MLP: King's Game

by AlexanderAkai

Chapter 2: En Passant

Chapter 2: En Passant

“The strong are those which are able to intercept at will the communication between the senses and the mind.” -Alderic Absolon, Provincial Minister of Birdeaux.

Lavender. With a hint of peaches.

Speak Easy always adored this smell; the unmistakable aroma that came only from the interior of the Le Blanc estate. Speak stood before a grand door of aged white oak and pearl finishes. A door he had stood before many times just for an audience with Earl Esprit. In his time waiting, Speak could not help but admire the well-lit halls of polished marble that he had traipsed down before. Nor could he help but find beauty in the faint music that echoed from an unknown pianist down said halls. Or that he found such peace in watching the blooming trees sway in the wind outside the window to his right. Compared to the dark alleys of his home, these halls were a new world. A world lined in silver and gold, with the most luxurious of linens and the finest crafted furniture. It was a world that seemed so far away from the troubles of Equestria. Almost like heaven.

But it wasn’t a new world; nor was it heaven. It was the exact same world that he was from. This was just an estate, a place where the elite lived. Still it soothed Speak Easy to get away from the darkness and the dirt of his home; to ascend to a place where he was ordained by birth to not be. He tried to not think too hard on it, as he knew there was no money in dreaming. But he could not help but wonder sometimes if Equestria would look much brighter to him and his brother had been born on this higher plane. An audible “ahem” reminded him of his place back in reality with. The grizzled voice that carried the sound came from an elderly butler that had appeared from the grand doors.
The olive pegasus turned back to the pony that had just exited the grand doors, giving a half-apologetic nod. The earth pony before him was one he had seen many times before. He was a lethargic but proud looking stallion with an eccentrically curled white mane. He wore a white tuxedo and that was fine pressed and neatly folded over much of his wrinkled, plum colored body. The stallion wheezed between every few breathes and had sunken eyes of deep shrouded blue. His name was Honor Bound and he had been serving the Le Blanc family since long before Speak Easy was born.

“His lordship will see you now.” Croaked the old butler in a somewhat labored breath. Speak did nothing but nod again, opting to not enter into any form of conversation with the old pony. Not out of contempt for Honor, the butler had never shown any to him. It was just that he was anxious enough with the morning’s discordant events, even though he tried his hardest to mask such.

The butler silently noted such, and with a quick nod of his own, opened the doors for Speak Easy. Speak needed no further prompt and proceeded into the office.

In here, the scent of Lavender was the strongest. This was due to the large patch of them growing outside the large opened windows at the rear of the office. Large tapestries hung from the walls, each more beautiful than the last. Two of which were exact copies of the heroic depictions of the holders of the Elements of Harmony that stained the glass in Canterlot castle. There was faint music playing, from a scratchy old record player in the corner nearest the doors. The tune was operatic and rich, with a commanding Gryphus baritone providing the vocals. In the center of the room was a desk of purest white, with inlays of ivory and silver and was covered in most part by indigo cloth that ran down parallel ends like a small banner. On the desk itself sat neatly lain parchment, an ink well made of pearl, several pens crafted from phoenix feathers, and an impressive looking silver box that bore the mark of the Solar Empire the edge facing the door.

A single chair sat behind a white oak desk that resembled the grand doors. It assaulted the eyes with vibrant rouge silk cushions and gleaming gold frames, each leg possessing meticulously crafted designs of suns and moons, and each sun and moon was inlayed with a sapphires and rubies for their respective celestial mass they represented. Two chairs occupied the space before the desk, the frames were carved from lovely sets of ivory, and the seats were made up from cerulean colored cushions. The furniture in the room alone never ceased to amaze Speak, despite his many dealings with the youngest member of the Le Blanc family.

Speak had not yet seen Esprit however, which he found odd. Normally the alabaster stallion would be sitting at his desk, ready to greet him. But a light cough from behind the largest chair soon alerted the olive pegasus as to his employer’s location. Spying around the desk, Speak could see his employer leaning against the frame of the center-most window. Esprit wore a wine-colored waistcoat of silk that was adorned in small fleur designs, and wore a cravat necktie that Speak had seen other nobles wearing. A gold chain hung out of his left breast pocket and his monocle and dinner coat from earlier was gone.
With another light cough, Esprit turned away from the open windows and looked to Speak, a pleased smile on his face. “Ah Speak Eezy. I ‘ave been looking forward to your return.” Said the unicorn in his usual Gryphus accent, moving past his desk and to the stationary Speak. Speak, in turn could not help but return the gesture with welcoming smile of his own.
Esprit extended his right foreleg and Speak did the same, engaging in a familiar hoof-shake. “It’s good ta be back boss.” Esprit gave a light chuckle from under his smile, enjoying the small jest “You did not travel as far as you may think, perhaps you got lost.” He then looked past Speak, to Honor Bound, who was still standing in the doorway. “Honor, you may leave us.” Ordered the white unicorn with a small nod; To which he wrinkled plum gave a dutiful bow of his own before closing the door.

The two of them waited until they heard his hoof beats fade to continue. Certain now that they were alone, Speak spoke first, “He still doesn’t like me, I can see da disdain in his eyes. Dose old, creepy eyes.”

Esprit titled his head, sighing and rolling his eyes, “Honor eez loyal to ze family, and ze family never cared for me associating with the lower classes. But zen, zey never really cared for anything I ‘ave pursued.” Stated Esprit, giving a small pat to the back of Speak. He then continued, “But what zey ‘ate most of all; mind zat this is during the rare times zat they notice of my life. Is that I act too familiar with ze lower classes, and thus, do not take my royal duties seriously.”
At this Speak snorted, “An’ I thought me parents were hard on me. It never ceases to amaze how we ponies ‘ave been around fer thousands of years, an’ we still bow to corrupt aristocracy.” Speak realized that this may come across as offensive to an aristocrat, and quickly recovered with an apology.

“Zat’s quite ze revolutionary outlook Speak Eezy, take care not to be ‘anged for possessing such a correct view.” Said Esprit in response with a laugh. “I should ‘ope zat your rebellious ways do not completely rub off on me. Though at times, I suspect zey already ‘ave.”

“Don’t get me wrong boss, I was brought up Faustian, and have complete faith in da Empress. But I can’t help but wonder at times if things would be better without the Solar Empire, without lunar rebels, without politics. Just peace, for every pony in Equestria.” There was a brief pause as the two traded incredulous looks before bursting into hearty laughter. What Speak had said was a clear and blatant jest. Esprit knew that Speak could never abide a peaceful world; it would mean the end to his occupation and thus, an end to his funds. Just as Speak knew that Esprit believed in his heart that there would never be peace, true peace for pony kind. Not since the return of Nightmare Moon. It was an infallible truth that the land of Equestria had grown dark and deadly in the years since Nightmare’s return. Something dark came with her on that summer day. Even still, these two stallions found a way to smile. The most unlikely of allies.

With their laughter subsiding, the thin white stallion then took this chance to move away from the doors, and walked over to the left side of the room, stopping in front of a liquor cabinet. Esprit had been halted by a sudden jolt of pain that shot through his back. There he paused for a moment, taking a brief moment to stretch his back. He gave the softest of grunts as he did so, wincing slightly after a particular turn. This lasted only a second though, and he soon returned back to his full posture.

Esprit turned his head to the left, just enough so that Speak was to be seen in his peripherals. “Please, s’asseoir, sit.” Speak swiftly complied, trotting up to the right-most chair of cerulean, fluttering his wings just enough to lift himself up and into the seat.

“Me brotha and I have procured your leverage.” To which Esprit smiled knowingly, his horn sparking with golden swirls; they slithered through the air and gripped at the cabinet doors, flinging them open swiftly. “Oui, I ‘ave been made aware of such.” Several small glasses and a bottle of imported whiskey came hovering out of the cabinet before the doors swung shut. “I trust you encountered no trouble?” inquired Esprit.

“No trouble that’s worth mentionin’” came Speak’s reply. Esprit himself paused a moment, shifting his jaw around. An uncomfortable expression on his face. Esprit’s magic sparked off once more, and the dancing bottle proceeded to uncork and pour itself in two of the three glasses he had removed, filling them modestly. The unicorn placed the empty third glass on the table, which caused a puzzled look to streak out across Speak’s freckled face. “Come come Speak Eezy, you should know better zan to leave out details; Especially when those details involve you having to throw out the name of my family’s guard captain. ” sighed Esprit to Speak; the levitating second glass resting in the air within reach of Speak. “Saying zat it is not mentioning is like saying zat this third glass before you is full.” Continued Esprit, gesturing to the empty third glass he had laid on the table. It was apparent that Esprit had placed it there simply to prove a point.

The pegasus took the briefest gulp of air as he reached out with his right wing, and took the glass, quickly raising it to his lips so as to sip from it. He hadn’t meant to hide the events of the morning from the Earl; it had been an honest slip of the tongue. One that he thought he’d end up regretting. In his worry, Speak had not savored the drink he was given, and quickly took another sip to calm his nerves. The creamy taste of oak and molasses cavorted across Speak’s tongue, splashing together with a sweet hint of corn and apricot as well. The drink warmed him to his core before diving into his gullet. Speak pursed his lips, thinking to himself, letting his eyes return before him as Esprit climbed onto his own seat, looking as though he was waiting for something.

Realization snapped into Speak, “A thousand apologies boss. Me brotha had gotten a lil’ uppity dis morning after we procured yer item. His head was in da clouds an’ he was actin’ a fool.” Speak Easy paused, making sure to keep eye contact with his employer. His own emerald stare reflected in plates of gold. “He attracted da attention of the outer patrols wid his foolery an’ they didn’t give me any time to react…So I dropped Captain Lace’s name.”

Esprit’s smirk had gone during Speak’s explanation, replaced by a look of cold chastisement. “I ‘ope zat in ze future you will remember zat Love Lace answers not only to me but to the rest of my family as well.” Esprit took a drink from his own levitating glass, and gave a small cough. Placing his glace down on the desk before him, he continued, “I would appreciate it, and zat means so should you, if you would not give ze rest of my family reason to look into my business.”

Speak nodded feverishly, hoping that the subject would be dropped. “I’ll definitely keep it in mind, boss. The front of my mind.”

“I know you will,” confirmed Esprit, looking satisfied as his knowing smile and pleasant demeanor returned. His magic sparked it’s gilded color, lifting both the glass and Speak’s gaze from the desk. He held it aloft, seemingly inspecting it before raising an eyebrow and asking, “How is your refreshment?”

“Bourbon whiskey, aged roughly fifteen years, in white oak from Cervidas, caramel and vanilla for da main sweetness; subtle hints of corn, apricot, an’ tobacco.” Speak whispered to himself as he raised the glass to his nostrils, taking a whiff, “Ya can smell da malt an’ rye. This is Elk-made. Imported from the Cervidae Hegemony to da far south. It’s rich, sought after by a lot o’ folk o’er in Manehatten. Fetches a helluva price with da Griffons up north.” Finished Speak, lowering his glass, letting his gaze return to the thin royal before him. “I, err, it’s quite good ya grace…sorry boss.” Fumbled Speak Easy slightly embarrassed at his outburst. His ability to dissect things down to ingredients based on smell and taste alone was normally something he kept in check.

“Non, non.” Retorted Esprit, waving a hoof. “It eez ‘ow you are. I would not dream of persecuting you for who you are. Perhaps for your actions and foolishness, but not for your talent.” The glass hovering over Esprit’s head then floated down and pressed itself to his own lips. After his own respective drink, it spun back and forth gently before placing itself down on the table. “It eez, of course why you are such an asset.”

“’Owever, I know you did not come ‘ere just for a friendly drink and to report your progress. You came for compensation, for performing a noble service for a humble Earl of Equestria.” This drew a light chuckle from both respective ponies. “Just doing a pawn’s job for his king.” Joked Speak in response.

“Ah, well now zat you bring such a thing up.” Commented Esprit, his tone suddenly falling again from a light and friendly one to a tone of dead seriousness.

Speak said nothing, instead opting to just listen. Esprit taking this cue, continued “Today you ‘ave earned five thousand bits. Regardless of what else happens today, you ‘ave earned zat.” His horn shot off a golden spark, urging the center drawer of his gilded desk to open up and forcing it to seemingly spit out a small piece of paper with silver trimmings. The paper hovered to the left of Esprit, and there it stayed. This was the typical payment, a letter of credit from Esprit. One that with the seal of the royal family could be cashed at any banking establishment in Equestria.

But something about what Esprit said sounded off to Speak Easy. “Regardless of what happens today boss?” inquired Speak, raising an eyebrow and leaning closer to the white stallion.

“Oui, I ‘ave another job for you and your brother.” Said Esprit with a nod, his attention turned to the letter of credit as it floated down to his desk to be sealed. The silver box on the desk slowly opened its maw, urged by Esprit’s magic. “I cannot say ze details just yet,” more magic sparked from Esprit, coaxing a small flame to ignite from the within the box. A small circular container with a red substance inside, Speak knew it was wax, swiftly hovered out of the box and placed itself over the fire.

Waiting for the wax to heat, Esprit turned his gaze back to Speak who had lifted his glass, seeking to finish his whiskey. “What I can say, is zat should you accomplish ze task, you will be given a sum of five million Equestrian Bits.”
“WHAT!!?” coughed Speak Easy, nearly choking, unsure if his hearing had betrayed him. There was no possible way that the unicorn before him was telling the absolute truth. He must have just said the wrong number. Even royalty make mistakes at times, Esprit must have meant another five thousand. Or maybe Speak’s hearing was off, still ringing from the thunderous gunshots from earlier. Regardless of whose fault it may have been, he quickly wiped at the bourbon that had escaped his throat onto his chin with his left wing and placed the glass down on the table with his right wing. “I’m sorry, yer grace I believe I misheard you.”

Esprit found this reaction natural, and chuckled at the sight. True, he had never offered the brothers anything over five thousand bits in the past. However, the past had been naught but pavement to the way for the severity of the task he was about to lie at the hooves of the pegasus before him. However, instead of correcting Speak, Esprit just stared at him, magically lifting the now heated wax over the folded letter. Speak on the other hoof, waited for an answer. One that would never come. The Earl was serious. He had not spoken out of turn. The truth of it was that the stallion before him, whom Speak had only known for several years, was offering a chance to live a new life. A chance for at something greater. Speak’s mind was a frenzy of panicked thoughts, incapable of processing just how he and his brother would spend that kind of coin. In the midst of chaos, a single phrase, like earlier brought calm and a reason to think slowly.
“If we succeed.”

The words caused an echo of thought in Speak’s mind. An echo that flooded the olive colored stallion’s mind with questions. What would the task be? What was the risk of such a task? What task could they, the Brothers Mead, be asked to accomplish for so great a reward.

Esprit’s gaze had not broken contact with Speak’s the entire time, even as he poured the scalding wax upon the letter and pressed his family seal, which he had called from the box, to the liquid surface. “Let me assure you, zis will be no simple task. I would not ask it of you if I did not trust you. And I would not entrust such a burden to you if I believed you would fail.” At this, however, Esprit broke his gaze from Speak and he moved to replace the items he had retrieved from the silver box. The wax and seal fled back into the container, smothering and extinguishing the flame as the lid closed.

“I must admit, that sounds mighty intimidating boss.” Was all Speak easy could urge forth, both touched and scared that he was now verbally trusted by a member of the imperial family. In the back of Speak’s mind however, scared or not, he felt empowered by the promise of such wealth.

Esprit had left his chair and approached the crackling record player, pulling the needle back from the spinning record. It had been giving off a periodic tick sound since the final operatic act came to a close. But in all honesty, Speak had not heard a thing but Esprit the whole time. He wanted to ask questions, to know what he was expected to do. But he knew his place, and he knew he would wait for Esprit, who had moved to the rear windows of the office, to have the final word.

A soft breeze blew into the office from the garden outside, carrying a lovely fragrance through the room as it ruffled some parchment on the desk and swayed through tapestries. Esprit enjoyed the wind as much as his hireling did, but his enjoyment was short lived as he felt his back stiffen with pain. “It eez quickening, how unfortunate...” breathed Esprit to himself, letting his posture melt away as he stretched his back. Forcing yet another wince to fly over the features of the unicorn; a look that, though unseen, was picked up by Speak through the subtle irregularities in Esprit’s posture today. Speak had been no stranger to such sights before, but generally in the past there was day lapses in the pain fits.
Speak, worried slightly at the well-being of his employer opted to inquire after what he had seen, though in the back of his mind, he wondered if he himself wanted the truth. “Boss.” Began Speak, “I know it might not be my place…but, is the pain getting worse?”

Esprit’s gaze fell to the windowsill at the question, but did not turn to face Speak. He waited, wondering to himself if Speak needed a full and honest answer. “The doctors say I still ‘ave plenty of time. Complications are to be expected.”
Speak responded only with a silent nod. Esprit may not have given him an answer to his question but he also knew that his boss had no obligation to tell him anything more than he already had. An awkward silence pervaded the office for a few seconds after such, with neither Speak nor Esprit uttering a word.

The royal unicorn finally turned back to the waiting pegasus, gesturing to letter “You may take your payment. And know zat I will schedule a dinner at ze Event Horizon; you will have your details then. I expect both you and brother to attend and dress for ze occasion; keep in mind zat you will ‘ave company to impress.”

Speak climbed down from his chair and swept up the letter in his right wing, placing it in his breast pocket. “Anything else boss?” inquired Speak Easy stepping to the side of the desk. “Yes. Move my leverage to ze Carousal.” Added Esprit with a nod, finally turning to face the olive pegasus.

“Madam Head’s pleasure palace?” Speak asked, somewhat surprised at the choice of location in which to keep a captured filly. Esprit nodded again in confirmation, “Oui, Madam Head will prove to be more zan capable of providing us with a secure location in which to house our guest. No one will come looking for her in a brothel, and if she escapes she can and will be easily found.”

This made complete sense, even if other ponies had indeed seen the brothers’ earlier handiwork; they would not think to check Canterlot, much less a bordello within Canterlot. Satisfied with his orders, Speak Easy gave a bow to the Earl, spreading out his wings to as though to touch the ground. And with that, he turned, opened the doors of the office and was gone.

Now alone, Esprit turned his gaze back out to the garden outside his window. Those golden eyes took in everything. Every swaying branch, to every wing beat of the bees and dragonflies. He wasn’t sure why he was doing it, just that he felt that he had to. Things were about to change. For better or worse he could not say nor anticipate. But there was no backing away; there was no resetting the pieces that he had meticulously placed. He had been given the first move, and his move had been made. This game, his game, had begun.

♙--------------------------♙

Back at the Heated Mare Meadery, in the lower tier of Canterlot, Bootleg waited for his brother’s return. Despite this, he was far from stationary and relaxed. The mustard tinted stallion swore in the back of his mind, his patience wearing thin as he was forced to foal-sit the now awake and curious Sweetie Belle. He never understood his brother’s apparent lack of concern when the truth was involved. Yes, the filly had been fooled into believing that they were to be trusted to some extent, but due to her nature as a foal she soon took to her restless nature as soon as Speak Easy’s tea had worn off on her. Now, instead of being quiet and fearful, Sweetie was jumping all over Speak’s room, where she had been confined by Bootleg.

The room itself was a modest combination of work-place and sleep area. The lighting was dim and came mostly from an oil lamp in the eastern corner, nearest Speak’s windows. Shadows stretched across the room in fear of the light, climbing over the luxurious looking bed to Speak’s rickety and worn looking desk. In the western corner, adjacent to the bed, sat a lab station of some sort; on it sat an assortment of tools and alchemical apparatuses. Such things that could be seen were items such as a worn looking mortar and pestle, a retort and alembic that seemed rather new, and a small oven-looking calcinator. The wall parallel to the bed that the lab station sat against was comprised completely of drawers. Each draw was adorned with a small slot, on each was scribbled the name of whatever herb or ingredient was housed within. Sweetie herself was propped against the set of dual windows that sat parallel to the bed, which gave a view downward into the meadery.

Attempting to lighten things up, the young unicorn decided that she would try to engage in some form of conversation with Bootleg, who sat before the door. “What’s that thing? Ooh, ooh! How about that thing?” Squeaked Sweetie, pressing her face to the glass as she spoke, gesturing to one of the several giant mixing vats that lined the main hall. Bootleg himself jumped slightly at the filly’s sudden high-pitched remark. She had barely spoken a word and Bootleg already felt himself fighting the growing urge to shut her mouth forcibly with a hard object. He knew it would solve nothing, as he was really annoyed with his brother more than he was with the captive Sweetie Belle.

“Expensive equipment, so don’t go touching it.” Grumbled Bootleg with a clear tone of annoyance in his voice. The filly stopped and pouted, kicking away a small patch of dust on the floor. “How am I going to touch it? You won’t let me out of this room.” Asked Sweetie with yet another squeak in her voice. “I was just asking what it was.” Stated Sweetie matter-of-factly as she dropped herself onto her rump. In truth, she was only trying to fight the boredom of her prison. “Why can’t you be like the other pegasus? Mister Liable.” Queried Sweetie, oblivious to why Bootleg seemed so grumpy.

This question actually lifted Bootleg’s mood by a tad, such was made evident by his smirk, “Because he’s a liar.” Blurted Bootleg with a mocking laugh, deciding to take this chance perhaps shut up the young foal with some story-telling. Always used to work on him when he was younger. “His name ain’t Liable. Never been a ‘Mister’ neither.”

Sweetie may have been naïve, but she was still a quick study. Instead of acting defeated by the lie, she asked, “Every pony lies one time or another, no matter how big or how small. Rarity told me that once…” She paused, her thoughts turning to Rarity, and her hopes of reunification with her. “Besides, he said that you both had reasons. You’re secret agents of Celestia after all!” She said with a smile, attempting to mask her flash of sorrow. This drew only a sigh from Bootleg.

These stallions both had very important jobs, this much Sweetie had believed; but her curiosity wouldn’t be sated with belief, she wanted to know more about these pegasi that had swooped down and changed her life. If even for a day. “What is his name then? The pegasus in the hat.” Bootleg, eyed the filly, seeing no harm in being honest. “First off. He’s me brotha, me older brotha. An’ his name is Speak Easy.”

At this, Sweetie giggled softly, “Speak? What a silly first name.” The older pony was taken aback at first but was soon encouraged by the filly’s smile, “Well, it isn’t much funnier than being named Bootleg. I dunno what Ma an’ Da were thinkin’.” Sweetie Belle sat up a little and turned her full attention to the stallion beside her.

“What are your mom and dad like Bootleg?” He didn’t know what he had said to get her attention; all Bootleg knew was that when he looked to her, He could not help but say more. “Probably not so different from your own. Our Da was--” Sweetie raised her hoof, interrupting

with a childish vigor in her voice, “Oh! Oh! So your dad was really big and strong? Wears lots of hats and has a really, really big mustache???”

Bootleg could only guess that this was the vague description of her own father, as it certainly did not match what he was about to say. “Oi, ya sister ever tell ya not to talk back to grown-ups when we’re talkin’?” questioned Bootleg with a growl. Sweetie Belle lowered her head, slightly dejected at having her enthusiasm shot down.

It rolled his eyes and gave another audible sigh, “Look, I’m not trying to be mean…I just don’t like being interrupted.” Uttered Bootleg in a semi-sincere apologetic tone. Sweetie raised her gaze to meet Bootleg’s. His sapphire eyes mirrored her sister’s eyes. In which was held the same look; one that Sweetie Belle did not truly comprehend but had seen many times before. A look that yearned for understanding, to be listened to, rather than just be heard.

“I’m…I’m sorry. Please keep talking.” Breathed Sweetie, attempting to rekindle a more positive aura of conversation.
Bootleg in turn, nodded to the filly, silently accepting her apology and hoping that she had done the same for him. “Anyway. Our Da was a short statured stallion of a pegasus, who ‘ad wrinkles since the day I was born…” this drew a light smile from the filly, but Sweetie said nothing. “…He was born in Las Equinus, a large city on the on the southern coastal border. Lots o’ Faustian influence there, an’ lots o’ trade with da Cervidas Hegemony.” Continued Bootleg, wanting to distract Sweetie with as many details as he could remember. “He was a disciplined pegasus, attended the officer college in Canterlot, served as a captain in the imperial military for decades. Da also always wanted us boys to join up…Well; you can see how that turned out.” Sweetie Belle had no way of picking up on Bootleg’s sarcasm and took it as his admittance of serving the Solar Empire as an imperial spy. “Da was an odd pegasus, as he didn’t ‘ave any real aptitude fer flyin’, and fer all his soldier trainin’, he acted like a real foal after leavin’ da service.” Bootleg paused, thinking to his self for more details that he had missed rising from his sitting position in front of the door to pace. “I always thought it was because he was just weird. Speak thinks it’s because he considered us disappointments.”

Sweetie raised an eyebrow at this, and in her curiosity squeaked up a question. Though took great care to wait until Bootleg was finished. “Why would your dad be disappointed? You and your brother seem like…” Sweetie stopped herself before calling them outright nice, as she knew they weren’t. She didn’t want to lie, but neither did she want to tell the truth to the mustard pegasus’s face. “…you have a real nice home and job.” Nice save, thought Sweetie, but she needed a follow up. “Umm…like our mom and dad really like that Rarity has a nice home and job.”

The recurring lie was thrown back into discussion, the one that left a foul taste in Bootleg’s mouth every time he repeated it. This filly was likely going to go through some terrible things. He couldn’t stand lying to her and being treated like someone who was going to help her. Speak

never told him the whole truth when it came to jobs; for all Bootleg knew, they had just foalnapped the younger sister of an element holder so that their boss could trade her away to a noble for favors or funds.

He didn’t want to believe such things; he always wanted to believe that Speak cared about more things than money. But he could only half-convince himself every time, despite the amount of effort he put forth.

Bootleg had gone silent, forcing himself to look away from Sweetie. If this was really just a pit stop for her before being tossed to the wolves, then didn’t she deserve to know some truth about what was going on? The little thing didn’t even have her Cutie Mark yet. Bootleg could feel a small amount of guilt building up in his gut, making him feel slightly nauseous; such always happened when he truly stopped to think about things that he was responsible for.

He turned back to regard Sweetie Belle, who had lost focus on him soon after he went silent. She sat in the same position, but her gaze was turned to the western corner, seemingly enthralled by the alchemical apparatuses. Rising to a standing position, Bootleg slowly walked over to the window that Sweetie had been pressed against minutes ago, once again drawing the attention of the young unicorn. As he did so, Bootleg turned his head, meeting Sweetie’s stare. Without breaking the connected look between them, the mustard pegasus tilted his head in gesture that gave Sweetie permission to approach him.

Rising from the floor, the young unicorn cantered over to her auburn haired captor. She halted once directly parallel to Bootleg, and she looked up into his eyes with a great wonder and curiosity. Had she said something wrong? Why did his eyes look sad? Was he angry with her? Many questions flowed through the young mind of Sweetie.

These questions became hushed when Bootleg breathed a faint sentence, turning away to face the window so that what was said was barely audible, even to the close Sweetie. She only gathered something that resembled “easy” and “thousand”. She knew not what that meant, but opted to wait for him to speak up. Surely, if he called her over, it was to tell her something.

“Sweetie…” started Bootleg, “Your name. It was Sweetie right?” asked the stallion, looking back down to the filly. Sweetie did naught but nod whilst muttering a quiet “uh-huh.” Bootleg nodded and again turned to look out the window. “Your parents sound like model citizens, an’ I’m sure they love you so very much…” voiced Bootleg, somewhat awkwardly and trying hard to sound sincere. “…They sound like they could never be disappointed with you.”

At this, Sweetie smiled up at Bootleg, but still could not meet his gaze. “I uh, I suppose ya wanna continue where we left off…so…” fumbled Bootleg, searching for the right way to tell her the truth. The stallion brought a hoof up to his head, scratching a spot behind his left ear in thought. “Eh, look…da reason our Da considered me an’ me brotha disappointments isn’t because he didn’t like where we’re livin’. It’s because of what we’ve done.” Sweetie’s smiling
expression faded in favor for a look more inquisitive. This stallion was so strange. She’d have never expected in all the time of her young existence to meet a pony like he. To foal-nap you one minute, and try to apologize to you the next. Or well, at least an apology was what Sweetie thought Bootleg was trying to accomplish. Taking her chance to employ some of her old “reporter instincts”, Sweetie moved forward so that she could turn to face him better. Bootleg naturally took notice and soon was once again locked in the vice grip of her sap green eyes. “What could you have done that could disappoint your dad?”

“We surpassed him, that’s what.”

Those unexpected words coerced a surprised jump from the mulberry haired Sweetie Belle, who hadn’t expected such a harsh tone. A sinking realization came to her however when she realized that the somber looking Bootleg of the moment had jumped as well without saying a word. Neither of which had heard the door open, nor did either even comprehend who it had originated from for a second or two.

The pair turned to the doorway, and there looks were met by the smirking face of Speak Easy, looking down his nose at them. Smoke flowed about him from a recently lit cigarette. Bootleg grimaced ever so subtlety, feeling like he had been hit in the stomach. He had no idea how long Speak had been outside the door or what he had heard of the pair’s conversation. Sweetie’s expression also dropped into one of fear. To her, Bootleg had acted okay enough to outright talk to but Speak, the stallion who had poisoned her hours earlier all but silenced her. As though he was reaching out with invisible claws of ice that gripped and froze her throat.

With no response to his comment, Speak chuckled and continued. “Da always disapproved of us accomplishing more for the Empire as spies than he ever did as a soldier. He was a petty, superstitious and ignorant stallion. Always was stuck in the old ways.”

Speak’s smirk was taunting and cruel, a personal jab at Bootleg for nearly ratting them out. “Isn’t dat right boyo?”
Bootleg knew that his brother was full of it, but said nothing. Even though he wanted to. He let his sight fall to the floor before Speak, as though surveying it for answers to what he should do. There were no answers though, only wooden planks. Looking back up at his elder brother, Bootleg finally decided against calling out Speak on his twisting of the truth. He might have been disgusted by it, and he knew that he almost never agreed with his olive colored kin. But a small filly that he barely even knew anything about could not warrant a strong enough reason to defy the only family he currently had. So he clenched his eyes shut, only for a few seconds, trying to reassure himself that his brother knew what was best; regardless of the frustration he caused him on a daily basis.

Turning to look back at Sweetie Belle, Bootleg nodded and agreed, “He’s right. Father was disappointed because…we were better than him…” came his voice brokenly.

Regaining her composure slightly at the urging of Bootleg, Sweetie responded “Well that doesn’t seem very fair. Not all kids want to be like their parents.” With a shake of her head, to emphasize the point.

Speak approached the couple as she did so, taking a moment to pat Sweetie on the head with his right wing. “Well Sweetie. Life isn’t very fair, and it’s hardly equal among ponies. Some are born with an innate talent among them,” Speak raised his wing from her hair, and proceeded to point to her flank, “And some of us have to work through life, both thick and thin to get what we desire most.”

Sweetie wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or a joke, but the way Speak said it made her at least think that he was calling her a hard worker. So she did her best to smile for him, regardless of how much she still feared the stallion.
Smiling back insincerely at the filly, Speak took a few steps back before adding, “No roads in life are easy Sweetie and sometimes you’ll just have to make the most of wherever you find yourself.”

“Ya can either keep a cool head an’ act, or ya can flap your gums in regret and confusion.” The last part of the sentence was accompanied by a deliberate puff of smoke that blew forth from Speak’s nostrils towards Bootleg. Sweetie herself may have missed the bold meaning but Speak’s little brother could feel the sting of both the words on his mind and the smoke in his eyes.

Blinking away small tears, Bootleg approached Speak, and lowering his voice to a murmur “So what did he say?” came his hushed voice, uninterested in any further games. Speak let his grin widen at this, “Oh so now you care for secrecy?” whispered Speak. Bootleg scowled at this and broke eye contact with Speak, “Just tell me the damn details.”

“Da job is still on, boyo. An’ before ya ask,” Speak took a moment to reach up to his breast pocket, withdrawing the sealed letter of credit he had received, and waving it before Bootleg’s chest “We’ve already got da five thousand.” Bootleg nodded at the sight he was familiar with, heaving the slightest of sighs.

“But that don’ mean da job’s done…We’ve got a bigger job, bigger dan anythin’ we’ve ever taken on before.” Continued Speak, returning the letter to his breast pocket and looking over to Sweetie Belle. With another insincere grin, Speak said to Sweetie, “Be a darlin’ an’ wait here for us Sweetie, da boyo and I need to discuss imperial plans away from inquisitive minds.”
Sweetie had no choice in the matter, she knew that much. Nonetheless she gave a light smile in response to Speak’s words, hoping it was another compliment as the two stallions left the room and closed the door behind them.

Almost as soon as the door slammed shut however, Speak, in a deceptively fast move for a heavier set pegasus had pulled and slammed Bootleg into the adjoining wall. Bootleg let out a gasp of pain as he felt the air forcedly rushed from his lungs. It was a few moments before he even realized that Speak’s foreleg was pinned against his throat. Bootleg tried to wriggle free, thrashing his body about to and fro, but Speak stayed with him, foreleg still raised and cutting off his air. Bootleg pushed off the wall with his wings, attempting to off balance Speak. But this too was in vain as the bigger pony slammed the smaller back into the wall. “I-I-ugh…S-…rry.” Gasped Bootleg in panic, attempting to appease his elder brother. He extended his wings, and flapped wildly, rising into the air. Speak however, would not give him any room, and beat his own wings and allowing him to maintain his grips as the slid up the wall. The mustard colored stallion could feel his world spinning, and could feel his head getting light. Dizziness was setting in and his vision began to blur. They may have had differences, they may have even seriously fought before; but only one question rang in Bootleg’s mind. Did his brother truly intend to kill him over something so trivial?

It was then, in the blur of a chaotic moment, that Bootleg felt his airway open up once more. Speak had released him.
Bootleg fell to the floor with a thud, coughing and gasping for air as a starved prisoner would for food. He raised his head, looking for signs of where his brother had went. His eyes were still blurred from the tears that had welled up during the scuffle.

Speak gently touched down next to Bootleg after a second or so, and instantly fell into a kneel beside his younger brother. His voice was soft and almost haunting, “An’ that’s why, boyo, we don’t tell anythin’ true about ourselves…Because we will be hurt.” Bootleg was still coughing in between breaths, and so said nothing. Speak continued, “We can only look out for ourselves, not others…now I didn’t want to hurt you, but you needed a reminder of the hazards we face. Being what we are.”
Slowly, Bootleg began to stand again; Speak placed his own head beneath his brother’s chest to help him do so. His breathing was more steady but still labored. “I know, brotha, I know.” Was all Bootleg could muster, looking up at Speak. Speak, in turn smiled lightly and ran a hoof over his brother’s messy mane, attempting to apply some neatness to it.
“For a moment though, I thought you were gonna kill me.” Admitted Bootleg. “You coulda just punched me or somethin’.” Bootleg coughed once more, and gave a shove to his elder brother. Naturally wanting some distance.

“Then you’d only hit me back, an’ no lesson woulda been learned now would it?” said Speak, “besides, you’re in da wrong here.” Speak’s wings flapped once more before fully returning to their tucked in position. “I mean, holy shite, I go an’ get da money just as I usually do. An’ ya reward my physical efforts with tellin’ our little captive shite that’s been going on in our lives.”

“You’re a right bastard, ya know that?” spat Bootleg, Speak smiled and nodded in affirmation of this, causing more smoke to billow over to the mustard colored pegasus. Bootleg waved a hoof in an attempt to dissipate the annoying streams before continuing, “That don’t give ya da right to outright strangle me!”

“Oh by the love o’…You’d strangle me too if I threatened ya chance at five million bits!” defended Speak.

“Da hell I wou--…wait-what???” said Bootleg, stopping in his tracks, unsure of what he heard was true or if the lack of oxygen to his brain had affected him.

“Dat’s right boyo, Five. Million.” Speak was pleased that money had not suddenly surrendered its hold over his younger brother. “We put our petty squabbles aside an’ we—”

“Ya tried ta strangle me ya bastard!” interrupted, not pleased that Speak would make light of such. Speak on the other hoof just shook his head, ignoring his brother’s focus of the moment “An’ we can afford your surgery. Hell we could afford it ten times over!”

Bootleg wanted to say more, but that last fact presented did something to stifle the anger he was reeling from. He knew he needed corrective surgery for the cataract in his right eye. He’d never be able to attain his dreams without that surgery. He’d be stuck forever as an assistant to his commanding brother. But Bootleg was no fool, despite what his brother may have everyone believe, and was fully aware that this was just another lie constructed to distract him from what had just happened. “Oh yeah, and just how are we gonna get dis supposed five million? Anotha foal-napping? Cause that sure is easy.” scoffed Bootleg with blatant sarcasm, waving his hoof again to dismiss both Speak’s claim and the smoke that still flowed from his brother’s nose.

Speak did not care for his brother’s disbelief, and found it rather immature to be acting so unprofessional. “I get it, you’re mad. Real mad. I get it boyo.” Said Speak, raising his voice beyond the hushed tones that they had both been using. “Care ta wrap this ‘caring for foals’ shite up and start-actin’ like a Faust-damned professional?!” Speak then walked right past Bootleg and swiftly opened the door into his office.

Entering his room, Speak turned and half-shouted, “An’ once ya grow up boyo, feel free ta put on somethin’ nice! We’re hittin’ da Carousal. Then we’re meeting the Earl for dinner!” The words themselves were betrayed by the tone they were delivered in. This sudden intrusion had of course scared Sweetie Belle, who had been jumping on Speak’s bed and had barely heard a thing. She quickly found herself ceasing her activity and bolted off the bed and onto the floor. But the olive pegasus paid her no mind, striding over to the drawers on the wall. He eyed them all, forgetting in his brief flash of anger what he was looking for. He cast off his grey flat cap and stripped off his vest; making sure to retrieve the letter of credit before discarding the clothing onto his bed where Sweetie had been jumping. He gingerly placed the letter onto his old desk before looking back to the listed drawers.

Finally, Speak spotted his target, a particular drawer reading: “Wht/Gld Attr.”, he briskly brought up his right wing to the handle and yanked. Sweetie wasn’t quite sure as to what she should do, she felt like she was peeping in plain sight as Speak changed into a new hat and vest combo. Sweetie noticed though, that the clothes looked exactly like what he had already been wearing. Save of course for the color change in the items. Both the fabric of the vest and that of the hat were pearl white, with all the pin-stripes and accented designs were threaded with gold string. In fact, the only thing that separated these new clothes from the old ones was a hastily tied cravat that covered his neck and chest area.

Sweetie herself found the outfit choice to be strange; granted she knew truly little about the fashion world but it was plain to see. The outfit itself was nice, even beautiful with its pure yet regal colors and soft, cozy fabric. But that itself seemed to be the problem. The personality didn’t match the wearer. Or at least that is what Sweetie Belle found herself thinking as Speak as the dark coated pegasus snatched up the letter again and stuffed it behind a handkerchief in his left breast pocket. This train of thought was finally broken when she found that Speak was now staring directly at her. “You’re comin’ along with us lassie.” He said in a tone that allowed no choice to be made on her part. He gestured with his head towards the door to make clear his order.

Sweetie Belle knew she couldn’t say no, and proceeded to quickly head towards the door. The two of them reached the door at the same time, and unsure of what else to make of her situation now with her captives now fighting, in the most polite way she could she asked, “Where are we going mister Speak?”

At first, no answer came, but as they walked down the first hallway on the right back towards the garage area, Speak looked down at the filly and finally spoke, “We’re moving ya to da next safe house. A lovely establishment called The Carousal. There will be plenty of nice mares an’ fillies there for ya to talk to while me an’ be brotha plan our next move for getting you and your sista ta safety.” Speak made sure to maintain all of his half-truths, even though he suspected that Bootleg may have already told her otherwise what was going on.

“Carousal? Is that anything like the Carousel Boutique?” asked Sweetie, hoping that she’d be around at least something that resembled home. Speak looked down at the filly and smirked, directing her into the garage. “I doubt that ya will think so. But I think some of the lovely ladies there have custom orders from a prominent shop in Ponyville. So you might recognize some of them.” Came the false assurance of the stallion. Sweetie, assuming that was the best she could hope for in regards of an actual answer, Sweetie nodded to herself, letting her gaze fall to the ground.

But something more egged at Sweetie. In the small time that had past, neither had seen Bootleg at all. Nor did they see any evidence as to where he was, or where he had went. The two of them had already exited the meadery and were standing in the alley. They had stopped so that Speak

could close up the garage doors. But still, Bootleg was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone? He must have been there a few minutes ago. Speak had been yelling at him when he came bursting into his room. Worried about the stallion that had attempted niceties with her, Sweetie opened her mouth to speak up once more. “Mister Speak, where is your brother?”
“The boyo? I haven’t da slightest clue.” Answered Speak, honestly for a change. “But he better be getting’ ready for our meeting later on.” Speak extended his wing nearest Sweetie and urged her to walk on down the alley-way. The very same alley that she had tried to escape down only hours earlier. She couldn’t help but feel a need to run again, to escape again. She knew she’d likely be caught again with minimal effort from the nearby Speak Easy. Sweetie still wanted freedom, but she had already been promised a return to Rarity. But was that promise genuine? Could Speak be trusted? Bootleg had said earlier that his elder brother was a liar.

On the other hoof however, Speak had come across as professional and confident, an aura that Sweetie could recognized from Rarity. He seemed what was the word? Earnest? Like he took his job seriously; that’s how Sweetie saw him. He even looked like he might be an imperial spy.

And if that was indeed the case, who could she trust more? If either of them.

Despite these thoughts, Sweetie said no more and walked alongside Speak, with a wing resting on her back. Guiding her. Urging her to a new fate that he has deemed for her. Slowly, they exited the passages of the twisted alley and found their way back onto the streets.

♙--------------------------♙

Already far from the meadery, Bootleg stomped through yet another lost and shady back alley. Occasionally kicking over a trash can with an audible grunt, the mustard pegasus still angered by the actions of his brother. “Rotten bastard!” he yelled to himself, shattering an empty ale bottle with a stomp of his left foreleg.

“How can he be so damn selfish? Lookin’ at da world like it’s such an ugly thing; when he does nothing ta make it better!” he shouted again, flying into the air and swatting at a hanging lamp. The old light holder easily snapped off of its hanging line and plummeted to the ground where it smashed and crumpled against the cobblestone below. Bootleg knew that taking his anger out on inanimate objects would not help stifle his anger, but he could not help himself.

Eight years of disregarding the property, lives, and imperial rights of others. That’s how long he had been saddled with Speak and his harsh philosophies. True, it was Bootleg who had volunteered to accompany Speak when he left home. But Bootleg had all been forced into it. With the death of their Da, their Ma was left to support the two of them with only her talent as a seer to do so. Speak decided on leaving months after, eager to fill one of the new positions at the renovated rainbow factory of Clousdale. Ma naturally disapproved, urging that Speak would stay and ply his talents as an herbalist. But Speak only argued that he could make more money for the family with the budding industries of Equestria than he could being the town’s alchemist. Moved by Speak’s dedication to the family, Bootleg insisted that he tag along too. That way, their mother would not have to support anyone but herself, while the two of them could still support her.

But things changed. Speak changed. Bootleg himself never really understood why, and the thought of how much they had fallen since leaving home always seemed to send a hot flash through the wild haired pony.

Diving to the ground with a loud cry of anger, he smashed directly through an old-looking wooden crate that had been lying against the wall of this alley. The sound finally drew the attention of another alley dweller, who came skulking from around a nearby corner.

“Washiz all da rracket...?” came the drunken slur of a muck-covered, hiccupping red earth pony. One of his dull grey eyes lazily drifted from side to side, while the other one remained locked onto the pegasus before him. His almond mane and beard were unwashed and knotted together, and he stank of urine and cheap alcohol. He noisily burped before continuing, “Thisshiz maii alley-way ya hotch little shiiiit!” He slowly stumbled towards Bootleg with a violent look on his features, “betcher runsh home, to ya slutch of a..of a mama…beforeah I getsch violent..”

Bootleg did not need this right now, not even from an old codger who was too drunk to know what planet he was on. He bit his lips and stifled any outright insults, attempting to calm himself. But he did not give any ground, he stayed put, glued to the spot. His mind unwilling to submit to the will of such a waste of space. Staring down the red homeless stallion with his blue eyes he shouted a warning, “An’ ya best crawl back into whatever shite-hole ya crawled out of, ‘cause I’m in no mood for games.”

No sooner had he said that than a response in the form an old ale bottle was tossed his way. Bootleg easily ducked the pathetically thrown object and gritted his teeth in anger at the red stallion who barked, “I ain’t playin’ witchuu little shit!” as he reached for yet another discarded bottle with his mouth.

But just as the old stallion wrapped his teeth around said bottle and brought it up to be thrown, Bootleg had vanished from his view. His old grey eyes whizzed back and forth, trying to spy the noisy youth but saw nothing. He never looked up.
With a resounding PING! The metal bat of Bootleg, held aloft from his wing connected onto the unwashed cranium of the red pony, who bit down from the force of the impact, crunching the glass bottle between his teeth. The old stallion shrieked in pain from both the metal against his skull and the glass that now replaced his teeth’s spot in his gums. He stumbled to the ground, eyes blurred from both trauma and tears. Spitting crimson blood from his torn mouth, he tried to rise.

Bootleg did not allow him. There was another swing, and another chime of metal bouncing off skull. The old pony fell to the ground once more after a yelp, his chin crashing into the stone below him, shoving the glass further up into his gum-line. He rolled over onto his back just in time to see Bootleg through his tears, bat raised for another strike. Bootleg strongly planted his hoof into the chest of the bum, and swung.

The helpless earth pony cried again as the metal bludgeoned his jawline. He raised his hooves up towards Bootleg in a plea of mercy. “ Aye’mthorry, aye’mthorry! Pleauth, thopp!” came his garbled cry, spitting blood onto his chin with every word evidence of his shredded tongue. His jaw had been fractured after one swing. Bootleg would still have none of it though, as he normally was quick to anger. But with the recent events and pent up frustration, he couldn’t come back from going over. Not with this pony. With a yell of anger, he struck again.

He rained down blow after blow with his bat against the red stallion’s head, making sure to follow through after hitting a different spot every time so as to avoid splatter landing on either himself or his bat. The words from the pony beneath his hoof became more garbled until he stopped speaking and just kept shrieking. It wasn’t until the fifteenth swing, that the shrieks from below stopped altogether; and then it wasn’t until the seventeenth swing that Bootleg halted. Finally halted, he gazed down upon the body of his victim. Whose face was now a jumble of bruises, gashes and distorted bone structure, covered in his life liquid of a shade just a tad darker than his coat. He swore under his breath upon seeing the damage he had wrecked on the stranger, and swore again upon seeing the blood that had spattered onto his foreleg. Thinking quickly, he spat onto both his bat and his foreleg, coating them generously before rubbing his stained leg off on the belly of the unmoving earth pony. Fortunately the blood transferred easily to its new surface thanks to the moisture of his saliva.

Bootleg didn’t bother to hide the body, for he knew the rest of this damnable city was just like his brother, harsh and uncaring. And he knew he was becoming no better, despite how hard he stamped the ground and blamed his brother. Bootleg had just ended the life of another out of anger, and yet felt nothing. Sliding his now sloppily cleaned bat back into its holster, Bootleg decided it was time to return from his tantrum and trotted out into the city, feeling a little better than he did going in. The weight of what he just did never sinking in.

♙--------------------------♙

The afternoon sun was already stretched out to the west, spilling darker hues of gold and orange across the metropolis of Canterlot. The Wicked Way that Sweetie Belle and Speak Easy walked down was now seeing more activity, though most of said activity was chariot and taxi traffic. The lights on the many risqué establishments were flickering on, but most of the red lanterns on the street were either dimmed or unlit. Most of the ponies that were out and about were crowded around the pubs and local eateries. A loud sputter from behind the pair urged Sweetie Belle to jump in surprise. The loud and clunky contraption passed them on the street, sputtering and

spewing steam as it rolled down the way. It reminded her of Apple Bloom’s description of the Super Speedy Cider Squeezy 6000 that had visited Ponyville in the past. Except this one was much bigger, looking like it could hold at least ten ponies inside. It also sported reinforced armor plating. Was this a military vehicle? It made the ground tremble with every cycle of it’s great wheels. It finally pulled to a stop before one of the larger pub-looking establishments, screeching as a fresh billow of steam erupted from its many exhaust tubes.

The rear hatch of the monstrous vehicle sprang open, and out of it filed roughly eight soldiers of the imperial army. But they were not as Sweetie was expecting them to be. As she had only seen scowling faces behind towering suits of armor. These soldiers, however, were dressed in not armor but in purple and gold dress uniforms, much like the ones she had heard use sticks of thunder to destroy corruption. And not a single one of them were pegasi, every last one of the stallions were unicorns. Sweetie found this especially strange, as she had only ever seen winged soldiers in Ponyville.

The clamoring soldiers talked loudly amongst each other. Speak himself began to eye them warily, and began to subtly pull Sweetie closer to him. A thought flashed in the mind of Sweetie Belle; maybe she could get help from these soldiers. If he really wasn’t an agent of Empress Celestia, these soldiers would know and be able to get her back home! But what if he was who he said he was? And he was just super serious about his job. A decision had to be made.

As they neared the laughing soldiers, Sweetie began to pull away from Speak. She knew all grown-ups hated when foals caused a scene and that’s exactly what she planned to do. Speak however, thought this was a simple escape gesture and held fast to the little pony. Speak himself wasn’t too sure with what the filly was trying to pull, but he soon began to suspect that it had something to do with the group ahead. Clever for being so young, he thought, steadying his hold on Sweetie. He knew his only good chance of passing by either involved him stifling her movements with his grip, or seeing if he was fortunate enough for the soldiers to not care. So he tightened his grip. Though feeling some small pain from the vastly stronger stallion, Sweetie was hopeful now that Speak had opted to cause resistance between the two. Now all she had to do was start crying and yelling for help.

“Speak Easy!” came a beautiful, sing-song cry from above the walking pair, drawing eyes from several passer-byes and from one of the soldiers.

An unknown figure darted downwards, swooping in from the skies above and nearly pouncing Speak to the ground. Sweetie had no idea who it was, but was too stunned to look right away, as she had been knocked from Speak’s grasp by this unknown flyer.

A moment passed as Sweetie regained her senses before looking up but not before she was entranced by what she saw. Before her stood a beautiful and well-groomed griffon whose alluring orange eyes flared like little suns as she helped up the stallion she had just felled. She had gorgeous alabaster wings, that though only partially opened at that moment looked like they

could span three more Sweetie Belles in length. The little filly had never seen a griffon up close before. Or rather, she’d never seen one ever. To Sweetie, this creature was a wonder. In place of a mane, she had elongated, rosy-tipped feathers that traced from the center of her forehead to the nape of her neck. The summer day’s light breeze flowed through these feathers allowing her plumage to sway majestically and occasionally lifting them completely up from the left side of her face before comfortable habit set them back down. Her over-sized and heavily stylized eyelashes were faker yet more elegant she’d ever seen her sister wear. But they complimented her short eyebrows. And Sweetie could not help but feel entranced by watching them swiftly dart through the air every time she blinked. Yes, from her polished golden beak and the fire-drop make up designs of salmon pink that encircled her eyes, to her jeweled talons and her curvaceous yet toned lower body.
She was magnificent.
While Sweetie Belle sat enraptured, the female griffon had tenderly helping Speak back to a fully standing position. All the while whispering feverish apologies in both Equestrian and Gryphus and caressing his left ear with her right talon, pausing only to adjust his hat and to brush clean any rubbish that might have latched onto his vest. At this, Speak could not help but chuckle softly as he threw a wing around the griffon and brought her in beak-to-nose. “I’m gone for less than six hours from the city and yet you still find the need to track me down? You must really need me today.” he asked with a smile, staring knowingly into those orange eyes of fire.

The faintest of blushes flashed over the griffon’s face, barely visible past her make up. She attempted to play at innocence, with a smile she said, “I ‘ave no idea what you mean mon chéri. There’s no reason for me to need you.” Her voice had a musical quality about it, fitting in nicely with her light Gryphus accent.

“Roxy, you’re a damn poor liar. Always have been.” Retorted Speak. “And though I’d love to help you with whatever personal problem you’re dealing with right now. I have my own concerns to take care of.” He gestured to the starry eyed Sweetie Belle, releasing his hold on his griffon friend.

Roxy approached Sweetie, looking at the little filly with a somewhat perplexed look on her face. She naturally smiled softly in response to Sweetie’s expression, before turning back to Speak, an eyebrow raised, “You ‘ave a kid now?”

This elicited a hearty laugh from Speak, who moved himself next to the young foal, tussling her mane with his left wing. This action quickly awakened Sweetie back to the reality around her. But before she could dart away upon realizing that she was free, the same left wing wrapped around her side and held her close. “Dear me lassie, ya’ve gone an’ confused my dear friend here by appearing to be related. Please, introduce yaself.” Instructed Speak to Sweetie, still tickled by Roxy’s query.
For a moment, Sweetie remained silent, wondering if maybe this new figure could help her. She sneaked a peek down the path, and her heart sank in seeing that the soldiers were gone. This griffon, though a complete stranger might well be her only chance at some freedom. Pursing her lips in a pout like face that resembled her sister’s, she finally looked up at Roxy.
“H-hello, I’m Sweetie Belle, a unicorn from Ponyville…” she sniffed, letting some tears well up at the edge of her large green eyes. “Could you please hel--”

“Why’s she so sad looking?” Queried Roxy to Speak, interrupting Sweetie’s plea. In turn, Sweetie spoke, “Because I was ---” but was interrupted by Speak’s own answer of “Because I took her from her home. She’s my latest assignment.”

Sweetie paused, still sniffling she looked up at the olive pegasus with pure surprise in her eyes. Did he just admit to foal-napping her? Even if this girl was his friend, and even if he was an agent of Celestia, why would he openly admit to a crime?

“Ah. Oh. Aww, did my big, mean Speak Easy scare you with a surprise trip to ze capital? Oh you poor thing.” Cooed the griffon, stooping her body to the filly’s level and gingerly wiping away her tears. But Roxy’s response shocked Sweetie even more than Speak’s honesty. She was okay with the fact that he had done such a thing. Roxy’s smile was as chilling as it was sweet as she continued, “Don’t hate him for it though. He can be a little rough sometimes…” as she emphasized the rough, Roxy shuddered and smiled to herself, “…but just bear with him. He’s only doing his job.” With that, she shot a playful wink at Sweetie before rising back up to her normal height, teasingly brushing her tail against Speak’s face as she did so.

“Don’t be rude, da lassie was kind enough to introduce herself to ya. Now you do the same.” Commented speak, currently unfazed by Roxy’s flirting.

“But of course, mon chéri.” Chirped Roxy, batting her overly large eyelashes at speak regardless. She then turned to the still restrained Sweetie Belle, who possessed a look of both confusion and sadness. Roxy ignored this however, and proceeded to puff out her chest feathers and flared her strikingly preened wings. “Bonjour, my name eez Roxanne Harpe d’Aviangnon. It eez a pleasure to make your acquaintance, little unicorn of Ponyville. I am certain we will get along just fine.”
Unsure of how to proceed, Sweetie simply nodded to the beautiful creature before her and squeaked out a small “It’s nice to meet you, Roxanne. I’ve never met, or even seen a griffon before…I um, really like your feathers.”

Roxy could not help but giggle at this. “Oh, you are just ze sweetest little thing. Please, call me Roxy, my real name is too long.” She made clear her endearment my gingerly patting Sweetie’s head.

While the girls spoke amongst each other, Speak withdrew and placed another cigarette between his lips, replacing the one that had been knocked from his mouth when Roxy landed on him.

“See? I knew ya lassies would get along…” he paused, retrieving his lighter from his pocket and sparking forth yet another flame onto his new rolled stick of tobacco. “…but ma darlin’s, we’re on a tight schedule this afternoon. So let us walk an’ talk.” Came a Speak’s continuation, throwing his free wing around Roxy and steering them both down the lightly crowded sidewalk of Wicked Way.

“So, where are we ‘eaded?” hummed Roxy, nuzzling herself against the neck of Speak. Speak took a moment to exhale, smoke crawling from his nose. Smoke that made Sweetie feel sick every time she inhaled the noxious fumes. “To your old job.”

Roxy went wide eyed, but did not yet remove her head from its resting place. So that’s what was going on. Slowly, she raised rose from her previous position, placing her beak just behind Speak’s left ear. “So you’re going to sell zis filly?” Whispered Roxy, making sure to be quiet enough to avoid eavesdropping from Sweetie. Speak in turn could not help but smile at the narrow-mindedness of Roxy. She always was slow when it came to grasping bigger pictures.

Speak turned and buried his nose into the feathery head of his close friend, and uttered “Oh ma dearest Roxy, you shouldn’t spoil da ending if ya don’t know it yourself. Da impatience ya have will get ya punished one day.” Roxy answered only by sticking out her tongue at the olive pegasus.

And so they walked, straight down the Wicked Way for several minutes, the only conversation between them being a light discussion that Roxy was having with Sweetie about griffons. Speak paid them little mind though, taking notice only of where they were headed and how much strength he had to hold Sweetie with. His thoughts occasionally drifted to his brother, but stayed mostly on the subject of the job ahead of them. Bootleg would come around, this Speak Easy knew. His younger brother always did in the end, despite the number of arguments they’ve had. Bootleg had no one else to rely on, no one else to look after him in all of Canterlot. He’d disagree now, but remember who has put food on the table and a roof over his head. But as strongly as Speak knew this, he also knew he needed Bootleg too. There was no way that he could accomplish a job worth so much without him.

So in thought was Speak that he nearly ignored the tugging of Roxy on his neck. “Speeeak…you’re going to miss it.” Came Roxy’s mock-whine tune. Pointing to a great set of golden gates.

He knew she was jesting, there was no possible way he’d miss the entrance. Those familiar gates of beaming yellow, with the great pearlescent letters atop them that read “Carousal”. Where the ragged and dirty cobblestone street diverged and melted into a pristine red brick drive way. Many cherry and peach trees large and small dotted the outer grounds, adding a sense of freshness and vitality to the place. Freshly watered grass of the frontal garden lawn glimmered and swayed in the gentle breeze, with rows upon rows of white and red roses packed the sides of the driveway, all seemingly eager for attention from the way their colors beckoned. Against one another they pushed until the drive way curved on itself, ending at a marble patio and staircase. Along such stairs stood many stone cut effigies of beautiful mares, all displayed in salacious poses and all partially clad in varying lengths of cloth robes, reflecting the artist’s favor for classic Equine mythology. In the dead center of the marble patio sat a grand and decorative fountain, a new addition in the past year. It was a carved collection of females from different species and races within those races. Speak knew that this had been added to acknowledge the catering to other races among their merchandise; such was evident from the statues Griffons, Elks, Zebras, Buffalo and others. All of which were lined next to each other, each in a provocative posture and displaying signs of heat on their carved features. Water flowed creatively from the nether regions of every single figure. An impressive feat considering the diversity of the sculptures. And past that still stood the real magnificence.

The pleasure palace was quite literally, a genuine palace. It stood four stories tall, and was colored a peach-like yellow, with the uppermost trim painted a vibrant crimson. Massive pillars of alabaster stone stood before the large entrance-way, diligently upholding the substantial shingled roof of midnight black. Each portion of the black roof curved upwards in a flexible triangle design, forming up into what appeared to resemble the canopy of a carousel. Crystalline windows dotted the grand exterior walls with perfected symmetry. At the main door to the entrance-way, stood humongous stained-glass doors of garish color. From a distance, one could not tell what designs had been forcefully slithered through the glass, but one not needed to see the details to know the whole was beautiful. The main building was not the only part of this palace though. Several thinner corridors could be seen branching away from the center on multiple floors, leading into a western, eastern, and an unseen south wing. Each of these shared the architectural beauty of the main palace and entry-way and even spanned the same height; each wing contained hundreds of rooms.

How the great Madame Head kept the whole place under her thumb would baffle Speak forever. The olive pegasus looked down at the young unicorn, attempting to gauge her thoughts. She looked like she was in as much awe as when she had seen Roxy. But this reaction was different, almost as though she was amazed at both the size and purpose of such a place, if she even got that far with her thoughts. Grinning, he withdrew his left wing from around Roxy and drifted it before Sweetie, sweeping it across the Carousal in a grandiose gesture. Sweetie turned her gaze to the stallion beside her, and when her forest eyes met his eyes of emerald he said, “Well lassie, welcome to the Carousal. Da finest bordello in all o’ Canterlot. Welcome, to ya new home.”

♙--------------------------♙

Back at the Le Blanc Estate, in a large changing room separate from the master bedroom of the Earl, the lone white stallion stood amongst a parade of floating clothing choices. Occasionally a new suit would glide down, draped in Esprit’s magical glow. He lazily eyed each one, before
returning it to the swirling dance above him. A soft hum escaped his lips at timed intervals, sweeping out his right foreleg before him as though he was a daydreaming conductor.

For a moment, he pulled down a new design from Manehatten that had strong Canterlot tones and nods, noticeable in the long coat tails and lack of lacy ruffles. An honest and strong look, but far too bland for such an occasion. Perhaps a more common fashion from Hoofington, to show his connection to the people perhaps? But no, the blue pinstripe may have been in-season, but it was too casual and may end up making him look not serious.

As he thought on all this, a sharp pain, akin to being stabbed, rang through his jaw, forcing Esprit to jump slightly and drop all of the clothes he had been carrying. He allowed a hiss from his alabaster lips. He brought his right hoof up to his jawline, attempting to gently caress the origin of the offending feeling. Esprit could feel excess liquid building up in his mouth and quickly traipsed over to his desk. In one swift motion, he opened up one of the nearby dresser drawers and retrieved a handkerchief.

As he dabbed at the entrance of his mouth with the handkerchief, it came back less white and more splotched with red every time. The sores were acting up again, this Esprit knew for certain now. He shook his head, shifting around his jaw slightly. Silently, he cursed to himself. First, his back aches again, and now the pain of his mouth sores was kicking in. This would not do. Esprit would not have his infirmities get in the way of this day’s first step. Perturbed and annoyed with his bodily state, Esprit quickly made his way to the door into his bedroom.

“My lord!” came a voice of urgency, attempting to swiftly catch the attention of the retreating Esprit. At first, the unicorn cautiously paused, but relaxed upon remembering the only pony capable of being in the same room as he without knowing. As Esprit turned, the shadowy figure slithered from its corner, holding aloft a small vial on its left hoof. In the androgynous voice that the white stallion knew well, the Trotter said, “Your medicine is here.”

The gold wisp-like grip briskly seized the elixir from the shadowy hoof. Esprit uttered a quiet “Merci,” before uncorking the bottle and pouring the medicinal liquid down his throat.

Lowering its hoof, the Trotter gazed at Esprit through hazed eyes, “The Generous Lady has accepted your offer for dinner. I have informed her that you will meet her at seven, at the Event Horizon.” Esprit said nothing though, opting to silently nod as he continued to dab at his mouth. The Trotter, taking this as permission to continue, did so. “I have already taken care of the V.I.P. reservation, and shall inform the brothers of the appointed time in which to appear.”

“What of my family?” asked Esprit, magically raising the clothing he had just dropped. The Trotter approached its master in the center of the room, “Marquis Chasseur is presiding over a series of executions at the main festival grounds. The honorable Judge Gavel Call will also be present, along with The Rifle. They plan to make a show of quite a few traitors of the empire--”

Esprit spat a few drops of remaining blood into his handkerchief, interrupting the Trotter. His golden eyes darted over each outfit he picked up before questioning, “Of course. Chasseur always ‘as enjoyed a good ‘anging. And what of the eldest?”
“Prince Prosper is still currently with your mother, Princess Puissance. The Hound is also with them. It would seem that they are both currently at the imperial palace, discussing your latest arrangement with the Spoon family. They are no doubt trying to speed along the wedding plans. Princess Puissance seems to be putting copious amounts of pressure on mister Sterling Spoon to fund most of the wedding costs ever since she personally paid for his daughter’s dowry.”

Esprit sighed at this, displeased both by his bodily infirmity and the actions of his family. “You would think that zey would ‘ave better things to do than bother my fiancé’s family. Too eager to see a return on their investment.”

The Trotter nodded beneath its cowl in agreement, “That is the most likely scenario my lord…May I have permission to speak freely my lord?”

Esprit nodded without hesitation, “As always, my friend.” Returning all of the now slightly wrinkled clothing to their respective wardrobes as he did so.

“I have been in your service for a long time. And in that time, for as long as I have watched, your family has always acted this way. Perhaps it would behoove you to accept them for what they are.” Uttered the Trotter, closing the distance between the two ponies.

The white stallion waited until the last of his suits was tucked away before eyeing his shrouded servant. While he appreciated its consul, Esprit did not particularly enjoy being told what to think about his family. But he held fast to his tongue, knowing that the Trotter has said such not as a command, but as an affirmation that Esprit must be strong. Slowly he confirmed, “Je sais, mon ami. I know…We are passing a threshold for which we ‘ave never crossed before. And truth be told… I am nervous.” He rubbed a hoof across his face, tracing from his eyes down to his jaw. The pain had seemingly subsided, and the blood halted but he still shifted his jaw around uncomfortably. “I can only ‘ope that zis undertaking goes as smoothly as possible, and with a minimal number of corpses left in its wake.” His golden eyes shot back up to the Trotter, looking for any small sign of understanding, but as usual. There was nothing. No sympathy. No hesitation. The alabaster unicorn finally lowered his hoof from his face after a moment of thinking, before straightening his posture and allowing a look of resolve wash over his face. “I will be counting on you. As well as the brothers, and any other support we will gather.”
“You are my King. My Emperor. My Lord. I will continue to serve you as always, until I but dust in the wind. Until the day where your vision of Equestria is realized. ” At these words, the Trotter pivoted away from Esprit and coasted back towards the shadows. But before the figure could disappear, it turned its hooded head and said, “May Generosity smile upon you. For Canterlot is sick, and you are the cure.” But then it was gone, as silently as it had arrived. Esprit
found that last sentence amusingly ironic, considering his current condition. For a moment, he just stood, steeling himself for what he had begun. And what he had started would mean.

The smell of metal and copper pervaded the air around him, breaking his line of thought. He already reeked slightly of blood, and he hadn’t even sent anyone to their death yet. This would not do, not for a meeting with an element holder. Opening a small cabinet of aromatic bottles of perfume and cologne and picked one out, a bottle lined with a gold and purple label. Magically opening the bottle, Esprit took a whiff of the contents. Oh yes, this would do.

Lavender. With a hint of peaches.