Misadventure
The carolers assaulted me abruptly in an ambush on the boulevard. Well, not me in particular; I just happened to be passing through when they seemingly rose out of the cobbles just outside the front doors of a public house. Between the rumble of wheels on pavement and the untrained—and possibly inebriated—voices raised to be audible over it, I couldn’t hear myself think. Moreover, they stood smack on the corner of a busy intersection, forming a knot in the pedestrian traffic that utterly snarled the progress of everypony around. I sighed and rolled my eyes, albeit with a wry grin. In fairness it was hard to blame them, and it wasn’t like I hadn’t encountered similar phenomena back home, so I stood patiently, waiting for the crowd to break up.
After a few minutes my brow furrowed in uncertainty as I felt a slight tugging and the tingle of nearby magic. I’d fallen into the habit of mostly ignoring the latter, the way one learns to disregard the brush of passersby and similar null stimuli, but this rang faint alarm bells—with good reason, as it turned out.
I looked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of a levitation aura surrounding a floating coin pouch scooting along only an inch or two off the pavement. It took only a moment to recognize the pouch as mine, but that was long enough for it to rise hastily and disappear into a small, tattered old pannier; the flap flopped down immediately, belt-like fastener cinching in place. The tiny unicorn filly to whom the panniers were attached spun in place and shot off like a radio-controlled car, leaving me agape at the sheer brass—and speed—of her actions. A blink and a breath later, I was galloping after her, hollering at the top of my lungs.
My own levitation efforts proved no more effective than flailing arms as my lack of experience, limited power, and the exertion and distraction of a dead run told against me. For her part, the skinny little foal completely ignored me, expertly bobbing and weaving through the crush even to the extent of darting out onto the vehicle lanes and back. Once she even bolted under a wagon lengthwise, almost losing me right then.
It seemed like forever, but couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes, before she laid over in a right-angle turn and disappeared into what turned out to be a warren of streets and alleys. It took only another minute or so for her to vanish entirely, leaving me to slow to a gradual halt, lost in the middle of the nearly deserted maze.
I sat on the curb, chest heaving, and tried to catch my breath; muscles trembled and a few traces of sweat tracked through my coat. My upward glance caught only multistory buildings looming over the narrow side street—little more than an alley—blocking my view of the ridgelines that otherwise might orient me. I shook my head, then hung it and closed my eyes. All that training, all those cautionary lectures, and still I’d been caught with my guard down like any common tourist. I’d never hear the end of this from Pin Stripes if she caught wind of it!
“I say, my good fellow, are you all—my word!” a vaguely familiar voice intruded. My eyes opened and I looked up, toward the busier thoroughfare not far away. Half-silhouetted against that more brightly lit backdrop was a pair of unicorns, a rather beefy stallion and a slender, graceful mare.
“Ah. Fancy Pants. Fleur. Hello.” My voice was faint with fatigue and chagrin.
“It is young Mister Cook.” A monocle rose in a golden aura to affix itself to a brow and cheek. “You’re rather far from the palace, I daresay. And I don’t recall hearing anything of official doings involving your good offices.” The latter comment was half question.
I sighed. “That’s because there aren’t any. I’m just a tourist today.” My teeth ground for a moment and I looked down at the cobblestones again. “And like any idiot tourist, I let my pocket get picked.”
“Well now, we can’t have that, now can we?” I heard approaching hooves. “Come, come, Mister Cook. Let us put this misfortune to rights.”
I glanced up again, brows furrowed. “Well . . . I suppose I can cash in a letter of credit.”
Fancy Pants waved a forehoof. “Nonsense! We shall replace your missing funds in toto, my good sir. A good host should do nothing less.” Beside him Fleur Dis Lee nodded with a slight smile of tolerant amusement.
I caught myself gawking. “I can’t possibly—”
“Tut tut!” The stallion drew himself up with a mock-haughty air. “I shall brook no objections, Mister Cook.”
A short walk later the three of us stood in a tall, broad echoing chamber. A scattering of pillars, writing tables, and counters surrounded us, along with a dozen or so other ponies and even a griffin, most of them speaking in low tones with tellers. The staid stone and wood décor was livened with a few tastefully restrained pine-bough garlands set off by ribbons; the scent, more than the sight, proclaimed the holiday season.
“If we were so inclined, we could petition the exchequer for recompense—but truly, Mister Cook, it’s a mere trifle,” Fleur assured me in her throaty voice. After a beat she eyed me sidelong and added, “And I would wager a good deal more you’d prefer the affair not come to the attention of the princesses.”
Caught out, I blushed hotly. “Well—no, to tell the truth. I’m not even sure I want to report it to the law, now that I think about it.”
“Your kindness does you credit, my fine fellow,” Fancy Pants interjected shrewdly.
“Well, ’tis the season.” I shrugged uneasily. “Besides, I don’t want to spend the day swearing out a complaint. Or deal with the proceedings if they were to catch her.”
“No doubt,” he replied easily. “Ah, here we go.” He swept an arm toward a just-vacated teller window.
The transaction went quickly enough to remind me just how many layers of bureaucracy separated the digital age in which I grew up from this burgeoning industrial era, where a person’s word was his bond and a signature held real power. Just like that, Fancy Pants presented me a roll of coins with a flourish and a small bow, only slightly humorous. “All’s well that ends well,” he affirmed as my levitation took up the roll and bore it to me.
“Thank you, sir,” I told him humbly. “I am in your debt.”
“Nonsense!” he declared. “I could hardly allow this blemish on our city’s and our country’s honor to go unaddressed.” After a moment, though, he glanced around surreptitiously and leaned in to add sotto voce, “Still, I cannot but acknowledge, however much I love them both, we do not live in a paradise. I apologize for the ill treatment you’ve received, both to you and to your nation.”
“By comparison—” I started.
“Indeed. By comparison ours is a land of abundance and harmony, but it is not perfect.” Fancy Pants paused in thought before speaking more slowly as he led us in an amble toward the double doors. “For the most part we enjoy peaceful relations with other realms. We control the elements and the earth, assuring a reliable and plentiful supply of food, and our magic helps to keep us in good health or to return us to it in the wake of illness or injury. We have not suffered dire privation since the Windigo Winter, and we celebrate this holiday to remind us how very different—and how very difficult—life could be. Alas, I fear all too many ponies today do not take those lessons to heart, for lack of personal experience with their consequences.”
“The burned foot teaches best,” Fleur interpolated in an unwontedly serious tone as we exited back onto the street.
I reflected on their comments. How much less difficult would my own world’s history have been without unruly weather, bad harvests, and all the other pain inflicted by a fickle and unmanageable Mother Nature? Yet . . . even if they were ruled over by a living memory and conscience extending over centuries if not millennia, the ponies too were ordinary mortals subject to their own and their fellows’ flaws and shortcomings. That filly might not be starving, but she might not be thriving either.
“It’s a complicated world,” I finally mused.
“Yes.” The sober simplicity of Fancy Pants’ reply needed no amplification.
We parted ways outside the bank building after further well-wishes. I was left to ruminate on a few suggestions that differed slightly, and intriguingly, from Moon Dancer’s . . . as well as the incident just past. If I’d wanted a closer view of the city’s daily life, well, how could I complain when I received it? “Be careful what you wish for,” the old saying goes. “You may get it.”
It was in this solemn mood I hailed another cab. I knew what my next stop would be.
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Yay, Fancy and Fleur. And an interesting take on pickpocketing. Telekinesis does interesting things to the situation.
A part of me wants Cookie to visit the local constabulary, but something tells me that's a waste of time.
I'd bet my bottom bit he's going to visit the orphanage, assuming one exists in Canterlot.
Shouldn't it be hoof?
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Hooves are giant toenails—they have the same evolutionary origins—that wrap around an equine’s feet. Admittedly, an equine’s foot corresponds to a human finger or toe, rather than a hand or foot, but the Anglophone terminology arose in the Middle Ages and early modern period, before scientific rigor was applied to such jargons.
Hmm. An orphanage, soup kitchen, or similar home for the less fortunate does seem like a logical follow-up after that incident. I'm not sure if the plan is to go volunteering or just contemplating the greater complexities underneath Equestria's candy coating, but it looks like we're delving into them either way.
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To be honest I’d intended this chapter as a brief side trip—hence the chapter title of “Misadventure”—but there does seem to be some sentiment for proceeding from it!
The orphanage seems to be the next destination.
There are few authors on the site who seem to understand Equestria (as intended by its crafter) as well as you do. It impresses me, and I wish more portrayed it in like manner.
I don’t envy the contact report Cookie is going to have to file on being loaned money by a major figure in Equestrian society. Though if an offical exchange rate hasn’t been set up yet it might skate by as not being of legal monetary value, I would not want to be the one making that argument.
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Heh. It wouldn’t be the first time Cook’s had to fill out a report he’d rather not, and it certainly won’t be the last!