• Published 14th Sep 2020
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The Prince, the Mockingbird, and the Dreadful Twilight Sparkle - Carabas



A priceless painting has been stolen from the royal palace, and it'll take Canterlot's finest to retrieve it and bring the thief to justice. Unfortunately, Prince Blueblood's on the case.

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In Which Some Blighter Absconds With Harmony Itself

There are many, many reasons one might seek out my company. I have an excess of excellent qualities that beckon the multitude. My superlative talent for conversation is amongst them, as well as my dashing good looks, if one does say so oneself.

But, if I were to wager, you’re here to hear about the rummy events concerning my good self, Prince Blueblood of Unicornkind; the master thief known as the Mockingbird; the manifold failings of the Princessbury Rules; how Twilight Sparkle was the worst pony; and Auntie Celestia’s favourite painting.

It began — to the very decimal point — one afternoon when I was sashaying about the palace corridors. Auntie insists on opening the palace and its collected artwork to the hoi-polloi for so many days out of each week, a dismaying decision made for reasons she’s explained but which I’ve never quite wrapped my noggin around.

Thankfully, today was one of the quieter days, with scarcely a hint of rabble to offend the senses. Thus one could sashay about the place as if one was born to sashay, and one soaked in the cultural treasures of Equestria lining the walls as if one had any idea what exactly they all pertained to.

And it was during this that I met the mare.

I rounded a corner and found her, a pegasus with her wings tucked in at her side, ambling down a stretch with seemingly nary a care with the world. Her coat was silver, her mane auburn, her eyes — when she glanced towards me — a soft blue-grey, and her red dress impeccable.

Clearly a noblemare of some vintage, though I couldn’t recall ever meeting her before. Had I ever seen her at court? I didn’t think so, and so I put my best hoof forward. “What-ho,” I said. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure …?”

She turned and after a second spent taking me in, her hoof flew to her mouth. “My word,” she breathed, “surely you’re His Highness, Prince Blueblood?” She dropped immediately into a bow.

Well, that sort of reaction always warrants a certain degree of graciousness, and she did seem to have a proper pedigree and bearing. I’ve a keen eye for these things. I thus deployed appropriate mateyness. “I am indeed, for my sins,” I replied and smiled. “But for sterling new acquaintances, I can answer to just Prince Blueblood. Jettison the Highness.”

Top-notch mateyness, I dare say.

“This is an honour, Your Highness,” she gushed, preserving my proper form of address, which, to be honest, is just what I prefer in my matey acquaintances. “Your quality is known far and wide. I confess that I hardly dared, when I came to Canterlot for the first time, that I’d ever be so fortunate as to … as to meet you.”

I liked this mare more and more with every syllable. She had the proper and all-too-rare attitude. “Oh, well,” I said, brushing off the front of my waistcoat. “Sometimes dreams come true, eh?”

“Oh, indeed.” Her grey eyes lit up.

When unsure how to proceed in a conversation, do the gentlestalliony thing. “Perhaps I could offer you a tour of the palace? As it is your first time here.”

Her forehooves clapped in fillyish excitement. “Oh, how gallant!”

That it was, and so I did. Taking her foreleg, I proceeded to lead her hither and thither, pointing out the art pieces that crowded out the walls and plinths, and extemporising on them in my own inimitable style.

“...And that there’s a portrait of Thingumy, painted by What’s-Her-Face whenever ago,” I believe I was saying when the fateful moment came. “See her watchimaflip? I’m told that’s a jolly good display of perspective, or shading, or whatever these artistic types call it. And this is —”

“Oh my,” she said suddenly. “Oh, that is beautiful.”

I ogled whatever had just caught her attention. There, between two wide windows that afforded an excellent view of the horizon, a painting hung upon the wall. The Harmony. It showed a landscape at dawn, with a high-up moon and a sun peeking over the horizon, as if waiting for its cue. The landscape was supposedly the same one viewable through the windows, but before it had all been built on. Trees and other distressingly rural things marauded over the bottom of the canvas rather than any jolly cityscape. A stylised L lurked in the bottom right.

Harmony was apparently a well-known piece and old to boot. Couldn’t tell you how old or who it was by. Auntie Celestia was very fond of it, and whenever the hoi-polloi were allowed to befoul the air hereabouts, they gurgled at it approvingly. Dashed if I could see why. I mean, I’m as partial to a nice dawn as the next pony, but well, one has actual dawns for ogling purposes if one stays up sufficiently late and remains sober enough.

The artist, whoever they might have been, hadn’t even bothered to paint the Mare when splashing her Moon down. Hard to get a sillier oversight than that, I say.

“Yes, quite,” I said, humouring the strange noblemare. “Very, er, dawny. Quite well-known, so I’m told. Artist’s a bit of a mystery.”

“So I’ve heard,” she replied, apparently quite entranced by the thing. Each to their own interests, however inexplicable they may be, I say. “It must be heavenly, getting to enjoy this thing all by yourself some days.”

“Well, yes,” I said, for want of anything more profound. “Well, not entirely alone. The guards potter up and down here, even when it’s closed off. But too often, they and the staff only really bother with this stretch at dawn, dusk, and midnight, so it’s largely nice and solitary. Benefits of a big palace, you know?”

She was quiet then, as if contemplating the painting. Art aficionados. What’s one to do? I hoped she wouldn’t start speaking in jargon. Once jargon starts drooling out someone’s mouth, any decent stallion has the urge to find them a bib and a padded room to go with it.

“Yes,” she said, mercifully unjargony. “That must be pleasant.” She shivered a little. “It’s chilly here, isn’t it?”

“Ah.” I tsked. “That window on the left doesn’t quite shut properly. Haven’t been able to secure it or lock it for months. I’d mention it to the household staff, but they should be on top of that sort of thing without my having to mention it, what?”

The mare nodded, still quite distracted by the painting. “What indeed,” she said dazedly. “Well, ah, thank you very much for showing it to me, Your Highness. It’s lovely to finally see such a historic piece.”

I took her word for it, glad of the excuse to move on, and not long after that, she apparently remembered an appointment she had in the city.

“It was so lovely to meet you, Your Highness,” she said as she shimmered off, and that whole encounter quite elevated my mood. A valued and obviously noble guest had been given a glimpse of the culture and treasures of Canterlot Palace and had been as jolly polite and appreciative as she ought to be. I’d done my proper and chivalrous duty in good company. All was right with the world.

It wasn’t until I waved her off that I realised I hadn’t asked her name.

Bit of an oversight, but surely a mare of that quality with her interests would be back soon. I could just ask then. I retired to baccarat my stipend away with the usual cronies and decimate the palace’s port cellar and thought little more of her that eve.

Eventually, night tapped me on my withers and meaningfully coughed, and I staggered in the direction of my bed-chambers, possibly only knocking over two suits of armour along the way. Soft sheets received my toppling frame, and I slept like a sleepy log.


The next day dawned, and even from past a closed door, I woke up to the distant sounds of no small amount of babble and panic.

It might not have been my usual rising time of sometime in the wee hours of the afternoon, but verticality was quickly assumed. Of course, I took the time to dress. I buttoned my waistcoat and donned my cravat and made my coiffure immaculate. All the likenesses and heirlooms of the line of Platinum watched me as I did so.

Pride of place went to Platinum herself, looking stern and regal in an ancient tapestry that ran from ceiling to floor, her very own blade and her fetching red scarf carefully preserved in a case nearby. Other age-old images of the ancestry shared the wall space; from both before and after Platinum’s day and Equestria’s founding. A faded painting of Argent, a woodcut of Cobalt, fresher portraits of Cyprium and Plumbum, and umpteen personal effects and treasures.

I gave all the old ancestry the cheery nod of a diligent scion and floated forth to make them proud and resolve whatever needed resolving.

Out and about in the palace, I found the central point of the ruckus around where the Harmony hung. And once there, I got an inkling of the reason behind the ruckus.

The Harmony hung no more. Its frame was now empty, and the actual painting had been replaced with a little hoof-written note stuck up in its spot. Embarrassed-looking guardsponies ringed the scene, household staff gawked, and by the empty spot, there stood Fleur.

Fleur’s classical good looks bely a mare with the same quality of mercy as might be found in your common-or-garden shark. By night, she earns her bread as Auntie Celestia’s Head of Intelligence. By day, she unwinds by cheerfully draping herself over Fancy Pants, that excellent stallion. But here she was, marauding in the sunlight sans a Fancy, deep in furious discussion with the new guard captain, Shining Armour.

“...It would have had to have happened between the midnight and dawn patrols,” I heard the latter say as I drew closer. “Dawn patrol reported it missing. Patrols in the lower floors in that time range report seeing nothing. We’ll check whether anypony outside might have seen anything during these hours.”

“Between midnight and dawn. Pah.” Fleur’s Fancé-marked tones lashed out like a whip. “What sort of window of opportunity is that for us to work with? That’s all the time in the world for things like this to happen.”

“With respect, we’ve never felt the need for anything more regular. This is the first time—”

“Are you feeling the need now?”

“What-ho!” I chirruped, ambling up to shift things to a slightly cheerier mode. “What’s the commotion? Has the Harmony been removed for cleaning or repainting or what-have-you?”

Captain Armour turned a weary look my way, though not nearly so weary as the one Fleur fixed me with. “Ah, some comic relief,” she said, her tone flinty as per norm. “No, Prince. The Harmony is not away for cleaning. It’s been stolen.”

A theft? From the palace? “Eh? What and who and what and how and what?”

“Read,” Fleur said, gesturing at the note on the wall. “I charitably assume you know how.”

And I do, I’ll have you know. It read as follows:

To Her Majesty,

My apologies for the trespass, my gratitude for the painting, and my heartfelt advice that you tighten up palace security hereafter.

Your loyal (if not law-abiding) subject,

The Mockingbird

I didn’t quite follow and felt the world needed informed.

“I don’t quite follow.”

Sacre bleu, stop the presses,” Fleur replied. “The prince does not follow.”

Fleur is prone to these uncharitable remarks. But I am a generous soul and overlook most of them, as I did this one. Besides, I had a puzzle to distract me. “It’s been stolen by a… mockingbird. How the dickens is that meant to have transpired? You know, they’re not awfully big birds, and it’d have a devil of a time trying to carry it off. Not renowned for their burglary skills, either, I believe.” I squinted at the note again and had an ingenious realisation. “Do they even know how to write? I don’t believe they do. Suspicious, I say. Somepony make a note.”

Fleur groaned. “It’s like watching a dog trying to comprehend colour theory.”

“You’ve not heard of the Mockingbird, Your Highness?” This from Captain Armour.

Why they were pronouncing it with a capital M, I was none the wiser. “Songbirds, aren’t they?”

“She is a thief, Bluebood.” We all wheeled on the new voice entering proceedings. “A master thief. And I see she’s paid us a visit and left her calling card.”

Auntie herself. She came at a steady trot down the corridor, her barding-clad guards cantering to keep up with her trot. Her gaze was high and steady, as gentle and remote as the sun.

“Princess Celestia!” Fleur and Captain Armour and everypony around immediately bowed to Auntie. She didn’t seem to notice them. She only had eyes for the empty frame and the note.

When she drew close, and stopped to regard the space where the Harmony had once been, Auntie’s expression changed. A peculiar tightness came to her mouth. She closed her eyes for a second, and when they opened, they’d lost something of their shine.

Auntie, I realised with no little dismay, was very upset.

“Everything alright, Auntie?” I ventured.

She seemed to have ears for no other.

“Sometime during the night, correct?” Auntie said, her voice steady and quiet.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Captain Armour replied. “Between midnight and dawn. Guards and trusted staff are investigating as we speak.”

“Excuse me,” I interjected. “I still don’t quite follow. This Mockingbird’s a thief? Has it big wings?”

A silence followed.

“A telling observation, your Highness, but in this case, the Mockingbird is a pony and a most notorious thief.” Fleur grimaced. “Burglar, con-mare, false-facer, highwaymare ... you name the regrettable vocation, she has practised it. She’s recently been cutting a swathe across noble estates out in the country, art galleries, museums, and the press has been all-a-twitter over the last year or so whenever she’s struck. How have you not heard of this?”

“Well, I don’t really keep myself plugged into current events, as it were,” I replied airily. “Oh, the tabloids beg the odd interview and photo, and I glance at them after the fact to be sure that the quality shines through, but other than that, the broadsheets and I are happy to keep clear water between us, if you follow.”

“Regrettably I do. The reprobates you gift your stipend to every evening via the medium of cards have never mentioned the Mockingbird? One or two of them must have been her victim.”

“Well, possibly. But we’ve other things on the old minds than conversation.”

“Imagine my surprise. In any case, a team of my own hoof-picked detectives has been on the hunt for her and found little.” Fleur sighed. “She’s most likely a mare, she may be based in Manehattan, and little else. We can’t even be entirely sure of her tribe. She makes ample use of dye and prosthetics.”

Auntie spoke, her tone still steady and quiet. “Escalate any investigation you have, Fleur, as much as you can.” Her gaze detached from the empty frame for just a second to fix on her Head of Intelligence. “I’d dearly like the Harmony back.”

“Every sinew shall be strained, Princess Celestia. The Mockingbird has shot too high this time.”

“Your Majesty, I can offer no explanation for how this happened. I can only offer my resignation and deepest regrets,” Captain Armour said. The poor stallion looked in a self-flagellating mood. “I take full responsibility for—”

“That’s alright, captain,” Auntie replied. “Perhaps there are lessons to be learned.” Captain Armour, stopped short, nodded. Auntie turned back to the empty frame, her gaze somewhere far away.

My heart went out to Auntie. You could tell that this had cut her to the quick, and though I couldn’t conceive of why she should be so hurt due to the loss of a fairly poxy painting, one doesn’t like to see hurt done.

I had to assist. I sought a silver lining to try and uplift the mood.

“Well.” I looked back to the empty frame and tsked. “Just as well that that pegasus mare came yesterday when she did. Why, if she’d held off just one more day, she’d have found a vale of tears and frustration instead of the desired art piece. Good luck for some, what?”

A long, long pause ensued.

I was being Looked at.

I’m not fond of Looks; they seldom bode well for the rest of the conversation.

“What pegasus mare yesterday?” Captain Armour asked.

“A … a mare? You know, the mare. Floated by the place, was jolly polite, and I offered her a personal tour of the palace.”

An uncomfortable suspicion dawned.

“You gave a strange mare a personal tour of the palace?” Captain Armour said, with the air of a pony also joining dots in his head and disliking the picture they formed. “And you showed her the Harmony?”

The look in Fleur’s eyes was that of a pony this close to challenging me to a duel, and I hastily clarified. “She seemed a decent sort! And it’s not as we stayed here for long. That window wouldn’t shut properly, and neither of us liked the draught. Pointed it out to her, and we left shortly after.”

Fleur now looked as though she’d forego the formal challenge and just get straight to the kicking and biting and trampling. Captain Armour was regarding me with a kind of frozen disbelief. “And did you give her a detailed breakdown of the patrol schedules as well?” he said.

I opened my mouth to strenuously deny that I’d do anything so plainly silly.

I closed my mouth upon realising.

“Hmm,” I said eventually.

“Oh stars, I was joking,” Captain Armour moaned.

“A query, Your Highness,” Fleur said with a sort of frozen calm. “Do you often have headaches? It must be such a strain for you to remember how to breathe and trot at the same time.”

“I … but dash it,” I stammered, “any pony might have done likewise—”

Fleur growled. “Might they? Might they? Why might they? Most ponies, if they were not trotting catastrophes, have brainpower beyond that of a brick. They can master tricky concepts, like chewing with their mouth closed, or differentiating between their left and right hooves, or not drooling details of palace security to every passer-by—”

“Enough,” Auntie said, immediately hushing the conversation. One couldn’t help but be thankful. When caught in one of Fleur’s creative streams of invective, even the strongest ponies wibble and try to hide behind thin air. “Captain Armour, if you could review palace security and make any changes that need to be made, that would be for the best. Fleur, see to it that investigation into the Mockingbird continues apace. And Blueblood ...”

She looked my way, and I looked back up at her.

There’s not many ponies whose opinions I give much weight to. Most ponies amount to so much chaff. But a select few merit heeding, and Auntie ranks foremost amongst them.

She didn’t shout, or look angry, or anything of the sort. She just looked quietly disappointed.

And wasn’t that just the sort of look to make a stallion want to curl up and hide under a rock where he jolly well belonged.

“Blueblood,” she said, “give any details you remember about the mare to Fleur. The Mockingbird may have been disguised, but I’m sure Fleur and her detectives can winkle out some information they can act upon.”

Even as she spoke, and as Armour and Fleur chattered in response, it all seemed a great distance away. I was deep in my own head, and though shame had flattened me, a roaring ancestral pride insisted on rising, right from the hooves up.

Had I inadvertently made a complete hash of things and helped the Mockingbird steal the Harmony? Apparently so. That sort of thing happens even to the best of us — indeed, it just had. But the best of us proceed to gather ourselves and correct our errors.

I was going to hunt down the Mockingbird and retrieve the Harmony, and return the latter to where it belonged.

Would it be difficult and perilous? Without a doubt.

But I am of the line of Platinum. And not a single Prince or Princess of the line of Platinum ever so much as blinked in the face of difficulty or peril.

Did Platinum herself blink when she personally battled a dragon for the sake of the early Equestrians? Did Argent blink when he, alongside each other Triumvir heading the old tribes, willingly granted his authority to Auntie Celestia and made the monarchs of Unicornkind so many handsome ornaments?

Did Larimar blink when she did valiant battle with her entire drinks cellar and came an honourable second-best? Did Vanadium blink when conducting unspeakable experiments in his secret laboratories that he may make use of foul dark magic — wait, no, scratch that, we needn’t discuss Vanadium. Did Iridium blink when, nigh-on a thousand years ago, he turned foul traitor and raised his banners in rebellion against Auntie — actually, scratch him too.

Closer to home, then, to the events of one’s forgotten infancy. Did one’s own mater, Princess Calamine, blink before whatever unspecified event it was that prompted her alleged final words? (“Hold my whisky and watch this.”) Did one’s pater, Prince-Consort Thoroughbred, blink before he issued his own last words a moment after? (“Hah, daft mare. Hold my whisky while I do it properly.”)

Audience mine, they did not.

“Worry not, everypony,” I announced. “What I may have inadvertently wrought, I shall amend. I shall fix this.”

Dead silence oppressed the conversation. For a bit.

“Ah,” Fleur said, “so this is what fear feels like. I’ve long wondered.”

“What do you mean, Blueblood?” Auntie’s gaze had briefly lost its sadness and disappointment, I was chuffed to see, and instead betrayed wary calculation. Her gaze gets that quality around me a lot, I’m not entirely sure why.

“Why, I shall go to Manehattan, find the Mockingbird, and retrieve the Harmony. She may have briefly got the better of me in a battle of wits, but rest assured, she shan’t a second time.”

“A battle of wits?” Fleur said. “Doesn’t that require both parties be armed?”

With typical honour, I overlooked the unkind remark. Now that I was unleashed and eager, Fleur inevitably would need condiments for her words. “Tut,” I said. “This mare may be able to avoid your detectives with ease, but now Prince Blueblood is on the case.”

“Beg pardon, Your Highness.” Captain Armour had the distracted air of a pony trying to get up to speed with events. “You’re going to Manehattan.”

“Exactly so.”

“And you’re going to find the Mockingbird there.”

“In the name of retrieving the Harmony, yes.”

“How, may I ask?”

Admittedly I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but there’s information that needs to be divulged and then there’s other sorts. “Ah,” I said as I smiled enigmatically and leaned closer. “I have my ways, you know.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Dull stone,” Fleur breathed, “you shan’t find her. You haven’t got a prayer. I have a team that’s been on her case for months, and they’ve made little headway. And they’re competent. You, on the other hoof … Ponies that need to be minded around sharp objects and can’t be trusted to put on their saddles without collateral damage have a clarity of thought to which you can only aspire.”

“I say,” I said indignantly. I wasn’t altogether sure what I’d say or entirely what Fleur had meant for that matter, but by gum, it probably needed saying.

“Blueblood.” Auntie spoke again, and whatever she says has this effect of cutting short conversations, no matter how scintillating they may have been. “Your offer is gallant, but I won’t have you risking yourself. Leave this to Fleur and her team.”

I turned on Auntie, becoming the very figure of dismay as I did so. “But … but dash it—”

She fixed me with a Look. Not the austere, soul-piercing kind of Look, but the sort of Look that just sort of compels one’s whole attention. “Blue,” she said gently, and blast it, she’d deployed the diminutive. Only she gets to do that. “Promise me you won’t go after the Mockingbird.”

What can one say to that? ‘No’? Don’t be silly. Courtesy prohibits. I could only gawk up at her, and look appropriately wretched as the ancestral memory of all the line of Platinum cursed their present lot. The wretched words wriggled towards my lips by sheer force of etiquette. “I … I … I pro—”

I had a notion.

I paused.

Nothing in that promise about not going after the Harmony itself.

Keep up.

You may well notice there was nothing in there precluding going after the wretched painting. Some might call that interpretation at cross-purposes with the promise’s spirit. But promises must expect their spirit to be somewhat fudged when both Auntie’s happiness and Platinum’s honour are on the line.

“I promise,” I said, suddenly quite cheerful. “Ah-ha, yes. Quite right. Leave the Mockingbird to Fleur and cronies. Sensible, now you mention it. I’ll leave it in their august hooves. Er, excuse me. I need to … to thing. Cards and gallivanting and Harmony and whatnot.”

And before anypony could quiz me on that last series of what in hindsight were maybe inadvisable utterances, I turned on a hoof and whizzed off.

At my back, I was aware of silence, and then Auntie sighing. “He doesn’t break his promises. But alas, I think he’s had an idea.”

“Egads,” Fleur replied. “Call the royal chronicler. Surely the End-Times cannot be far.”

“Practise more kindness, Fleur.”

“I delegate that to other ponies, Your Majesty. Besides, some of us remember when he was left alone with the Asinian ambassador for five minutes. Some of us still wake screaming from the nightmares.”

“Regardless,” Auntie replied, and then I heard no more. I rounded a corner, and they were gone.

I plotted as I trotted. How would one retrieve the Harmony? Presumably it’d be wherever the Mockingbird was in Manehattan. Ergo, one had to get to Manehattan. How was one to get to Manehattan? Well, perhaps via airship or train or what-have-you. Were there particular airships or trains that performed the task?

My brain began to fizz faintly with the effort of mulling over these minor details. The dynasty bred rather for looking at the big picture, you know, as well as good looks and exceptional sturdiness of skull. I was half-tempted to press the old forehead into a wall and groan, but just at that moment, I nearly stumbled over somepony in the corridor.

“Careful!” somepony said from somewhere below me, a young-ish mare. “Watch where you’re … oh. Hello, Prince Blueblood.”

I blinked down at whatever lower order had crossed my path — unicorn, dark purple mane, mulberry hide, studious expression, Auntie’s own student, dah-dee-dah. The one Cadence, that most decent of old eggs, had foalsat. Name of Sunset … no, Starlight … blast it, Twi-something. Something like that.

A dragon whelp on her back gave me a cheerfully insolent look, which I ignored.

Twilight Sparkle, that was her name. I’d glimpsed her often enough and we’d crossed paths once or twice or often, possibly, but one had no reason to enquire into her further, you know. Academia’s rather outwith my remit. She could occupy that sphere, and I’d occupy mine. She remembered my proper terms of address, and I occasionally remembered she existed, and all remained well with the world.

“Yes, yes, hello, cheerio,” I replied distractedly, trotting on past her and her dragon, but then I stopped myself. I turned back.

I’d just had another notion. I studied Twilight Sparkle. I mulled the notion over.

You might not think it to behold the current strapping figure of a stallion, but I wasn’t the healthiest of foals. Fairly sickly, truth be told. Much of my early years were spent coughing desultorily up at a dark ceiling, being fed soup and medicine in careful doses, and of nurses speaking softly to me. Voices telling me stories in the darkness, including Auntie whenever she could spare an evening, and when I could read, pressing the books holding said stories into my hooves.

And those stories were jolly good, I might add. More educational than a thousand frustrated tutors. Rollicking adventure aplenty. More than a few members of the dynasty accounted for themselves admirably in their pages, providing sterling examples of ponykind to live up to. And what a lot of them had to say was this, there was usually a second.

To elaborate, you’ve your dashing and handsome hero, a paragon among ponykind, competent in innumerable ways but with an especially keen eye for the big picture. And under them, you’d have a capable underling with an eye for the fine details. Ensuring the big picture could trundle on unimpeded, as it were.

Platinum and Clover the Clever. Dam Canterote and Shire Pasture. Vanadium and Snively. You get the idea. If I was to embark on a grand venture like this, perhaps somepony in the same mould might come in handy. Lowly but loyal, able to attend to the base-level thinking without the base backchat.

In addition, thought I as I studied Twilight Sparkle, wasn't she Captain Armour’s niece or cousin or something of the sort? Capable sort of stallion, that guardspony. Keen eye for detail. Those sorts of qualities were probably hereditary, like sterling good looks or a piercing wit or royalty. And Cadence had foalsat her as well, so I understand. Cadence dispenses good qualities like a merry bartender in a world of cherished regulars.

I gave the matter deep thought.

“Prince Blueblood, are you alright?” Twilight Sparkle ventured. “You’ve been squinting at us for about half a minute now.”

“Bit cross-eyed as well,” said the little dragon. “Do you think he’s sick? I think he’s sick.”

I blinked and continued to ignore the dragon’s studied insolence. “Right-ho. Well, ahem. Twilight Sparkle, is it?”

“Yes?”

“Princess Celestia’s personal student and all that rot?”

“Yes,” she replied, apparently coming to terms with the situation.

“Good show. The princess needs you.”

She grew more alert. “I was just on my way to speak to her right now, to consult on what I ought to study during the summer. If you tell me where she is, Your Highness, I’ll get to her right away —”

“Wait, no,” I said hastily, seeing she’d gotten the wrong end of the proverbial. “I mean, a great matter has arisen that she requires your help with.”

“She does?” Twilight Sparkle’s eyes widened past the point biology ought to have allowed, and she seemed to practically stand at attention. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll go see her and ask how I can help.”

“No, dash it, talk to me.” One couldn’t have her getting sidetracked by Fleur or other ponies who weren’t on board with my grand endeavour. “Listen, you know of the Harmony? It’s been stolen. Some pestilence of a pony calling herself the Mockingbird came plundering during the night and made off with it.”

“Oh, no.” Twilight Sparkle’s face fell. “The Princess’s favourite painting?”

“Precisely so.” Her dismay on behalf of Auntie did her great credit. “I’ve been tasked with retrieving it from wherever the Mockingbird’s squirelled it away in Manehattan, and I’d like a capable sort to assist me. I’m given to understand that you're a capable sort.”

“Me? I, er ...” A medley of emotions flurried across her features, too many and too quick for me to make out. “...you’ve been tasked with bringing it back, Prince Blueblood?”

Her concern for Auntie had greatly elevated her in my estimation, though the note of dubiousness in her tone dropped her an iota. “I have,” I said, a smidge frigidly. I’d certainly tasked myself, hadn’t I?

“Well … I guess if the Princess tasked you …” She still seemed dubious, and down another iota she went. The dragon leaned towards her ear and muttered something which smacked of skepticism. I bet Vanadium had never had this problem, at least up until the pitchfork-wielding mob had put paid to him.

“Never you worry about why the Princess makes her decisions,” I said testily. Sometimes the lower orders need reminding. “Just you put your mind to restoring Harmony to her possession. For that, we must venture to Manehattan.”

“Manehattan?” Twilight Sparkle looked thoughtful. “That makes sense. That’s where the Mockingbird’s been speculated to have her base, from what I’ve read about her.”

“Ten bits says she’s in the sewers,” said the dragon whelp.

“Spike!”

“Just saying, if you asked me to set up a secret crime base? Sewers. Sewers every time.”

“Well, regardless,” I said, realigning the trailing thrust of the conversation. “I’m sure we’ll ferret her out. Under my august direction, we cannot fail. First things first, my able sidekick—”

“Your able what?”

“First things first,” I pressed, testily, “we must get to Manehattan. Happily, I have a plan to achieve this.”

I paused to come up with said plan.

By train or by air? The eternal question.

Airships might be exactly what the Mockingbird would expect, if Canterlot’s finest were sure to be on her tail. Even now, her wary gaze would be on the heavens, expecting an airship to come descending through the clouds with some regal and strapping figure at its helm.

Perhaps one shouldn’t give her what she expects.

Call it a train, then. “To the railway station, Sparkle!” I declared. “We’ll go forth to adventure astride the old iron horse.”

I’d never actually taken one before then, you know? But I fancied I knew the theory.