The Mare With No Story And Other Promising Tales

by James Washburn

The Duel

The Duel

Once, there was a captain of the Royal Guard. Well, I say once, there’s always been a captain, but this one was something else. He was a legend in his own lunchtime. Brave, bold and brash, he’d fought everywhere, from the wet and cold moors of Connemara to the dry and dusty streets of Khandahoof, from the bleak and blasted hills of the Black Country, to the impenetrable woods of Sylvania and Ruritania. He’d been there, done that, and come back with a constellation of medals. Some days, despatches were nothing but reams upon reams of his exploits. He was, in short, quite a fighter.

But sure as the sun’ll rise in the east, this kind of stardom breeds arrogance, and in his swollen breast, it bred like rabbits. The captain knew he was as good as they said he was, and didn’t mind reminding everyone who didn’t say he was. He was insufferable at parties.

And it was at such a party, that he met Her. She was beautiful. Long, flowing mane, a delicate, white coat and big, blue eyes. He fell head over heels in love with her at first sight. He swaggered across the dance floor towards her like a pony who’s had a nasty encounter with two bricks. Ponies parted as he approached, trying desperately to get away from the old blowhard before it was too late. The poor mare was caught completely unawares as he swanned up behind her and tried his usual wooing strategy.

First, dazzle her with his natural charm.

“Hey there, how you doin’?”

That got her attention. Second, compliment her.

“You look like you’re doin’ good.”

Third, impress her with some feat of derring do.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I stormed a griffon position in the Black Country, single-hoofed?”

And tell her he did. Of how they were pinned down by crossbow fire, how he’d stormed the place alone etc etc etc. Long story short, he talked her senseless. All the poor mare could do was stand there listening politely and hope for a break to interrupt with a well-timed ‘excuse me, I have to go powder my nose/meet my aunt/shuck corn’.

She might have been there all night, if a shy, polite voice hadn’t interrupted.

“Excuse me,” it said, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

She turned, and saw a rather dull brown earth pony with a rather dorkish haircut. He looked a little nervous, not to mention common, but she’d take any road out.

“No, I don’t believe we have,” she said, with a smile.

Behind them, the captain rattled on about the time he defeated the armies of the king of Pachystan, but they paid him no mind. They were busy, getting on with the business of getting to know each other. He told her all about himself (a humble clockmaker by trade) and she told him about herself (a proud dressmaker by profession). She told him about her dreams, he told her his reality. She laughed like champagne flutes, he chuckled like a log fire. They averted their eyes, for a brief moment, and she bit her lip.

It couldn’t last long, though, before the captain noticed he was no longer the centre of attention. He acted fast, storming over to the earth pony.

“And just who do you think you are?” he asked the poor clockmaker. “And what do you think you are doing?”

“I... I’m... I was just talking to Miss-”

“Huh! Such insolence!” he said (although he secretly didn’t know what insolence meant). “How dare you make assumptions above your status.”

“If you don’t mind,” said the mare in question, “we were speaking.”

The captain didn’t hear her, though. He tended not to listen to mares, although he expected them to listen to him. He was funny like that. Mind you, he was still a good fighter, which explains what he did next rather neatly.

“I cannot let your presumptuousness," (another word he didn’t know), "regarding this young lady go unpunished. I challenge you to a duel!”

Well, the poor clockmaker couldn’t well refuse, could he? Well, he could, and was about to, when he caught the eye of the mare, and his heart swelled.

“Very well then,” he said.

The mare, who had been trying to tell him ‘no don’t do it, you’ll die you idiot’ through a simple shaking of the head, sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Ha! A duel it is, then, tomorrow at dawn. What’ll it be then?” said the captain. “Swords? Foil? Epee?”

The poor clockmaker’s mouth opened and shut. He was no fighter. He was only here on invitation of his brother, and knew nothing of duelling. Luckily, the lady did. She stepped in abruptly.

“Sir, he doesn’t need to choose his weapon yet. Not until the duel.”

The captain sighed and grumbled. “Fine, then. Tomorrow at dawn it is.”

“Tomorrow at dawn,” said the clockmaker, gulping, as the enormity of what he’d just done sank in.

But... he was still a clockmaker. And while you have to be smart to be a soldier, you have to be intelligent to be a clockmaker. That meant being able to calculate within a gnat’s whisker, being able to tell all the details ever so clearly. So he thought all that night how he might best the greatest fighter in the land in a duel to the death.

The next morning, the sun rose in the west briefly, before going back below the horizon and rising in the east (the Princess, in her defence, had had a rough night). Before it had time to rise very far, though, the captain was at the clockmaker’s house, hammering on the door.

“CLOCKMAKEEER!” he shouted, waking the whole street.

“Do come in,” said the aforementioned maker, politely.

The captain edged his way through the door under the weight of all his weapons. He had thought it only fair to give the poor clockmaker a wide selection, after all. There were foils, rapiers, sabres, spears, Billistani scimitars, Connemaran claymores and even a pair of Sylvanian hunting crossbows. He came into the clockmaker’s tiny workshop and dumped the weapons in a pile.

“There, take your pick,” he said, smiling.

“I’ve already decided on the weapons,” said the clockmaker. He gestured to a small tray on the worksurface. It held two cups of tea and one empty vial. “The duel will be by tea.”

“Tea? A duel by TEA?”

“Yes,” said the clockmaker, smiling. “One of these cups has been poisoned. You choose a cup first, and I shall take the other. Then, we’ll drink, and whoever has the right cup...”

The captain opened his mouth to protest. This was unorthodox, this was against regulations of some kind or the other, but he stopped himself. The fool had chosen.

So he picked up a cup.

“Very well, then,” he said. “Let us duel.”

The clockmaker nodded and took his own.

The captain raised his cup to his muzzle. He sniffed it. It didn’t smell odd, but then again, some poison was odourless, wasn’t it? Maybe he wouldn’t know until he tasted it. The clockmaker was eyeing him over the rim of his cup, both eyebrows raised.

The captain sniffed the tea again. Was this the poisoned tea? It might be, or it might not... Had the clockmaker rigged it? Did he know which cup was fatal? The damn clockmaker was still looking at him. He hadn’t taken a sip either.

The captain sniffed a third time. What if it wasn’t poisoned? What if the clockmaker died? Welll, that’d be fate, wouldn’t it? It would be suicide, technically, poisoning your own tea like that. But then again, it was a duel. Somepony had to die, didn’t they? But... his mind returned to one question.

This cup. Was it, or wasn’t it?

The captain’s cup was shaking in his hooves (was it? wasn’t it?). His face went grey and started to sweat (was it? wasn’t it?). Slowly, very slowly, he lifted the cup to his lips (was it? wasn’t it?) and started to tilt it back. It just touched his lip, only barely, when he whipped it away and slammed it down.

“No!” he shouted. “I can’t do it! Forfeit! I forfeit!”

“Why?” said the clockmaker, who hadn’t touched his tea either.

“Because... because...” the captain flailed for an answer. “Because there’s no skill to it!”

“Would there have been otherwise?” said the clockmaker, laying his cup down slowly.

"Yes!”

The clockmaker cast his eyes at the weapons on the workshop floor.

“Name one you can’t use better than me.”

The captain cast his eyes about. His gaze lingered on a few he hadn’t quite figured out, but he couldn’t name a single one he couldn’t beat the clockmaker with.

So the captain had to concede defeat for the first time. He became wiser, if not necessarily quieter. He was always sure now, though, to mix in the story of how he once lost a duel into his usual diatribes. Ladies loved a bit of self-deprecation (or so he’d heard).

Of course, the clockmaker couldn’t claim it had been an honest win, since he’d stacked the odds in his favour. He was, after all, using his greatest weapon. The one between his ears.

One final thing. That year, a lady (a dressmaker by profession) quit Society, and sought out the clockmaker. I’d like to tell you they got married and lived happily ever after, but... well, whatever happened between them stayed between them. I haven’t heard hide nor hair of them since.

Comments

[j-grizz]

Another excellent tale. I shall look forward to the next.