Love, Sugar, and Sails

by DSNesmith

5. Paintings and Parley

Tyria took a deep breath and surveyed the canvas in front of her. It was white and empty, but filled with promise and undiscovered secrets just waiting to be uncovered by her brush. She opened her new case of colors, bought at great price from a shop down near the docks, and looked down at the hues with growing excitement. Her explorations in watercolor had only begun a few weeks ago, but the medium was quickly becoming one of her favorites.

Wrapping the bottom half of her charcoal in a napkin to keep the taste out, she grasped the little black stick in her mouth and began to lightly stroke out the broad outline of the picture she would be creating. She edged in the rocky shoreline, arcing around and off the canvas. Somewhere beyond the borders of her painting it curved back and re-entered the scene, forming the long arm of the bay’s sheltering cliffs. The ocean beyond became a fuzzy black line stretching above the mouth of the bay.

She debated with herself whether or not to put ships in the picture, then decided against it. With this one, she wanted to capture the natural beauty of the island, stripping away the trappings of civilization. Her outline completed, she sat back and put away the charcoal.

With tentative anticipation, she grasped her second-largest watercolor brush to begin the color blocking. She tilted the canvas up and to the left to reproduce the bleeding effect she’d discovered last week; she wanted to see how the sky would look if it was applied here. Carefully, she dipped her brush into the pale violet, waited for the drips to cease, and then brought it over the canvas.

As the sky’s color and texture took shape, Tyria alternated her brush and her sponge to create a pattern of colorful strokes and splotches. She dabbed at the edges of the darker splashes of paint, thinning them to meld better with the others. She guided the colors through the narrow passages between the outlines, shepherding them to their destinations.

The base color of the sea was next. She selected a dark blue and watered it down to filter out the strongest tones, then resumed her work. The waters of the Carriagibbean spread from the shore to reach upward for the sky. At the horizon, purple and blue met and melded together to blur the edge of water and air. She ran her palette knife along the horizon to sharpen the border, but watercolors didn’t behave like her familiar oils. The colors smeared along the line, leaving a muddy streak.

Tyria frowned and began to dab the horizon with her sponge to re-blot the paint. Errors happened. She’d ruined more promising paintings with a single mislaid stroke than she cared to remember. This piece was far from unsalvageable, however. With a careful eye, she finished the sea blocking, and sat back to survey her work so far.

Satisfied with the morning’s progress, Tyria set the canvas aside for the first layers of paint to dry. She’d do the shoreline tomorrow, after work. Mondays were always horrendous, she’d need something to look forward to.

Her stomach grumbled. She rummaged through her cabinets for food, looking for oats or carrots, anything she could eat without having to prepare. There was a kitchenette in the basement of the apartment building, but Tyria was a dire cook.

Alas, her cupboards were bare. It had been weeks since she’d been to the farmer’s market down by the docks. She should have stopped by yesterday, but—Tyria sighed. If only she hadn’t run into the ambassador. He had the absolute worst timing, going into the bakery while she was there. She could probably have pretended not to notice him, but she was on shaky enough ground without risking a dead dignitary on her watch.

At the thought of yesterday, she suddenly remembered her cupcakes. They were still in her room. She retrieved them and pulled two out of the bag to sate her secret chocolate addiction. As she chewed, she flopped back on her bed and stared up at the ceiling, trying to decide how to spend the rest of her afternoon.

She still needed to report that incident with Tatius in the markets, but she’d delayed until she could figure out a way to do so without revealing that the only reason she knew about it was because she’d completely lost track of the pony she was supposed to be guarding. Perhaps it would be better to simply forget about it. I owe Zanaya, though. I’ll point her in the right direction, at least, when we eat dinner on Friday.

Her conscience absolved, Tyria returned to her living room and pulled another work in progress out of her filing system. She arranged the canvas on her painting easel and frowned. The portrait of Captain Petalbloom wasn’t coming out as well as it would if the captain had actually sat down and modeled for her, but she’d seen that disapproving frown often enough to capture it in oil.

Tyria gave an aggravated sigh. How pathetic is it that the only subjects I can think to paint are my coworkers? She’d done a few others, including a portrait request for Zanaya that she was rather proud of, but the thought of just going up and asking somepony to sit down and be painted was mortifying. Tyria much preferred painting landscapes; the trees and vines didn’t care if you asked permission first.

Idly, she pulled out her oils and brushes, and began working on the Captain’s dress uniform. She delicately followed the contours of the collar with white, edging them with blue embroidery. The white uniform was terribly boring, she realized. They looked spiffy in real life, but in pigment the lack of color was static and lifeless. She’d rather do blue and gold, or maybe ambassadorial yellow…

She paused. Now where had that thought come from? She’d never done a painting of Milliden, for obvious reasons. Tyria painted to relax, and the ambassador was about as far from a relaxing influence as one could get. Of course, he was no longer the only yellow-robed pony she knew.

Tyria let her brush rest in its holder and smiled thoughtfully. Yesterday’s jaunt through the markets had been awkward, surely, but she couldn’t help but admit that she was beginning to like Ambassador Strudel’s cheerful enthusiasm. If only he was a permanent replacement for Milliden. She’d rather deal with the former’s apparent waywardness than the latter yelling at her. And he never did tell me how he got his appointment… I’ll have to ask him tomorrow, if there’s time.

With a shrug, she picked up her brush again and resumed her work.

* * *

Rye ran the comb through his mane and frowned into the mirror. “I hope the Marquis isn’t big on appearances. I think I need a haircut.” It was only two o’clock in the afternoon, but it was going to take them time to cross the city and reach the manor on the north side of Zyre.

“From what I’ve heard so far, I get the impression she’s less concerned with clothes than business.” Beside him, Wheatie was adjusting his uniform to properly display his collection of awards. At Rye’s insistence, he was wearing the actual medals instead of the service ribbons.

“I hope so. I’ve always found the pragmatists easier to deal with than the high-society twits.” He glanced over at Wheatie. “Remember, you’re here to show how seriously the Princess is taking this. Just nod and agree with me whenever you’re asked to.”

“Of course.” Wheatie dusted off his hat and tucked it under a leg. “Shall we, then?”

The two of them left their room and headed down to the embassy’s first floor. The secretary pointed them off to the right hallway. “The security offices are down there. Captain Petalbloom can get you an escort to the Marquis’s manor.”

They padded softly over the carpet as they went down the hall. The door at the end had CPT. PETALBLOOM written on a plaque, and was slightly ajar. A muffled, angry voice was speaking within. Rye raised a hoof and knocked.

“Come in, come in,” called a harried mare’s voice. He pushed inside with Wheatie in tow. There were two ponies already in the office, the captain herself and the increasingly-familiar Tyria. Rye smiled at her, but she simply nodded in recognition.

The captain, a severe, orchid-purple earth pony in a khaki uniform, looked up at their entrance. “Ambassador, Sergeant. I assume you’re headed to speak with Zahira, yes? The ensign here can escort you.”

Tyria’s mouth opened in dismay. “Captain—”

“I don’t want to hear it. Take these gentlecolts to see the Marquis. Unless you’d rather stay here and finish this conversation?”

Her face fell. “No, ma’am.”

Petalbloom frowned, and turned back to Rye. “Good luck, Ambassador. We’ll all feel safer once you’ve convinced the Marquis to let our fleets into Zyran waters.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Rye dipped his head. “Let’s be off, shall we?”

Tyria, grimacing, stood and led them out of the room without a backwards glance. Rye looked curiously over his shoulder and shut the door behind them.

As they walked back down the hallway, he pulled even with her. “Problems with the boss?”

Her expression of irritation faded to tiredness. “Just the usual.”

“You didn’t tell her about Saturday, did you?”

“Sisters, no.” Tyria nodded to the secretary as they passed, and held the door open for Rye and Wheatie. She followed them out, putting on her hat. “So you two are headed up to Manor Hill?”

Rye nodded. “Have you ever been up there with Milliden?”

“Occasionally.” Tyria started off into the streets, occasionally checking to ensure they were still behind her. “The Marquis has a nice house.”

Wheatie cleared his throat. “So, Ambassador—”

“Oh, call me Rye. We know each other well enough by now.” Rye grinned at him.

With a half-smile, Wheatie continued, “So, Rye, what are you going to say to Zahira?”

“This first meeting is just to test the water. See what makes her bite, and what makes her back off.” Rye fiddled with his robes’ clasp. “She’ll be doing the same thing. We’re just getting a feel for each other.”

Tyria looked back curiously. “How many heads of state have you dealt with?”

“A few.” Rye’s eyes rolled up as he sifted through memories. “There was the king of Dromedaria, though I only said about six words to him. I’ve met the prime minister of Antellucía, and the leaders of a few of the smaller south Zebrican nations when they attended a state dinner in Canterlot a year back. I’ve never had the ‘pleasure’ of being introduced to King Aelianus. With my mother being who she is, I’m not the ideal pony for improving diplomatic relations with Grypha.” He made a hmm sound as he thought. “Oh, and how could I forget Eberhardt? He’s the king of Sleipnord.”

Tyria’s jaw hung slightly open. “You’re on a first-name basis with the Nordpony king?”

Rye smiled broadly. “I knew him back when he was just a butler. Sort of.”

“I… see.” She looked confused, but didn’t press for clarification. Rye was a little disappointed, he was hoping for an excuse to tell the story of his trip to the north.

As they moved north, the hill gradually came into view. It was not extremely high, but Rye could see the top floor of the manor peeking above the surrounding buildings. There were no house flags hanging from the manor’s roof; Zyre had no official aristocracy. That didn’t mean there wasn’t one, of course, just that it was based on money instead of blood.

It took two hours to cross the city, and they made it to the base of the hill scant minutes before their appointment. A wide set of stairs zigzagged up the side of the rise to the front of the manor. Rye hiked up his robes, and the three of them rushed up. They were stopped by a pair of zebra guards at the doors, but Rye’s yellow robes and the two military ponies’ uniforms quickly got them through.

The inside of Marquis Zahira’s manor was absolutely splendid. The floor was polished wood, made of interlocking dark and light diamond patterns. The walls were exquisitely detailed wood carvings from the floor to chest height, and alabaster-white painted wood from there to the ceiling. Stands displaying no-doubt priceless antiques were positioned every few meters down each of the halls. The main entrance room was as large as Rye’s house back in Canterlot, with two grand staircases curving up to the second floor. Red carpets snaked down along the stairs.

A zebra butler was waiting for them within. He bowed and ushered them upstairs. “The Marquis is waiting for you in the study. Down the hall and to your left.”

They walked through the beautiful house, while Rye admired the architecture. “This is really something. According to my reading material, this house was actually built by the griffons when the empire still ruled the islands and most of Equestria. This wood is all from the Everfree Forest.”

“Wow,” said Tyria, raising her eyebrows. “This place is over six hundred years old?”

“The griffons build things sturdy, I’ll give them that.” Wheatie nodded in approval.

At last, they reached the study door. There were no zebras standing watch outside. Rye added a mental note to his growing profile of the Marquis. She’s confident enough not to want bodyguards for a private meeting with a foreign soldier present.

He paused at the door and looked at Tyria. “Um…”

She nodded. “I’ll wait outside.”

Rye frowned unhappily. “I’m sorry to kick you out.”

“I’m not in my dress uniform. I wouldn’t want to insult the Marquis.” She gave him one of her rare smiles. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it. Good luck, Ambassador.”

He nodded and pushed inside with Wheatie. They were greeted by the sight of one of the most lavish studies Rye had ever seen. It was carpeted with the same deep red as the stairs. Shelves full of countless books locked behind glass doors lined all the walls. A small, round table stood in the left corner, bearing an intricately detailed model ship with half a dozen sails and hundreds of ropes. A giant map of the entire Ceracen Ocean hung on the far wall above the window, covered in dozens of red curves that could only be shipping lanes. All of them converged on the nexus of the Golden Isles.

The center of the study was occupied by a large desk, much like Rye’s back in Canterlot. An oil lamp stood on one corner, casting light over the two neat piles of parchment that sat beside it. She’s organized and efficient.

Behind the desk sat the Marquis herself. She was a fairly typical-looking zebra, her hair standing up in a natural mohawk. She was wearing no clothes and little jewelry. A necklace much like the one he’d bought for Cranberry hung around her neck, but that was it. Definitely not somepony who cares much for appearances, then.

The Marquis looked up and smiled. It was not warm, but almost predatory. “Welcome to Zyre, Ambassador.” Her voice was like velvet, rubbing softly over his ears.

Rye bowed, and Wheatie followed suit. “Greetings, Marquis Zahira. Princess Celestia sends her regards.”

“I’m sure she does.” Zahira’s eyes were half-lidded with some unreadable emotion. Amusement? Anger? This zebra was being maddeningly enigmatic. “Would you like something to drink? I can have Zedrick bring us something up from the wine cellar.”

“No, thank you.” Rye had no intention of dulling his mind during a negotiation.

The Marquis bowed her head in aquiescence. “Please, take a seat.”

Rye and Wheatie sat down on the pair of cushions in front of the desk. Rye noticed instantly that he was now at eye-level with the Marquis. That meant she wasn’t trying to pull any height illusions to compensate for the difference between zebras and normal ponies. He was… intimately familiar with the tactic. So, she and her guests are on equal footing. That’s a curious message to send.

Preparing his opening salvo, he quickly reviewed his profile of the Marquis. Efficient, pragmatic, and secure in her own position. I can work with that. “Let’s get right to it, shall we?”

The Marquis’s eyes opened fully at last, and she focused on him with renewed interest. “Straight to the point, hm? Very well, Ambassador.”

He leaned forward and pressed his hooves together on the desk. “We have a problem. These pirates have been harassing our ships with near impunity for far too long.”

“I agree.” Zahira’s eyes narrowed. “And believe me, Ambassador, that problem won’t be around much longer. I’m devoting almost all our naval power to hunting down and destroying these Pit Vipers.”

Rye gave her a thin smile. “That’s encouraging, but the Princess sees an even simpler solution. Equestria has the second-largest fleet in the western oceans, after your own—but we aren’t responsible for protecting nearly so many vessels. We can provide protection for our shipping at absolutely no cost to you, and at the same time free up more of your ships to hunt down these pirates.”

Zahira nodded. “That’s certainly true.”

Rye paused. “Which begs the question, why haven’t we reached this arrangement already?”

The Marquis pointed to a painting hanging on the wall beside the door. “Do you know what that is, Ambassador?”

It was a large picture of a city with elaborate towers and buildings, all crumbling before a vast wave of seawater. Rye nodded. “Phoenixia.”

“Yes. Once the greatest trading city in the Golden Isles, until they lost everything.” Zahira frowned.

Rye was familiar with the story, of course. “Pardon, but I fail to see the relevance.”

“Ah,” said the Marquis with a very slight eye roll. “You think I’m talking about the disaster.” She shook her head. “No, no. Phoenixia fell from grace decades before the volcano erupted and the city slid into the sea.”

She gave him that catlike smile again. “They had the greatest navy in the world, hundreds of ships strong, with thousands of sailors to crew them. No fleet could stand against them in battle, because their sheer numbers alone would win the day. They were peaceful and prosperous. And they got complacent. They let their colonies and principalities take more and more control away from Phoenixia itself, until the nation ripped itself apart in a dozen civil wars.

“The city failed because they could not centralize. They failed because they let power diffuse throughout the seas, instead of keeping direct control of every ship that entered their waters.” Zahira’s smile thinned. “I will not make the same mistake. I know every ship that passes in and out of this bay.”

And yet the pirates are still getting into the city. Rye frowned. “One mare can’t control an entire ocean by herself.”

“I have help, of course. Subordinates, committees, advisors. There’s a whole bureaucracy to run Zyre, but it all feeds back to me. As long as I remain the Marquis, Zyre will not allow other nations or colonies to infringe on our sovereign rights and powers in our waters.” She blinked, relaxing. “And when I’m old, and retire, the next Marquis will inherit that unbroken power base. It’s how we’ve kept our position as the world’s greatest navy for four hundred years.”

“I see.” Rye snarled internally as he placed the Marquis at last—a micromanaging power junkie. This was going to be more difficult than he’d anticipated.

They talked for hours, bantering back and forth in verbal swordplay, seeking weaknesses in each other’s defenses, but finding none. The conversation traveled far from Rye’s purpose there, meandering from history to economics to politics to entertainment. He led her on in a mental dance, trying to find some vice, some fear, some goal that he could play on to reach his own ends, but Zahira played along with a knowing smile and revealed nothing.

At last, she looked up at the clock and pretended to be startled. “Oh, my, it’s nearly seven. It’ll be dark soon. I expect you will want to return to your embassy.”

“Yes,” said Rye, standing. He forced a smile and bowed, and then turned to leave. Wheatie followed him out and shut the door.

Tyria was dozing on the wall with her mouth open. Rye smiled. He nudged her, and she blinked awake. “Hwuh? Oh! Ambassador. How’d it go?”

“Not well.” Rye strode off with the two soldiers in tow. “She’s an interesting zebra.”

“Milliden hates her.” Tyria snorted. “He’s always complaining about how intractable she is.” She paused. “Um, you didn’t hear that from me.”

Rye grinned. “Of course not.”

As they left the manor, he glanced west to see the pink sun vanishing over the horizon. “I’m starving. Tyria, do you know any good restaurants around here?”

“Uh, there’s a nice place a few streets down, Griselda's. They mostly serve griffons—you know, fish and the like—but they have a pretty good herbivore menu, too.”

“Great. Wheatie?”

Wheatie looked at the two of them with a strange, bemused expression, and said, “Ah… actually, I’m not hungry. I think I’ll head back to the embassy. You and Ensign Metrel can go get dinner.”

Tyria looked conflicted. “We should really stay together…”

“It’ll be fine; I can fly over. I've been looking for an excuse to stretch my wings this whole trip, anyway.”

“Well…” She sighed. “You’re a Firewing, you can certainly handle yourself. Just… please be careful.”

“Sure.” Wheatie nodded, then turned to Rye and inexplicably winked. Rye raised an eyebrow. Wheatie just smirked. “I expect the place will be crowded. I’ll tell the captain not to expect you back for a while.” He bowed, and then took to the air, vanishing into the twilight.

“Well, then.” Rye blinked. “Which way to Griselda’s?”

Comments

[Jonathon Smythe]

The term 'Wingpony' is extremely appropriate here.

[DSNesmith]

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media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lryc0cmE8V1qbt8o1.jpg

[Jomama]

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"I love you Grunt"

[Cystenian Remir Rhys]

The intrigue thickens! All-around great premise and solid story-telling.

[DSNesmith]

2324232
Since this is about the fifth or sixth time someone's asked, I'll just give y'all a brief chart:

Average Lifespan: 30-35 yr
Infancy: 0-1 yr
Childhood: 1-3 yr
Adolescence: 3-6 yr (physically mature at 5 yr)
Adulthood: 7 yr

And from there the age boundaries are hazier than for humans. 20 would be considered middle-aged. 40 is long-lived, 45 is uncommon, and 50 is almost unheard of.

[Azrael Chiaroscuro]

Wheatie looked at the two of them with a strange, bemused expression

I think "amused" would fit better. bemused means confused, or nonplussed. unless you were going for confused and i'm just being foolish.