespect?" Heavylift asked.

"Disrespect," Blueblood agreed, nodding his head in tune with the singing, "Do you know what happens to ponies who disrespect me?"

"They get turned into furniture," Heavylift stated. There was no need to phrase it as a question. The entire collection of furniture in the Prince's office was a testament to his hatred of disrespect. It was also a testament to the Prince's disturbing love of leather, but Heavylift would not comment on that. "And their families might end up in your work if they disrespect you bad enough."

"Yes, I suppose that's true." Blueblood patted his sofa. It wasn't actually based on a certain level of disrespect, but based on whether or not the family members had matching coats. Still, he wasn't about to point that out. "Did you know that Harsh Sentry just made a mistake?"

"I certainly think so, Prince." Heavylift knew better than to act certain around the Prince. It was just a bad idea. Bad ideas could get a pony turned into furniture.

"He did. He certainly did." Blueblood looked at his walls. "Have you ever been to the Canterlot Culture Museum?"

"When I was a colt," Heavylift admitted, "School trip."

"The griffon exhibit had something I always found fascinating." Blueblood smiled. "A tribal design on hide, that featured all their gods. I would like to see if I could recreate it from memory."

"Yeah, couldn't hurt to give the walls a little decoration," Heavylift agreed with what he believed his boss to be thinking. "Y'want me to rough him up first?"

"Wait until we have our weapons," Blueblood ordered, and then turned to the singing mares. He raised a hoof, and they were silent. "Heavylift, I seem to be out of treats. Pick some up tomorrow."

"Yes, Prince." Heavylift nodded.

The lights flickered. Everypony raised their heads, looking up to the dimming lights.

"Redhoof," Blueblood barked, "Go check the gas main."

"Yes, Prince." Redhoof trotted to the door, only to stop when the gas line hissed, and the sconces on the walls fizzled out. "Shit."

They paused in that dreadful darkness. They winced at a snap in the dark. Soon the gas began hissing in the lines again, and the sconces were lit. It did not bring them any relief.

In front of the doorway, Redhoof hung with a noose around his neck, and rocked back in forth. The others heard an echoing clank in the distance.

"It's here," One retriever whispered, "How did it get here?"

Blueblood pulled a knife out from between the cushions of his sofa. "Keep calm." He raised the knife, and looked around. "We'll be fine." No pony was in the room besides them. "Guard the door, don't let anything through." He waited for his men to shimmy over to the doorway. "Keep it shut, I'll keep my eye on the merchandise." He looked at the singers.

The gas line hissed weakly again. Blueblood wished desperately that he had paid more attention in his magic classes. He could use another source of light right now. The sconces went out again, and came back on a few seconds later.

"Everyone still here?" Blueblood asked. He looked at his hired help.

"Prince?" Heavylift looked behind Blueblood. "The merchandise..."

The singers were gone.

"D'you think it killed them too?" A retriever subconsciously put more of his weight against the door.

"I'm not sure," Heavylift admitted. "When it gets you, it just leaves you where it found you."

"Shut it," Blueblood demanded.

"Yes, Prince," Heavylift complied.

The lights began to dim again. One of the retrievers whimpered, and began crying when the lights went out. The crying was interrupted by a sharp snap. The lights came back on.

"Damn." Blueblood looked up to the ceiling. "How did..." Two bodies were nailed to the ceiling. Blood dripped down onto the floor. He was down two guards. "That's impressive."

The lights went out abruptly. There was no dimming, but a sudden pitch blackness. Whimpering by the doorway, the three remaining retrievers crowded against each other. Blueblood snarled at this, and the room was again filled with light.

"Cowards," Blueblood commented, "Every last one of you. Cowards" He stepped forward. "What is wrong with you?"

"Prince?" Heavylift raised a hoof.

The Armor tackled Blueblood from behind, and slammed his head against the coffee table. It pressed a hoof down on the nape of his neck, forcing his top teeth on the edge of the table. It raised one hoof, and slammed down hard, spraying and scattering blood and teeth across the leather armchair.

It left his unconscious form, and hopped over the armchair, landing just beside the retrievers. They looked up at it, fearfully. It faked a lunge at them, and they winced, shutting their eyes. It was gone when they opened them.

---

Fancy Pants awoke to a knock at his front door. He found that quite odd. It was rather rare for him to receive visitors at this time of night, and Fleur never left without her key. He took a moment to check his mane in the mirror. Regardless of the time of night, it would never do for him to answer the door looking disheveled. Perhaps the guards had more questions about the events of last night.

He threw on his house coat. Some things were acceptable at these hours, and promptness was more important than answering the door in his full ensemble. Not to mention a social habit that he took advantage of. No pony seemed to want to spend more than a few minutes with a stallion in a house coat. He descended the gilded staircase, and used the brass handle to open the mahogany doors.

Ordinarily, he would not accept female guests without his wife around. That action was frowned upon in society, high or low. But these mares looked particularly exhausted, and that bothered him. Four lithe mares with white coats and platinum blonde manes rested at his door. They could pass for quadruplets. They also appeared to be unconscious.

"Oh, my." Fancy Pant's eyes narrowed as he picked up a letter from his welcome mat.

Comments

[Changeling-Drone]

Eeyup it's fleur

[TheTobacconist]

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