Amazing Grace

by Silver-Spirits-and-Ales

Chapter nine: Back in the saddle.

Thunderhoof's Memoirs

Trottingham. A city of industry, of commerce, of opportunity. A melting pot, where ponies, griffons, zebras, even changelings can come to reinvent themselves. A city where great minds and great inventions have been birthed. A thriving town, where the tradition of the historical sites and residential districts collides with the modernity and innovation of factories and skyscrapers.

Trottingham. A city of debauchery, of crime, of corruption. A last resort, where thugs, thieves, drug fiends, even murderers can come to flee their sordid pasts. A city where fiendish schemes and dastardly plots have been birthed. An ever-expanding mess, where only uniforms separate the policecolts from the criminals they pursue, and amorality is rampant.

There you have it. Trottingham: the good, the bad, the ugly. That's how I see it anyway. I might be wrong, and sometimes I really want ponies to tell me that I am.

---

As Thunderhoof and Octavia stepped off the boat and onto the dock, the stallion breathed in the polluted air of the city. "Well the smell hasn't changed," said Thunderhoof, as he and his marefriend skipped across a puddle. "Come to Trottingham, and you'll go to hell. For breathing."

"I didn't think my horseshoes from Maris would be walking through the horse dung of Small Heap ever again," responded Octavia.

Small Heap was the city's industrial district. It concentrated several loading docks that faced west, and everything from there to the East Bank of Crowhaven River was covered in factories. Blackchapel was the popular lodgings district, located in the south-east of the city, which seemed to always be engulfed in the factories' smoke. Trottingham'd always had a very small pegasus population, which explained the rain that often covered the Griffish Isles. But it wasn't difficult to understand why no other pegasi had stepped in to clear the clouds, given the black mass that constantly hovered over the city and mixed itself with the clouds. You'd probably drop dead just by flying up to them.

During the Storm King's invasion, Trottingham had managed to hold out against the onslaught, at the cost of widespread destruction that had left many a pony homeless.

Apart from Small Heap and Blackchapel, which constituted the East End of Trottingham, there was the other, wealthier area on the other side of the river: the West End. Of course, there was Albion Shore in the Northwest, otherwise known as 'the white collar district': it was where the hedge funds, investment banks and credit unions were headquartered. Just south of Albion Shore was the area that was simply known as 'the residential district': it concentrated most of the city's bourgeoisie and nobility. There were some pretty expensive shops there too, as well as some fancy restaurants.

There was a third area to Trottingham. Not very big, and not very fancy, but also not particularly dilapidated. Known simply as 'Central Trottingham', it was the perfect middle ground of the city. A place where the poor and the rich met, in many ways. The Centre was the oldest district of the city, and it concentrated some of the oldest and most important buildings of Equestria: the Summer Parliament, where the elected officials of Equestria were seated from March to September, St. Hoovenheart's Cathedral, the towering dome of which had served as a beacon of hope during the Storm King's short reign, and Ponestead Palace, one of the royal family's official residences... It was there that Trottingham had started, in many ways.

"This is gonna seem weird," said Thunderhoof, "but that smell... I kinda missed it."

"Honestly?" answered Octavia. "Me too."

In comparison to the workers of Trottingham, Octavia and Thunderhoof stuck out like sore hooves. The soot-faced, flat-capped Earth Ponies all looked up from their stations to look at the two relatively rich ponies. Some of them could recognise Thunderhoof, mainly because he was the son of an earl and the Earl Blackjack Butterscotch was one of the only nobles who was actually held in high regard by the working class. For the Butterschotch bloodline had a certain reputation for empathy. Blackjack's sons, although not as popular, were held to the same standards. Stableton was popular, simply because he was the local preacher of the East End. Haysley, despite acting purely out of self interest, was pretty famous, if only because he had contributed to bring more employment to the city. And Thunderhoof was respected for one reason, and that was his service in the forces, and his earning a Star of Valour and a Celestia Cross. Recipients of such honours were few and far between.

There was a certain culture of loyalty within the ponies of Trottingham. It was customary for every household to have pictures of the princesses hung on the wall, and celebrate their birthdays as if they were their own. In fact, just after Princess Twilight's coronation, the Trottinghamites had celebrated so much that a bank holiday had been decreed the day after so that the city could recover from its collective hangover.

"Oi, bruv!" shouted a flat-capped earth stallion from across the street. He was leaning against a black coach, eating a carrot stick. "Thunderhoof, innit?"

Without a word, Thunderhoof and Octavia approached, and dumped their saddlebags into the bag.

"Butterscotch Estate, Coltford," said the investigator, as he helped Octavia into the coach, before climbing in himself.

The carriage set off, and after a half-hour of trekking, they entered the Griffish countryside. And there, down the road, was the Butterscotch Estate. Or rather, what you could see of it. Since Rosebud had died, Blackjack had become extremely reclusive, and had decided to hide himself from the world. A thick line of tall cypress trees had been erected on the edges of the garden, barring the view.

The carriage halted in front of the main gate, the coach-puller waited for the gate to be opened, and once it was, he brought the coach to the front door.

The first thing that Thunderhoof noticed was the relative absence of servants, although a single unicorn mare was cutting the hedges, and a tail-coated earth stallion was standing in front of the door.

"My Lord," bowed the butler, as Octavia and Thunderhoof dismounted. "Please, let me escort you to-"

"It's alright, I know the way," answered Thunderhoof. "Please, escort my guest to the music room."

The butler obliged, and Thunderhoof made his way up the stairs. The sound of his hoofsteps echoed and bounced off the walls as he walked, ringing throughout the entire house. The only sound to be heard. It sadly reflected the fact that now, more than ever, The earl of Coltford was alone. The oak wood furnishings were varnished, the rug on the floor just as pristine as it had always been, and the many portraits were all staring at each other, not a piece of dust to cloud their eyes. But there was no-one to see them. Not a soul to appreciate the work that the staff had done on the place. Now that Thunderhoof thought of it, these expensive, lavish props had never been appreciated by anyone. Not even Blackjack or Rosebud had ever stopped to admire and appreciate their wealth. "What a waste," thought the investigator, wondering if he and his future homestead would one day end up the same way.

As he went across the third floor's landing, Thunderhoof stopped in front of a painting, that was different from the rest. He took a while to examine it.

It had been made a few years before. It depicted the Butterscotch family. Standing tall above the rest was Blackjack, wearing that look of boredom that all aristocrats seemed to wear when set on a canvas. He had a stylish brown mane, emerald-green eyes, and wore a tuxedo over his cream coat. Just next to him, with her similar look of boredom, her leg wrapped around his, was his wife, Rosebud. She had a blond mane, and her eyes were a cold steel blue, which was the only trait that Thunderhoof had inherited.

Rosebud's other hoof was resting on the shoulder of her prodigious son, Haysley. He was wearing a three-piece suit and tie, hanky sticking out of his pocket. As usual, he was hiding his cold heart behind a waistcoat and pocket watch. Next to him was Stableton. As usual, wearing his cassock and 'dog's collar'.

And, sitting apart from the rest, his father's hoof on his shoulder, the only pegasus in the family, Thunderhoof saw himself. He was wearing his officer's uniform, a bored and somewhat angry expression etched onto his face. Sitting apart, for he didn't want anything to do with that family.

The canvas made Thunderhoof angry, so the investigator turned away and left the canvas behind. He went over to the door that lead to his father's room, and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, and listened to his brother, who was reciting a passage from the scriptures that Thunderhoof had heard many times before: The third of the Six Tenets: the Tired Hooves:

"Soothe the tired hooves, that have grown restless by tireless work and endless frustration," Stableton recited. "Wash them with grace and kindness, rekindle their will to work. For you must be tender and even-willed as you guide your sibling to their providence. For there are forces in this world that devour the mind and leave an unwilling soul in its place, unmotivated and weak, incapable of any task. And it is your duty to your brethren to help and guide the pilgrims of fate to their destined task."

Thunderhoof knocked on the door, and entered. Behind it was a scene that was somehow familiar, although this time, the investigator was much more empathetic. Blackjack Butterscotch, the Earl of Coltford, was laying on the bed, propped up against the pillows. He smiled as he saw his third son.

"Ah, Thunderhoof," said Blackjack, weakly.

"Father," responded Thunderhoof.

Stableton gently closed his book of scriptures, and said "I'll be leaving you two now. Bless you, dad." He kissed his father on the forehead, and left the room.

"Please, son, have a seat," said Blackjack.

Thunderhoof sat down next to his father's bed. "How are you feeling?"

Blackjack chuckled. "Please, don't ask me that," he answered.

"Stableton told me that you wanted to see me."

"Indeed he did," said the father. He difficultly pulled himself up to a straight sitting position. "I need to... set the record straight."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been turning it over in my head, and I think you have a right to know," said Blackjack.

Thunderhoof knew what this was about. "Yes?" he asked, apprehensively.

"I am not your father," said Blackjack. "Well, not... biologically, at least."

"I know," said Thunderhoof. "I've known for a long time."

"I'm not surprised," said Blackjack. "You were always very perceptive."

"By any chance," said Thunderhoof, "you don't know who is my... I don't know what to call him... I don't want to call him my father."

"Yet you want to know who he is?"

"Only if you know."

"He was a servant," explained Blackjack. "One of the kitchen staff. I suppose your mother had taken a fancy to him."

"I see," said Thunderhoof.

"You look just like him..." said the father. "I... I would utter a needless word of reproach against your mother, but I daresay you sometimes took the same liberties with the maids, didn't you?"

"What happened to him?" asked Thunderhoof, trying to get back to the main topic of conversation.

"When your mother announced it to me, she pointed out who the father was. I have to admit, he was handsome. And he told me that... Rosebud had ordered him to do it. She'd threatened him."

"And where is he now?"

"I gave him some money and I told him to leave Trottingham, and never come back."

"Well, I suppose that makes me a bastard son of a bitch, then," said Thunderhoof.

Having seldom heard such language, Blackjack was about to say something, but he relented. "I suppose it's beyond the point, Thunderhoof, but I... I still consider you my son, in spite of all that."

"Father... in truth I don't really care about who my biological father is. Whoever or wherever he is, it is of no importance. You are my only father. I'm sorry I haven't spent more time with you."

"It's alright," said Blackjack. "I understand, son. But what is done... or in this case, hasn't been done... hasn't been done. There is no point in blubbering about it."

"You're right... dad."

"One more thing," said Blackjack.

"Yes?"

"Well, I... I've made a decision, and I wanted to tell you about it."

"Let's hear it."

"As you know, the Butterscotch family has a reputation to uphold."

"Yes."

"Well, I am in what we call the evening of life. And, when one does enter this... era, they tend to question themselves. Quite often, they question themselves on whether or not they have done enough to benefit the world."

"I see."

"In my case, I have been wondering about what will come of our family's name. What will come of the Earls and Countesses of Coltford? And I have decided to bequeath everything... to you. The property, the holdings, the title... everything."

"I'm... flattered," spluttered Thunderhoof, surprised. "I truly am, but... why?"

"Because," answered Blackjack, "unlike what Haysley thinks, I know what he's planning to do with the inheritance. I know very well what he is. I know that he wants to make everyone suffer, provided that he becomes wealthier. And Stableton, he... he is a good stallion, but he has a commitment to the church."

"I think that having Haysley inherit was what Mother had planned, wasn't it?"

Blackjack laughed, coughed, and levitated a glass of water to his mouth. "Well, let's foil the hag's plans a second time, shall we?"

Thunderhoof chuckled. "I suppose I don't have a choice."

"Before you go," said Blackjack, "please look over Stableton for me. Don't let him become a victim of his own kindness."

"Don't worry, I will," answered Thunderhoof.

"Thank you," said Blackjack. "Sometimes, I suppose the... shepherd needs shepherding."

"I agree," answered Thunderhoof. "I won't be wasting any more of your time. I'll come to visit you before I leave Trottingham."

"Very well," said Blackjack. "I'll be... keeping an eye on you."

---

"COURT CONFUSES COMMUNITY, CRIMINALS CLEARED CLEVERLY: CORRUPT COURT?," read the tag-line of the Trottingham Times.

"Yesterday, the first trial of the Special Court for Kudanda was held out at the Haygue Tribunal, in Northern Equestria. The three defendents were Gahji Kumana, Mookit Saffran and Nassir Resandi, three paramilitary commanders of the Kudu Patriotic Front (KPF), one of the militias responsible for the massacre of zebra civilians in Kudanda. Among others, their alleged crimes included Genocide, Grave Infractions to the Laws and Customs of War, and Crimes against Equines. And despite the heavy proof against them and the testimony of several eyewitnesses, the jury of the SCK ruled that the three defendants were not guilty. Canta del Pronto, Prosecutor for the court and a veteran Equine rights lawyer, was dismayed and distraught, commenting that this verdict was "an outrage". She even went as far as claiming that "the entire credibility of the court and its work is put into question."

And an outrage it is. The Kingdom of Zebrica (who saw many of their expatriated citizens die during the war, and who are one of the main financial backers of the court) have already decided to withdraw their diplomats from Equestria. Unconfirmed reports state that Lord Fasu, now former ambassador of the Kingdom to Equestria, has advised other foreign dignitaries to do the same, claiming that Equestria is no longer worthy of anyone's trust.

Amidst all the chaos that the verdict has brought, we, citizens of this fair country, can rightfully ask: is there corruption in the Pan-Equestrian Justice system, once thought of as the purest of all institutions?

Naturally, politicians haven't let this crisis go to waste. Ozzy Mozzy, leader of the Equestria First Party, commented "that is why you can't judge kudu in an Equestrian court! Their natural corruption seeps through the walls and into the brains of our fine judges!" He went on to rant "and no, I'm not arguing the fact that some ponies are corrupt already! I'm not denying that! But if there's one thing I don't like it's having a species in our country that TURNS THE FREAKING JUDGES GAY! Oh, I mean, THAT TURNS THE FREAKING JUDGES CORRUPT!"

A statement that will surely be written down in the pages of history as the funniest of Mozzy's already laughable career."

Thunderhoof angrily crumpled up the newspaper, and tossed it into the waste paper basket on the other side of the bedroom from his bed.

"I'm still wondering what we're doing here anyway," said Octavia, replacing her cello.

"Just working a case," answered the Private Investigator. "I didn't force you to come, you know."

"I know," retorted the musician. "It's just that I was expecting something a little more... romantic?"

The three-room Central Trottingham hotel suite that Thunderhoof had booked was far from relentlessly ugly, and in fact the extra space itself was very much appreciated, but it was very bland. "Sorry to disappoint." The major sighed, and laid back on the sofa.

Octavia considered her stallion friend for a few seconds, saw the anxious expression on his face, and decided that the stallion needed a bit of comfort. She left her cello where it was, and went to sit down next to him. She huddled up close to the major, and wrapped a leg over his shoulders. "I'm sorry about the news," she said. "I'm sure it'll be cleared up soon."

"I hope so," said Thunderhoof.

Octavia started gently stroking Thunderhoof's mane.

"Octavia?"

"Yes?"

"Could you..."

Octavia blinked. "Yes?"

"Could you crack my back?" asked Thunderhoof, laying down.

Octavia giggled. "Sure." She gingerly pressed her hooves on the base of Thunderhoof's spine, and gently pushed. The satisfying pops of Thunderhoof's vertebrae was music to the cellist's ears.

"Ooh, yeah, that's good," grunted Thunderhoof. "Oh, yes!"

Octavia repeated the same process, until she reached the top of the investigator's back. "Now do mine," she said.

Thunderhoof sat up, lifted Octavia onto his lap, and held her in a hugging position, his forelegs under hers. Then, he slowly tightened the lock, until the musician's back slowly popped. "Is that good?"

"Oh, yes indeed..." moaned the cellist.

---

You don't have no money?
He'll get you some
You don't have no cart?
He'll get you one

You don't have no self-love
You're feeling cold in your own gloves
Well don't you worry buddy
Cause here he comes

Through the pubs and the chairs
And the miles and the streets.
A shadow was cast wherever he stood
Piles of golden bits in his
Red right hoof

---

The following morning, Thunderhoof woke up early. He got dressed, brushed his teeth, and scribbled a note to Octavia, to explain that he'd gone on a case. Before leaving the room, he gently brushed her mane, and kissed her on the cheek.

Just as usual, the skies of Trottingham were dull and grey. Thunderhoof looked up at the clocktower of the Summer Parliament, took note of the time, and set off down the street to the right.

His goal and how he'd achieve it were pretty simple: get the Prime Minister to resign. But Thunderhoof wasn't quite following the princesses' orders. He'd been tasked with getting evidence of the Prime Minister's poor health, and thus enable them to give him the axe. But, having a certain respect for Whinnston, Thunderhoof wasn't exactly keen on breaking into the stallion's house and get whatever. His approach was more direct. If he could convince Whinnston to step down, that would accomplish the objective without him breaking any laws. And the Prime Minister could step down with honour, which just made the whole thing more bearable for everyone involved.

It was Sunday, and if Thunderhoof remembered the PM's schedule, he usually put that day aside for leisure and quality time with his family. Being a friend of Whinnston's, and having dropped by unannounced in the past, the investigator would have no trouble getting to the Prime Minister. Getting him to resign, however, was another matter. Thunderhoof had already planned his approach, all that was left to do was execute it.

The gates of the Praetorian Street, which was where the members of the cabinet lived, were full of journalists, shouting questions at the policecolts behind it, who were trying very hard to keep a straight face. The investigator nudged his way to the front of the crowd, and waved at one of the bobbies, who recognised him.

Chief Inspector Hayburn nodded, and came towards the gate. "Stand back!" he ordered to the journalists, who weren't listening. He unlocked the gate, and slightly pulled it open to let Thunderhoof through. Some bobbies came to contain the flow that tried to squeeze in with Thunder, almost knocking down their custodian helmets as they did so.

Thunderhoof went through the door to Number 10, and climbed up the stairs to the Prime Minister's office. Knowing of Whinnston's reputation for doing his morning work in bed, he didn't expect to find him there, but fortunately he did. He knocked twice on the door, and entered the room.

But as he entered, Thunderhoof quickly averted his eyes. On a sofa that faced the PM's desk, a mare was laying, and she'd adopted a very suggestive pose. Whinnston was sitting behind the desk, paintbrush in his mouth.

"Don't be shocked, Thunderhoof," said the Prime Minister out of the corner of his mouth. "She's a professional." Then to his model, "chin up, dear."

"And what does your wife think of this?" asked the investigator, accusingly.

"Nothing, much," said a voice from the corner of the room. It was Lady Tangerine Chestnut, Whinnston's wife. She was reading the newspaper. "He's too lazy to cheat on me anyway."

The PM and his wife laughed. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" asked the PM. Then, he said to himself, "the face... I can never manage to get it quite right."

"Official business," said Thunderhoof. "On behalf of the Crown."

Whinnston looked at Thunderhoof and spat out his brush. "The crown, you say?"

Thunderhoof nodded.

Whinnston sighed. "That'll be all for today, dear," he said to the model. She got up, curtsied, and left the room, followed by the PM's wife.

The Private Investigator sat down facing Whinnston. "I'm going to make this short, Prime Minister," he assured. "The Crown knows that you are in no shape to lead this country. They have asked me to gather evidence of your, um... unfitness, but I'm giving you the opportunity to step down by yourself."

Whinnston got a carrot from his box, and stuck it into his mouth. He offered one to his guest, who politely declined. "I see," said the Prime Minister gravely. "Mmh..."

"I need your answer today," responded Thunderhoof.

Without uttering a word, the Prime Minister slowly got up, and went to the window to peer at the journalists who were still banging at the gates. He stayed there for a good thirty seconds, making a few grunting noises as he chewed his carrot. Finally, he regained his seat.

"Strange," said Whinnston. "A week ago, some other... emissary came to me with the same request. Not on an official mission of any kind. But she made her request very clear."

Thunderhoof blinked. "The same request?"

"Mmyes," grunted Whinnston.

"To what end? Who for?"

"I have no idea. Saddlee, Haysington... a lot of ponies want me out of office, you know."

"Don't you think you're being just a tiny bit paranoid, Prime Minister?" asked a thoroughly unconvinced Thunderhoof.

"This has nothing to do with paranoia!" Whinnston snapped back. "My deputy, Anton Gardener, he's being..."

"Being what?" asked Thunderhoof.

"He's being pushing me!"

"With all due respect, Whinnston," said Thunderhoof. "You've had your go. You've done great work, but now would be the good time to..."

Chestnut banged his hooves onto the desk, upsetting his carrot box. He opened his mouth to shout something at the investigator, but refrained from it. He sat back down, and said something more calmly. "Listen to it this way," he whispered. "I believe that someone, out there, is plotting to... take advantage of this office. To use it for their own personal profit! Or someone else's profit..."

Thunderhoof raised an eyebrow. "So, you believe that... whoever might be trying to push you out of office might also be trying to corrupt Equestria?"

"Essentially."

Thunderhoof thought hard of what the Prime Minister had just said. He remembered the uneasy faces of the three princesses when they'd given him this royal mission. Could it be that whoever was or wasn't plotting against Whinnston Chestnut had gotten to the Princesses, and they were acting as puppets ? It was a possibility.

"I was right about Kudanda! I was right about our weaknesses in the North! And I'm right about this!" said Whinnston. "Look, I have a proposition. One I think you'll quite like, Thunderhoof."

"Let's hear it."

"I will resign only when this threat to Equestria has been dealt with."

"Alright," said Thunderhoof. He went on to recount the conditions in which he'd been given his mission.

"Interesting," said Chestnut. "This means we have to act fast. If the culprit has somehow gotten the princesses to do their bidding, that means that they could turn the whole country against us."

"Noted," said Thunderhoof. "I'll start this business straight away."

"Good."

---

"So, what is that case about, then?" asked Octavia, as Thunderhoof walked into the room.

"Just somepony who thinks that a trusted friend is lying to them," said Thunderhoof.

"Just another boring job, then?" asked Octavia.

"Yeah." Thunderhoof threw himself onto the bed, and rolled onto his back.

"You look tense," said Octavia.

"Do I?" responded Thunderhoof, almost apathetically.

"Is there something wrong?"

"To put it simply," said Thunderhoof. "Have you ever walked into doing something, before realising that you're in way over your head?"

Octavia laughed softly. "Heh... well I tried law school after I left Trottingham," said Octavia. "I was interested at first, but let's say I wasn't cut out for it. At all. Studying rulings from the Supreme court, writing meaningless essays and analyses on historical facts and dated legal documents... I can understand why people can be into that sort of thing, but my heart wasn't in the right place for it."

"So you just gave up on it?"

"Yes. I'd be lying if I told you that I didn't regret my decision at first, but it gave me the opportunity to play the cello for a living."

"I see..."

Octavia frowned. "Has this got anything to do with your case?" she asked.

"In a way," said Thunderhoof. "I've just got a bad feeling about it all."

"And do you want to give up on it?"

"No."

"Maybe you should. Give them their money back, and tell them to find someone else."

"I can't," said Thunderhoof.

Octavia was becoming increasingly concerned about the nature of Thunderhoof's case. "Is there something you aren't telling me?" she asked.

"Some things are best kept to oneself," responded the major. "I mean, I like you very much, but I have to keep some secrets." He grinned to his marefriend, who, after considering what her stallion had just said, smiled back at him.

"Fair enough," she said, putting her concerns to the back of her mind.

Thunderhoof looked at his pocket watch. "Lunch?" he asked. "I hear they make a good wedge salad."