Pipsqueak the Valiant's Adventure Journal!

by Casca

Vol. 2 Interlude 2

The hall was musty and smelled of faeces. It was to be expected, given that dragons were living creatures after all, but the sheer saltiness of the smell slammed Mayor Mare’s snout into a permanent scrunch. All around her, hoods and face masks rustled. What could be seen of the Maretopian Dragonmail Centre’s patrons underneath the thick, concealing clothes didn’t reassure her at all—those eyes did not belong to concerned relatives or wistful, homesick children working abroad. There would be no letters beginning with “Dearest granddaughter”. There would be no birthday cards in the simple white envelopes. Dragonfire was one of the safest and therefore most expensive means of delivery, and it was afforded only by those whose mail was worth it.

She imagined the contents of the letters as she waded past the stalls, careful to keep one eye on Pipsqueak at all times. A contract for a deal here, a contract for a cancelling there. “Official communications” which was really just one co-owner talking to another on how to rid themselves of a third. Lists of important names, real names of ponies whose elimination meant the collapse of a major company's administration. Letters which, if lost, meant a bigger dent in the wallet than just postage fees.

A quick perusal of the map next to the entrance informed her that international transactions were handled on the far side of the hall, but did not reveal the location of a stall marked “Ponyville”. So she had to settle for “Other”. There was always one, and she found it soon enough, surrounded by stalls with Equestrian names that she faintly remembered. There was Neighbury, Trottingham, that other place where the mares always wore veiled and where nopony used straight knives, only curved. Scimitars, they were called—the knives, not the ponies.

The unicorn that manned the stall was gray, shaggy-maned, and a dark blue cap with a feather in it sat on his horn. He also had a burn scar the size of a cherry tomato under his right eye, and a name tag that read “Clack”.

“I’d like to make an enquiry,” said Mayor Mare. “Do you do deliveries to Ponyville or Canterlot?”

“Canterlot? You mean the Equestrian capital?” The clerk sounded bored. “Yep, we can. As long as there’s a dragon, we can connect to it. It’ll cost you for custom targeting, though.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the price,” said Mayor Mare, secretly worrying about the price. “Say if I could point to you a place on the map, and told you there was a dragon there. How’d that work?”

“It’s all magic,” shrugged Clack. “Kinda complicated, but the gist of it is that we use runes, magic, and a different kinda dragon.” His eyes wandered upwards. “Custom target dragons are pretty special. They’re not all dragon, y’know? Bits of, hmm, other things in them, but any more than that is a trade secret.” He disappeared under the counter and came back out with a dusty tome. “So. Map. Equestria, yeah?”

But when he had leafed through the index and opened the directory to the section, there were red crosses over Ponyville and Canterlot, with a number underneath.

“So. This Ponyville place...” began Clack.

Mayor Mare pointed to the first cross.

“Huh. Then Canterlot...”

Mayor Mare pointed to the second.

“Wow.” Clack frowned and scratched his mane. “Well, I guess I take that back then. No, we don’t do deliveries to Ponyville or Canterlot, apparently.”

Mayor Mare tried to keep her voice even, but the little tremble escaped her lips all the same. “But why?”

“Hold on.” He disappeared and took out another book. “Code R455 and R478.” Somewhere near the back of the book, he stopped, pressed the pages flat, and read. “Code R455. Delivery to Ponyville forbidden because of presence of Elements of Harmony. Delivery to Ponyville cancelled because of thaumatic disruption by Discord. That means magic, by the way,” he added. “Delivery to Ponyville cancelled because...”

“Wait, forbidden because what?” cut in Mayor Mare.

“Forbidden because Elements of Harmony,” repeated the clerk. “Hold on, I need to check if...” He took out a file this time, and as he moved the sheets inside gingerly, visible dust clouds emerged.

“Okay. Well, it says here that the Elements of Harmony pose a threat to Maretopia’s independance. Because they’re essentially Class S magical artifacts, which really just means weapons. Kinda funny thing to call weapons Harmony, huh?” Mayor Mare gave him a look and he coughed. “Um, well, it says that they were dormant for a thousand years, but in the case that they are revived, any and all communication to the region hosting their bearers is forbidden. National security. Don’t want anybody negotiating a long-range attack or anything, right?” Clack removed the file and wiped his hooves on his coat. “And apparently, according to this entry here”—he pointed to the second book—“the Elements of Harmony are revived, and are hosted in Ponyville.”

“And how about Canterlot?” pressed Mayor Mare. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Look, lady, are you really that desperate?” asked Clack sullenly.

“Listen, Clack,” said Mayor Mare softly, “do you wanna make a little extra on the side?”

“Now you’re speaking my language, lady,” smirked Clack, “but for your information, I already do as it is.” He went back to the map, looked up the code, mumbled it to himself and read the second book. “Now, I can’t do anything about Ponyville, right. Delivery cancelled because of Discord wrecking the leylines around the place, so the dragonfire can’t get through even if I tried. But Canterlot... delivery’s only forbidden, so we might have a bit of an understanding.” Clack looked into her eyes. They were small, hard gray things that told her nothing; they were well-trained eyes, though not as well-trained as hers. “Mind if I ask who you want it delivered to?”

“Princess Luna, co-ruler of Equestria” replied Mayor Mare blankly.

“I see.” Clack nodded, and his face cracked into a wide grin. “I see. Pretty interesting, I’ll give ya that.”

“Interesting enough for you to take it on?” asked Mayor Mare.

“Let me let you in on a little secret.” Clack leaned forward with a nasty grin. “Ponies here don’t work because they like to, missy. They might back in your land of sunshine and rainbows, but here, they work because they have to. Jobs are never interesting, they’re only either paid for or very well paid for. Yeah?”

She thought of Ponyville, of Rainbow Dash and the Apples.

Then she thought of Potsherd and the fisherponies in Trottingham. The traders in Upper Hillings. The nobility who didn’t even have jobs. She managed to refrain from letting the scope expand to reach herself.

Deliberately, her face casually empty, she took out the bag of money. The rustle of the paper bills was almost undetectable over the hubbub, but it was ultimately the sound of money, and it was a frequency you got attuned to if you were to live in Maretopia for any amount of time.

“Tell me,” asked Mayor Mare as Clack began to count them out into stacks of ten, “do you still use dollars?”

“You must be really old school if you still remember them,” snorted Clack. “Nah, everypony uses remii now.” He gave the bundle in his hooves a small wave. “Some of the underground folks still use it though. Sentiment, really. Poor buggers didn’t like it when the government introduced a new system. Meant saying goodbye to all their old forging plates and printing presses.” When he caught Mayor Mare’s look, he blanched. “I’m not kidding, you know. The counterfeiting business just isn’t the same any more. Most of the masters refused to move on. Now it’s just their apprentices, and while they’re not half bad, they don’t have that passion. It is different, no matter what some ponies say.” He licked the last of the stacks with a flourish. “Of course, a good pony like you who sends letters to the Princess of Equestria wouldn’t know about this. Would you?”

The leer was getting on her nerves. “So you dictate the letter now, right?”

“You don’t have it with you?” frowned Clack. “Well, we provide the envelope free, and paper and ink—normally we charge for those, but since you’re a special customer...”

The quill was a sad, frayed stalk and the ink was thinned, but Mayor Mare managed to write the letter well enough. It was, really, all she had to say to Princess Luna, and the only reason why she was writing it was because she had said she would.

Dear Princess Luna,

This is Mayor Mare. I have Pipsqueak with me. We shall be returning to Equestria as soon as possible. Please let Potsherd know that her son is safe.

“Are you expecting a return?” asked Clack.

“Nope,” replied Mayor Mare.

“Just as well. I would have had to charge you an extra couple thousand if that were the case.” Clack checked the envelope, sealed it with a stamp, and ignited his horn. “Now, some ponies don’t like the looks of the chimeras we use. A face not even a mother could love, put it that way. So fair warning to you, it’s coming down now...”

Despite herself, her neck craned to get a better view, only to turn away quickly.

The creature, from what she saw, was vaguely dragon, with a draconic head, tail, scales. It was about as large as herself. But there was everything else—here was the patch of fur, the stumpy paw, the patch of diamond-shaped white, bare skin on its side, and the thick black tattoo lines all over its chest—its mouth leered with crooked teeth and a green tongue—the smell was horrible—but what made her regurgitate a little were the eyes.

They were pony eyes, or at least sickeningly resemblant to them, and were boring into hers even though she had turned away.

And somehow, after the letter had been sent—for several minutes, Clack had to determine the coordinates of the receiving dragon or something or other, and it was all she could do to not stare—after the letter had been sent, after the cage had wheeled back up, after they had left the counter, she could still feel those eyes planted on her.

---

Mayor Mare needed money. She was not desperately in need of it—even though half of the stash was gone, it was enough to live off on for a couple of weeks—but extra never hurt. That wasn’t greed. It was just being cautious.

Even in Ponyville she needed it, though it was for a good cause. Always for a good cause. She never needed money for herself, because she was good at budgeting and received a salary larger than herself from the Equestrian government anyways. The money she needed was always for the sickly, the struggling, the failed entrepreneurs who still had enough fight to try again.

She was good at getting money, and had been doing it splendidly since their third day here. She usually considered it “earning”, but now that she was living with Pipsqueak, she was more careful, as if the mere thought that gambling was a legitimate form of income would somehow rub off on him.

And now that the sun had set, and her kind of ponies were out to play, she would earn—no, get—some more.

No longer my kind of ponies, Mayor Mare thought to herself as she wandered the streets, taking in the scenery. Ponyville was always so quiet; ponies slept at night. Here, nighttime was the time to be alive. Neon signs blazed and flashed, not a single one of them malfunctioning. Shops lit up with flush yellow lights, hawking desserts made from sweet herbs and containing little black balls which were rumoured to be not tapioca but actually soft plastic. Shops with sullen, heavy doors remained sullen and dark, but ponies went in and out of them anyways, a good deal more drunk coming out than when they had entered.

Outside a solid black door, a changeling decked in white anklets and some kind of ivory neck ring purred at her. Mayor Mare walked on.

No longer my kind of ponies, repeated Mayor Mare to herself. You’ve quit.

Haha, no, really? Then what are you doing here?

This is different.

Sure. Sure it is.

It was strange how her hooves still remembered the way, even though the old landmarks from her time had vanished, replaced by budding industry. There was a bar around the corner, but now it was... Mayor Mare squinted at the sign briefly. The name sounded like a bar, but it wasn’t the old bar, wasn’t her bar.

Not my bar, added a voice quickly.

There had been a manicure stall there, three blocks away. And now it was a bar. There had also been an art gallery opposite that, and now it was another bar.

“Drunks,” muttered Mayor Mare under her breath.

The casino had changed, too, but that was to be expected. An ever-changing face kept its visitors dazzled, and more importantly, gave its investors the confidence that it was doing well enough to blow cash on buying new potted plants every six months, changing the style of the pillars, and painting everything a different shade of red. The stairs, she noticed, as she helped herself up, were completely new. Not a scratch in the solid marble was to be found. Then again, she wasn’t looking very hard. This was ultimately Maretopia after all, where even the diamonds in the high-end stores had a fifty-fifty chance of being enchanted glass.

She was let through with a quick glance.

She stepped in, and breathed.

You’ve quit, she reminded herself, but it did not stop something deeper within her murmuring: It’s good to be back.

There was the cacophony of slot machine jingles, led by the percussion of clinking tokens. There was the babble—the babble, such a texture to it!—that permeated the whole floor. There was the loud music, a foreign affair of odd-sounding drums, notes that she could not find the right words to describe, repetitious yet entrancing melody lines. And there were the customers. The lifeblood of the casino.

As Mayor Mare waded through the crowd, she could barely distinguish the kinds of patrons around her. There were the young ponies, who were there just for fun, who bet the least because they had the least to bet and were the most conservative. They never drank; most of what they had went to the baccarat tables, which was, in Mayor Mare’s humble opinion, a horrible game to play. There were the social butterflies, the ones who weren’t here to gamble, just to see and be seen. They laughed the loudest, sulked the least, never drank beer but always cocktails. Oh, they were playing all right, but it was the game of social interactions, far more effort for far too little.

And then there were the real gamblers. They wore plain clothes, and would not have looked out of place in a supermarket or a family restaurant. But when they bet, it was the solid black 1000’s chips that went on the felt. They were the ones who had refined spread betting in roulette to an art, putting down tens and fifteens on half of the numbers with seemingly wanton abandon. They didn’t pay attention to the wheel. Their eyes never left the chips. Like walking in a dream, Mayor Mare thought, the way their expressions seemed so glazed.

Almost all of them were addicts, self-aware or otherwise, and she kept silent out of recognition until she reached the lift.

Of course the biggest players wouldn’t stand to be on the same floor as the casuals. Maretopia was a city of sin, the biggest sin was pride, and nothing stroked that more than private rooms where everypony else knew at least your profession and title. She would know. She had spent her days in those until the casino decided that she was winning too much too consistently.

She wondered briefly what Pipsqueak would make of all this, and for a moment, felt a tinge of repulse in her gut at the stench of drink pervading the scene.

Mayor Mare stepped into the lift, wrapping the cloak tighter around her. Within the folds of the cloak was a knife, along with her money. She wouldn’t have time to use it should something actually happen to her, but if she did...

The lift was brightly lit with old, yellow light, and so was the corridor that it opened out to. A thick crimson carpet with blue snakes dancing along it met her hooves, along with the quiet that embraced her ears. Above her, giant crystal chandeliers glittered, a pointless safety hazard—she could not help but eye the ageing metal support—under any circumstances save for this one. This was that circumstance. For whatever reason, it completed the image of wealth, and ponies enjoyed being reminded that they were rich. It meant that they weren't poor.

She walked down the corridor to the counter, where an impeccably groomed young stallion greeted her with a slight bow.

“Newcomer’s high stakes room, please,” said Mayor Mare, taking out the bag. “You exchange the chips up here, right?”

“That is true,” said the stallion. “The minimum for entry is six thousand remii, with a service fee of one thousand.”

Mayor Mare handed over the bag without a word. Out came the grubby bills, won from the darkest part of Maretopia’s slums and illegal gambling shacks, and despite the clerk’s poker face, she could sense distrust in the flicker of his hooves. Mayor Mare watched grimly as the stallion handled each sheet, counting them out and folding them into packs of ten.

“Very well,” smiled the stallion at last, taking the bills. There was a slot in the counter, in which a T-shaped block of black plastic sat; he took it out, put the money in, and slided the block of plastic back down in less than a second. Seven thousand and fifty two remii, gone just like that. “How would you like them in?”

“Two thousands, fifty hundreds, one fifty and two ones,” replied Mayor Mare.

“Thank you. Now, if you will just step into the identifier... just a precaution, you understand.”

Oh, she understood all right. This was what she had been dreading.

Around the counter, the carpet had been cut to leave a rectangle of marble. To the right of the counter, etched in a deep groove in the marble, was a circle of runes, humming faintly.

Mayor Mare stepped in and felt the identifier strip away her makeup and hair dye.

To his credit, the stallion only raised an eyebrow. When his eyes returned to the display behind the counter, his eyebrows lifted higher.

“Oh dear. It says that you’re not allowed to be here,” said the stallion slowly.

Mayor Mare gave her now-pink mane a flick. “I thought,” she said carefully, “that the blacklist was cleared every twenty years as a sign of goodwill?”

“They have a special list for you,” replied the stallion. He was now staring at her pink mane. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave, Miss Lucky Die. Your entrance fee will be refunded to you...”

Mayor Mare sighed and sidled up back to the counter. “Tell me. You have a name, kid?”

“Yes, Red Cap, but...”

“Red Cap. Would you, oh, I dunno, like a bit of a feather in your cap? If you get my drift?” Mayor Mare looked at him sideways. “Do they still pay dealers and clerks pittance like they did in my day? Because it’s unfair, I told them all the time. You need at least a little in the way of a bonus. The bad hours, the smell of alcohol...”

“Miss Lucky Die—”

“Tell me,” said Mayor Mare, playing her last card with slight nervousness, “is Fair Weather in today?”

“Mr. Fair Weather—you mean, Mr. Hayseed Treefell?” Now the stallion was in evident shock. “Yes, but—”

“Tell you what. Point me to where he is.” Mayor Mare gave her mane another irritated flick. The identifier really had taken the poof out of her mane, and it was tickling her eyes. “He still tells stories about me, doesn’t he? I know the bastard, it’s all he does when he gets drunk and it’s not even funny.”

This was it. There was a mix of disbelief and awe in his eyes. Somepony who knew Fair Weather’s original name, and herself being a gambling legend—he was thoroughly charmed, too charmed to call her bluff. “Don’t you think he’d be pleased with the clerk who gave him another chance to beat his long-lost rival?”

The stallion refused to say anything. Mayor Mare pressed harder.

“Tell me, what’s the purpose of a casino?” she asked.

The next few seconds fell like the gongs of a grandfather clock, until the stallion nodded numbly and gave her her chips.

“Mr. Hayseed is in room 356,” said the stallion, subdued. “They usually have six players, but two haven’t shown up yet, so...”

“Just my luck, then,” said Mayor Mare sweetly, heading down the left.

“It’s, um, that way,” said the stallion.

“Right,” said Mayor Mare, turning walking briskly the other way.

Comments

[Firebirdbtops]

Bluffing is fun and productive...as long as you aren't

[NaiKujibo]

Jeez, what comes after the blacklist? The super blacklist?

[PresentPerfect]

It actually took away all her dye? :O What color is she, besides pink-maned?

Part of me wants to argue that you're getting away from the heart of this story, that this should be Pip's tale to tell. But all this backalley dealing and worldbuilding is just way, way too intriguing for me to want to pass up on.

[Casca]

2102370
I've done quite a lot of thinking on that, actually, and hopefully the ending will tie that aspect up nicely. I won't deny that the world-building is pretty fun, though, and Mayor Mare's perspective makes things a lot easier to do it with...

[Borg]

2098683 Double secret probation. Double secret permanent probation, if you want to be precise.