When a budget crisis leads to the creation of Luna's personal military intelligence organization, no one expects much from the ponies pulled from the bottom of the barrel - but these unlikely soldiers might just be the ones Equestria needs.
The few.
The proud.
The only ones who were available at the time.
When the royal budget is blown, Luna needs to show that the disasters that have so drained Equestria's resources aren't going to continue. Reforming the Lunar Guard on a tight purse means that she doesn't necessarily get the ponies that she would have chosen, but how bad could it possibly be?
They're reckless, dangerous, they weren't even supposed to be here today, and they might well be Equestria's last hope.
(Featured and flattered!)
Prologue: In Which Momentous Events Conclude, and Budgets are Discussed
“There's no helping it.” Fudged Numbers scowled at the spreadsheets laid out before her, as if her disgust at their contents would make any great inroads into changing them. “Tirak may not have succeeded at... actually, all things considered, I'm not entirely clear just what he was trying to do, but I'm pretty sure he failed. Point is, even though he failed, he succeeded in blowing the disaster relief budget.”
A groan arose from the table, around which, as one, a plethora of pastel ponies whose special talents ran the gamut from embezzlement (although never convicted) to accountancy (likewise) rubbed tired eyes, sipped bad coffee that had grown no better by virtue of settling to room temperature, and in one case, face-planting horn first into the cherry wood boardroom table. The meeting had gone late into the evening, and only by express order of Her Royal Highness, Princess of The Moon, Magic, Wine, Sex, Pure Math, and since she had discovered their existence, Caffeinated Beverages (who had explained that, yes, she was allowed to just take titles if they weren't already claimed), Luna Implaccibilis had the kitchens remained open. This had been a mixed bag of news for the gathered accountant-ponies; on the one hand, it had made their extended skull session possible. On the other, it wasn't as if all of those numbers were going anywhere, and couldn't they wait until morning?
Chairpony Fudged Numbers looked over at Luna, the princess nocturnal by nature, and watched with bemused detachment as the self-styled princess of Pure Math had taken aside a pair of master balance sheets and an abacus, and begun carefully running the numbers again. Celestia had classically shot from the hip when it came to matters of budget; Luna was painstakingly fastidious. Of the two, Numbers preferred Luna's practices, but found it singularly unlikely that she was going to turn up the thirty million bits still required for the rebuilding of half of the Equestrian countryside. They had barely scrounged the bits for medical relief, for pegasi who had found themselves suddenly flightless in Tirak's swath of arcane consumption; rebuilding Ponyville (or those portions of Ponyville which hadn't just had a giant-ass crystal palace spring up in the middle of them) was going to be a task for next year. Charitably next year; and that, hoping that there were no unpredictable disasters or budget shortfalls in the season to come.
Frankly, it didn't help that in a little over a year, Equestria had faced seven or eight significant threats, ranging in property damage from Nightmare Moon (which had been a net gain for the coffers, as it had furnished the royal Day Court with a nightly counterpart, allowing for twice the efficiency for much less than twice the price, once the up-front costs were settled upon and Princess Luna had settled into the role), to the Changeling invasion which had cost a little over two hundred and fifty million bits, a princessly sum that had caused the Minister of Disaster Relief to resign, and the former chairpony of the board of finance to suffer a nervous condition. Added in the number of tax reliefs that had been instituted to allow ponies who had suffered from these attacks to redeem themselves fiscally, and next year's budget wasn't looking overly clever either.
Tirak, it looked like, had surpassed even the Changeling Queen in terms of raw damage. Hospital bills notwithstanding, the magic-eating immortal had thrown around blasts of power with either callous disregard or active disdain for what was in his way, and those few buildings that had survived the savagery when it had been levelled against them had not gone unmarked by it. Obviously, ponies being basically good, a certain percentage of the costs had been sublimated by charitable donations and volunteer labour, but Celestia and Luna had both made clear that they certainly did not expect their little ponies to ruin themselves in the reconstruction efforts. And that was... fair. Excruciatingly so. That even the royals only had so much money to throw around was a consideration, but Fudged Numbers could hardly find fault with the sentiment.
Nevertheless, sums were sums, facts were facts, and Numbers was getting the distinct impression that she was mere minutes away from updating her resume, tendering her resignation, and getting a job at her cousin's quill and sofa emporium. He ran a bizarrely successful business – he could probably use a good accountant, with an enviable understanding of Equestrian tax law...
“We can do it!” The sentence didn't quite parse, coming from Princess Luna, who had only recently abandoned the Royal We. Tired heads turned to the Princess of Caffeinated Beverages, a hopeful look on a face or two.
Numbers was a bit more cautious in her optimism. “What do you mean, Highness?”
“It will strain us fairly significantly, but we can make it to the end of the fiscal year, and cover most of the more... pressing financial constraints put on us by Tirak's attack.” Luna tugged off her green visor, and rubbed her brow just below her midnight blue horn. “All we have to do is institute a one-time levy on the land-owning nobles. It will mean that they'll have to tighten their belts a little bit, but I am convinced that they can be persuaded.”
Chairpony Numbers squinted at the Princess of the Night, briefly envisioning what kind of 'persuasion' Luna had in mind – with fanciful thoughts ranging from a grand speech accompanying a royal edict, to Nightmare Moon holding some of the more odious of Equestria's nobility by the hind legs and shaking them until money came loose. In fairness, of the two, the latter had a much higher likelihood of success, and having met with any number of those ponies, reluctant to pay their regular taxes at the best of times, it was entirely possible that both might be necessary. And satisfying.
She elected to say as much. “Princess Luna, with all due respect, the nobility and their money are not easily parted. Realizing that this is more your department than mine,” although in a very real sense, mostly mine, as I have to try to sell this 'one time' levy to ponies that pinch bits until they scream she did not add, showing more political acumen than she had when first she had accepted her current position, “it may be possible that we may need to sweeten the deal somewhat if we want them to accept it.”
For all that Luna was somewhat socially awkward – an artifact of a millennium away from ever-changing language and idiom as much as anything else – the Princess of the Moon was politically extremely sharp, and Numbers saw comprehension and thought in Luna's eyes as she nodded. “'twas ever thus, my little accountant. 'For the good of Equestria' only ever carried so much weight, and recent times have been much easier than they were during my previous reign, this year notwithstanding. It is always easy to draw ponies together in the spirit of co-operation during times of strife, but there have been so few in the last few decades that I fear Equestrians have fallen out of practice. How might we, as you say, 'sweeten the deal?'”
It helped that the gathered number-crunching ponies were more frustrated than mentally exhausted – the opportunity to brace a new problem, however impossible, put a bit of spunk back into the fiscal think-tank. Discussion began. Charts were drawn up, amended, dismissed, discarded, and redrawn. The simple truth of the matter was that outright bribing the nobility had the best chance of success – while the upper crusts of Equestrian society was not without its patriots, there was more venality and self-interest than most liked to admit in the crusts of the uppers – but while few of the fiscal experts gathered were above trotting out old horses of cliches like 'taking money to make money', the simple fact was that there was little that the Crown had that the more privileged desired. Promised tax cuts were inimical to having a budget next year. Promissory notes simply turned this year's problem into next year's. And of course, even if there were no risk of precedent being set and there was the slightest chance of ever repealing such a change, expanding upon existing privileges only really worked if parliament could be brought to an agreement on it. Numbers, who occasionally made book on parliamentary decisions, would not wager a single bit on that happening.
The likelihood of outright rebellion was slender (for some reason, few ponies fancied their chances in the overthrow of diarchs that could A: stand toe-to-toe with creatures like Discord, B: currently had the support of the self-same demigod of Chaos, and C: had the telekinetic might to move celestial bodies with a whim), but there were lines that even Luna and Celestia refused to cross, for fear of being named tyrants. Divine tyrants, marked by the Ancestors with immortality and the unquestioned right to rule, but tyrants nevertheless. Celestia had spent centuries attempting to guide her subjects down the path of harmony and understanding, and it was fairly clear this would be somewhat undermined by going to the well of 'because I said so' too often, however necessary or well-deserved.
Plus, Numbers admitted in the privacy of her own head, as funny as it would have been to see Nightmare Moon shaking down the nobility for their figurative lunch money, they hadn't reached that point. Yet.
It was Small Pebble, a green stallion with a pile of pebbles for a cutie mark, that struck upon the notion. “Perhaps what we need to do is to find some way to convince them that this will be a one-time-only levy. Show some sign that we're going to do something to keep things from getting this bad again.”
Eyebrows were raised. Discussion shifted to a more fevered and excited pitch, and organizational charts too recently crumpled up into a mess of tree-toppling trash were carefully smoothed out and reconsidered. Small Pebble, perhaps a trifle too timid or modest for his own good, waited patiently for someone to realize that there was probably more to his plan than the bare bones of it. Given the room's average level of exhaustion, it took a couple of 'Royal Canterlot Ahem's from Luna before the gathered experts could be brought to anything resembling attention.
This was a situation calling for a cue. “So, Pebble, ah... what did you have in mind?” Numbers hadn't been chosen for her skills at a public speaker, but she could deliver a straight line when one was required.
“Well... It really seems like all of the major crises that have hit Equestria over the last year or so haven't been a result of lack of power, so much as intelligence failures. The Highnesses have dealt with Discord and the Changelings and even Tirak before.” Luna nodded, looking as if she was about to add something, but then seemed to reconsider as the small accountant continued. “The problem is, recently it's been the case that by the time anyone found out that anything was wrong, it had already gotten so big that it took artefact-deployment and weapons-grade friendship to deal with. So maybe we need to build up the EUD?”
It said a lot of the professionalism of the gathered number-crunchers that they did not immediately shout down Pebble, but took a calm moment of contemplation first... and then all began shouting at once. Choice selections from the 'rooba rooba' of fifteen ponies all attempting to talk at the same time included the phrase 'can't be done', and 'committed to cutting defence spending', but slowly but surely, the gathered accountants were quieted, and the problem was coherently explained.
It transpired that a great deal of the repair budget had been lifted from the defence budget; not so much as to prove impolitic (a major trading partner for Equestria having just had its sovereign ruler marrying the Captain of the Guard for Canterlot's standing forces), but enough that expansion was unlikely at best. Indeed, there had been dark mutterings about severe downsizing for the Defence Forces; the battles that such forces had been raised to fight having not occurred in recent history. It had been quietly decided that if Twilight Sparkle and company were willing to continue Loving and Tolerating Equestria's enemies into submission, the Equestrian Defence Forces could be quietly downsized over the next few years.
What would happen if negotiations with neighbouring Gryphodonia broke down were, such advocates claimed, merely a scare-conjecture, conjured from supposition, in an effort to maintain the Equestrian military complex. Besides, there was always the easy fallback of Celestia, and the pleasantly pointed stick that the question 'would you ever like to see sunlight again?' offered to any hoof willing to take it.
Most of the gathered ponies in the conference room were surprisingly apolitical in their viewpoints. They were none of them elected officials – they didn't decide what was important, they merely tried to figure out how to fund those things that were considered important by ponies in charge. Still, they understood the challenges inherent in trying to sell a disgruntled population on an unpopular budget, and they could recognize an unwinnable fight when they saw one. A significant increase in funding for ponypower, training, or equipment, was... unlikely at best, at least on a significant scale. And it was taken to be a truism, at least among the pencil-pushers and coin-counters assembled in the room, that without bits, nothing significant happened. Celestia moved the sun, and Luna moved the moon, but Ancestors knew, money moved everything else.
Princess Luna, ever one to wear her emotions on her figurative sleeve, continued to look thoughtful however. Holding up a hoof for a silence that she swiftly received, the princess of the night-time (et al), seemed to choose her words carefully. “Minister Numbers, national defence budget notwithstanding, Royal discretionary funds have not been significantly diminished, have they?” The Royal discretionary funds, which provided the Royal Sisters with what amounted to an allowance for a personal guard, luxuries, patronages and so forth was nothing like the amount needed to cover the reconstruction efforts, but apart from some modern appliances for her traditional rooms, Luna had barely touched hers for the year.
They had also not been considered fair game for budget shortfalls. Mostly it's a lot of work, but sometimes it's good to be the Princess.
Numbers considered this, and shook her head. “No, highness – your fund has barely been touched, apart from some personal expenditures and personnel costs.”
Luna clapped her hooves together, delightedly. “Excellent! Then I propose a solution to our problem.”
The next day, signs imploring those with the courage, brains, and chutzpah to join the Night Guard went up all across Canterlot.
Chapter 1: In Which Candidates are Chosen, and Not All That A Royal Pony Might Have Hoped.
Although the call had gone out for a sort of 'general try-out', in truth, Fudged Numbers had been able to furnish Luna with a short-list for surplussed or 'reserve' personnel, most of which hadn't made the cut for Day Guard but had missed 'only by inches'. The advantage, it was explained, was this; with the exception of a few pegasi that drew Luna's carriage (under a nifty transmutation that had adjusted the colours of their coats and given them batty features), the Lunar Guard was substantially or entirely a new force. Its mission statement of investigation, counter-espionage, and acting as Equestria's 'early warning' system against land-shaking events was substantially different from the Solar Guard's duties of protecting the palace, ensuring order in the streets of Canterlot, and looking pretty for Princess Celestia, who had been known to hook up with unattached and interested members of the guard.
Some things, Luna reflected, changed very slowly if at all.
Nevertheless, there would be at least some overlap of skill sets, and most of the reserve and surplussed forces had gone through the full training regimen, at some point or another. Looking into these ponies therefore only made sense; they had, after all, very nearly been appropriate for a similar-but-different position, and all of them had gone through the basic training required to be considered and tested for overall competence. In addition, the numbers for the general call for troops had been less than promising. And, not to be overlooked, most of the 'reserve' candidates had in the interim acquired day jobs, meaning that many had second or even third strings to their figurative bows, not something to be lightly overlooked when one was attempting to establish a military intelligence enterprise.
Not, as it happened, that this was a typical attempt at that. Equestria had a reasonably substantial intelligence community, but one that was generally pointed in the wrong directions. Absent genuine enemies, hostile in intent and fierce in determination for lo these many years, the Equestrian Intelligence Service had been refocused upon the country's traditional allies, for the reasons that most countries, like as not, end up doing the same.(1) Other substantial portions of the EIS were dedicated to counter-intelligence efforts, as it was more or less past question that their friends, neighbours, and allies reciprocated their espionage efforts, and much hay was made politically by governments catching one another with the proverbial fingers in the cookie jar, and then carefully doing nothing about it.
This, gentle readers, is known as 'diplomacy'. If it fails to make sense, you may rest well assured that this is intended.
The problem was that Equestria did have enemies; some foreign, some domestic. The changeling hives viewed the pastel ponies as an emotive all-you-can-eat buffet, the diamond dogs and the dragons viewed Equestrians as competitors for land and resources, and a variety of cultists, scholars of the arcane, and entitled noble dandysprats within Equestria viewed those around them as chumps or victims. Mostly, the Royal Guard or the military were enough to deter these threats to Equestrian sovereignty – recently, solid evidence had been furnished that this was insufficient. The big clue had been the release of Discord.
That it had happened at all was a matter of no small discussion. The official story had been that a group of arguing schoolfillies had freed the draconequus by arguing in front of his stony prison, and in a sense this was true – in the same sense that wars were begun by 'border disputes', rather than years of underlying political and social forces. Certainly, a group of arguing children would not, under ordinary circumstances have been enough to undo the magical bindings placed upon the chaotic spirit.(2) A more careful look at the area where the statue had stood revealed evidence of rituals performed around the statue's base, with sigils that hurt to look at directly, and scrawled runes that seemed to shift and squirm under observation. Someone, or far more likely a group of someones, had been actively weakening the bindings put into place by the Elements of Harmony centuries before.
There was strong evidence of spadework being done to allow for the Changeling invasion as well, although this was generally regarded as less a matter of betrayal from within, and more a matter of changelings being changelings. Luna wasn't entirely convinced that there had been no collusion, but when you had an entire species whose special magical talents were 'perfectly imitating someone else', it was a lot harder to track interactions. The added facet that most of the peoples of modern Equestria had, before the royal wedding, never even heard of changelings made it a lot easier to believe that the insectoid philophages could have gotten away with quite a fair bit without the risk of falling under too much official scrutiny.
It was with this in mind that Luna and her secretary, Paper Weight were sorting through resumes and dossiers, with the assistance of Shining Armour. Although no longer Captain of the Guard, Shining had been visiting Canterlot to liaise diplomatically and assist in the cleanup following the Tirak crisis, on behalf of the Crystal Empire, and Luna had brought him on board on the strength of his experiences as a former Captain. It was not such a grand leap of logic for her to conclude that he might have particularly valuable insight into the potentials for her new Guard, and if his experience was with a differently oriented organization, surely the brother of Twilight Sparkle would be clever enough to adapt.
Luna was not a happy pony when Shining Armour started snickering, going through the dossiers.
“Oh, wow...” Shining wiped tears from his eyes, one hoof to his ribs, sore from what was in Luna's opinion, unbecoming levels of laughter from a prince consort who was supposed to be helping. “Where did you find these things? It's like someone handed you a file-folder of all of the candidates least appropriate to be guardsponies, but still technically capable.”
Upon consideration, Luna realized that this may have been exactly what had happened. She had, in her time in Canterlot, run into the odd soldier or guardspony that had been... eccentric, inoffensively inept, or unduly crass, but which had managed to maintain their position in relatively good standing. They didn't tend to be on duty in the palace, but soldiers were soldiers. She had asked Numbers to send along the names of ponies that could do the job, which meant that the candidates had to be at least mostly proficient, which in turn meant that most of the candidates in the folio were probably going to be... a mixed bag. Of nuts.
“Surely, some of these candidates aren't all that bad?” Luna offered weakly, flipping through the dossiers like a drowning pony grasping for a life line. There had been one... “Here! This one. Almond Butter. Strong scores in most categories, passed the physical regimen, a fine example of Equestrian patriotism!” The princess of the moon gave a hopeful smile, weak around the corners of her mouth, all too aware that there were troubling second and third pages of the document, which she had not yet turned to.
Shining shook his head. “He flunked out on the psychiatric evaluation. Page three goes into more detail.” He shuddered a little bit. “Troubling obsessions. Just because a pony's name is Almond Butter does not guarantee that he goes well with pony-sized tubs of jelly.” He turned to his copy of the dossier. “Ah, here we go. 'I cannot guarantee that my uniform will remain clean due to my need to immerse myself partially or fully in jelly or jam on an hourly basis. I am the jam, and the jam is me.'” Shining's brows creased. “This being his way of asking for an exemption from the uniform code. I think he moved to Ponyville after he didn't make it as a guard.”
Paper Weight was staring at the attached photo. Luna shook her head, tearing her eyes away from the image of the jelly-coated pony, and pushing away the plate of cream and jam donuts that they had picked up for sustenance. “Okay, so one example, randomly chosen from a pile of papers, turns out to have been a bad one. There are a hundred and twenty 'not quite up to snuff' ponies in this stack, you two. We aren't leaving until we find at least a handful that we can turn into an effective force.”
* * *
Three hours later, the coffee was gone, the donuts were gone, most of the stack of dossiers were gone, and Luna's optimism was beginning to flag. The 'definitely not' pile was high, the 'perhaps' pile was low, and the 'yes' pile had five entries, albeit mostly dubious ones.
The first, a pegasus by the name of 'Sticky Wings', had worried Luna and Paper that Almond Butter wasn't the only jam enthusiast to have returned a better than mediocre result in training. Shining had remembered Sticky, and had reassured the mares that those particular fears were unfounded. Sticky Wings was less a jelly fetishist, and more... one of the finest pickpockets to have ever volunteered for national service. It was, evidently, by way of a compulsion; fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, and Sticky Wings didn't even notice that she had taken things until some time afterwards. Shining had liked her, pointed out that she had achieved test results far in excess of the mien average for successful applicants, noted that she was currently in jail in Manehattan for petty theft, and had asked that if they chose her, could they please get his watch back?
The second, a unicorn by the name of Icewine, more commonly known as Icepick – not due to any inherent viciousness, so much as because his parents had begun his name with 'ice', he came to a point, and children could be so cruel – was an elementalist, specializing in spells relating to the cold. The spellcaster had been a student at Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns at the same time as Shining's sister, Twilight Sparkle, albeit at the bottom of the class. He had been flunked out from the Guard, Shining said, for two reasons; firstly, he was small in stature, smaller in fact than most adult mares, and the Solar Guard uniforms wouldn't have fit. Perhaps more the problem had been one of temperament; Ice Wine had a short fuse, particularly in relation to cracks about his height. It was not hard to track Icepick down – he was a graduate student teacher for Equestrian philosophy at the University of Canterlot, conveniently at hand.
The third candidate, also a unicorn, was intended to make up the second half of the enforcement portion of the squad. An elementalist as well, Hot Streak hadn't had the familial acclaim to warrant a docket at Celestia's school, and her skills were consequently less... practised. Where Icepick specialized in all things cold and frosty, Hot Streak came from a line of fire-specialists, but her control was abysmal. Luna's eyes shot up at the notation from a Guard drill sergeant that suggested that the safest place to stand when Hot Streak had been practising her craft might have been directly behind her, 'but' he had added, 'only if you couldn't make it to the moon.' Both Shining Armour and Paper Weight had argued against the pyromaniacal unicorn's inclusion, but Luna insisted. Besides the added weight that her magic could bring to the squad if it could be properly trained, she had argued, Hot Streak had an admirable knowledge of medicine. That most of it was hard-earned from treating accidental burns could, for now at least, be ignored.
Luna had actually done a double-take at the fourth pony on the list. “I think there must be some sort of mistake.” she began. “This one seems a bit... too good to be true. Skilled armed and unarmed combatant, holds the rank of Sergeant in the UEP Defensive Force, decorated soldier. I don't think that they're going to allow us to poach this Sharp Salute, and frankly, I'm not sure he's not more valuable where he is right now.” She looked down, bewildered by the document in front of her.
Shining admitted that he had never heard of the stallion, but it was Paper Weight that spotted the pertinent detail. The yellow mare pushed her green mane out of her eyes, and her glasses further up her nose. “Ah. It would appear that he's seventy-six.”
Luna blinked. “Seventy-six what?”
“Seventy-six years old.” Paper Weight indicated the 'year of birth' entry in the dossier. “He was retired sixteen years ago, but the age limitations on the Equestrian Reserve Forces are a minimum age only. If you'll pardon the expression, some of the attached paperwork suggests that he might be chomping at the bit to get back into something resembling action.” She chewed on her lower lip, a habit that had become all-too-frequent since she had become Luna's secretary. “Assuming that he remembers to put in his teeth.”
Luna scowled. “I think that if anything, I'm proof that someone can stay active and productive well past the government-mandated retirement age.”
Shining Armour, a married stallion that knew a sore subject when he saw one coming, blanched a little at that. He had heard of Luna's failed efforts to learn more about the societal shifts in pony culture by getting a part-time job around Heart's Warming Eve. After Cadence had stopped giggling, she had forbidden him to laugh. “I think the fact that he is not, in fact, an immortal alicorn princess, but rather, an earth pony in his later years may be a relevant factor here.”
Luna's scowl turned into a pout. “We need someone with some kind of experience in this team, if it's going to be anything more than a group of misfits. I know you've volunteered to help out when you can, Shining, but the Crystal Empire and your wife both need you.” Paper Weight and Shining Armour hemmed and hawed in the face of her logic, so she carried on. “Plus, it's not as if we're expecting heavy combat missions. This isn't going to be the Guard, it's going to be the 'warn the alicorns that something sneaky or ill-advised is being perpetrated' squad.”
Paper Weight sighed. “I suppose it doesn't hurt to have some experience on duty. It might even balance out the young blood we have for the rest of the team.”
The fifth candidate was the most promising of the lot, an immigrant by the name of Zorada, who had been disqualified not, it was carefully explained, because she was a zebra, but because national service was open only to those that had been born within the country. There had been some talk of amending the laws over the years, as xenophobia had waned (at least in the more cosmopolitan communities), but the simple fact of the matter was that no one cared strongly enough to push for change, and thus the subject had simply stagnated. There were only so many hours in a day, after all, and so many days in a year; a year before Luna's return, it had taken a parliamentary subcommittee seven months of intensive debate, consultation, and bonus cheques to determine that the Equestrian flag could safely retain its traditional colours and design. Luna had railed against the foundering of governance, to say nothing of the graft that she had discovered upon her return, and never one to outright ignore their princess, the governing ponies of the House of Lords had immediately convened a Committee to Investigate Allegations of Corruption.
Eight months later, after heated and intense discussion and no small debate, the committee had changed its name to 'The Committee to Investigate Suspicion of Corruption'. 'Allegations', it was put forward, was a loaded word, which might bias the investigation. If there was one thing that Luna truly wished for, it was the return of the Elements of Harmony, the better to turn disharmonious self-important bureaucrats to stone, if not outright banish them to the sun.
In addition to holding a doctoral degree in theoretical ritual magic, Zorada was a trained alchemist – both areas relevant to the tasks that the team was likely to face, if they ended up ever being used as anything more than nominal proof that the Princesses were making an effort to forestall future problems. She was also employed in Canterlot, as a consultant for some of the make-up firms that were attempting to use alchemical techniques to improve the quality of their products.(3) No real objections were raised to the zebra's inclusion in the team, and as this was technically a part of Luna's personal guard, there was neither law nor precedent forbidding the choice.
“It's... a small group.” Luna managed with dwindling cheer. “But there's always the chance that we can make up some of the numbers with new applicants.” If there was a chance, it was a slender one; the notice had been up for a week, and the number of serious, potentially qualified applicants was measurable only because in some ancient age, some camel philosopher had invented the concept of 'zero'. It was possible that when the university turned out a new crop of graduates, the pressure to pay off student debts might generate applicants who, if not wildly enthusiastic, might at least be capable and job-loyal.
Until that point however, between the admirable but inconvenient employment initiatives that Celestia had in motion, as well as the disaster relief efforts, employment was at an all-time high; good for Equestria, bad for Luna trying to recruit a force. Although neither Shining Armour nor Paper Weight had said it out loud, there was also the matter of Luna's reputation working against her; even though the majority of Celestia's faithful subjects had more-or-less accepted her assertion that Luna had been redeemed, there was still an undercurrent of fear and hostility toward the traditional view of Luna as the boogeymare Nightmare Moon.
A handful of ponies had applied, and had turned out to be, in order, a changeling, a second changeling that had apparently not known that the first applicant had been a changeling, a twelve-year-old filly who had been hoping to lie about her age, a pegasus who had gotten the address confused with another poster and had been wondering why free piano lessons were being offered at the royal palace, a Nightmare Moon cultist (Luna hated those), Discord, and yet another changeling. For a species so naturally specialized in infiltration and espionage, the Swarm really didn't communicate all that well. In the recovery after the attack on the royal wedding, three copies of the same high-ranking ministry official had been discovered, knocked out and secreted away in various parts of her residence, as well as the official herself.
Still, universally competent or not, they were a predatory species that fed upon ponies. Luna wasn't about to allow them to join her personal guard, and Shining Armour had taken an almost uncalled for delight in booting them out of the application hallway, followed by the city.
Almost.
There was the chance that she might get lucky, and find a few more ponies to round out the numbers, but this would be enough for now. For now, these five ponies, be they ever so... eccentric, would be enough to convince the nobility to fund the levy. And if they didn't last three months, it would be enough for now. This, at least, was something that Luna could work with.
1: A combination of curiosity, amiable suspicion, and the sort of snoopiness that being a government lets you get away with. It is not, as many have noted, at all difficult to hazard a guess as to what your enemies think of you.
2: Some of the scholars from the university had been curious, and Celestia had been able to confirm this almost instantly upon being asked. If a simple argument had been enough to free the spirit of disharmony and chaos, she had added, the statue would have been buried in a mountain somewhere, possibly under some especially serene monks, not in the same city as parliament.
3: One would imagine that not using something called 'Poison Joke' in face cream would be universally intuitive, with 'poison' right there in the name. One would be wrong.
Some days, Sticky Wings considered, as she sat on her stupid bunk, in the stupid cell, in the stupid prison, in the stupid bucking city, it did not pay to do one's civic duty. Or, for that matter, get out of bed.
For entertainment, she had two things; firstly a red rubber ball, which she had by this point mastered the art of rebounding off of the small cell's various surfaces, to return unerringly to her. Briefly, she found herself wondering whether or not there might be some use for this skill. She didn't recall seeing anything like it in the Equestrian Games. Perhaps fortunately, far more consuming and entertaining was reflection on the day that she'd had, which had brought the pegasus pony to this point.
She had hit Manehattan in an effort to start a new life. She'd been seeking help for her... bad habit. She'd been doing extremely well, until she had accidentally walked into that pony on the sidewalk outside of the First Bank of Manehattan. He'd been nicely dressed, and carrying any number of important looking documents in a telekinetic field, which of course had gone flying everywhere. She had apologized profusely, helped him to gather up the papers that had gone wandering in the wind, and only realized ten minutes later that she had, out of habit and not a little compulsion, walked off with the businesspony's wallet.
Well, she wasn't screwed yet. After all, he might have lost it in the confusion, and he'd been off in a hurry when he walked away. A quick look inside suggested that he worked at the bank, and she could go in, explain what had happened (edited for content), return the wallet, refuse any reward,(4) and go about her merry day. Fantasy-Sticky, swelled with pride and confidence from her (almost) good deed would then go and get that dishwashing job down at the diner run by Greasy Spoon, continuing her work at being a better and brighter pony. It might be a little stretch to suggest the Princess Celestia would be proud of her, but if not personally, then she was sure that the Princess would approve of the general approach.
Going into the bank, she had been referred to the office of Golden Fortune, evidently the slickly-dressed pony that she had walked into. She had shrugged, sat back and made herself comfortable, and maybe dozed a little bit. Sticky had awoken to the sound of Golden Fortune clearing his throat noisily.
“Do you have... the item?” He had asked.
Sticky had blinked a little at that. She was not aware of any particular need for a euphemism in wallet-related matters, but then, it was his wallet. Maybe it would have been embarrassing for him, a pony charged with looking after the fortunes of others, to admit that he had misplaced his own wallet, even in the security of his own office. “I sure do! I picked it up outsi-” but Golden Fortune had hushed her.
And then thrust two large bags of bits into her hooves. “There. The amount discussed.”
Sticky Wings was getting the very real sense that something strange and possibly criminal was going on. “I couldn't possibly accept any sort of payment or reward. Just doing what any good pony would do, after all.” That was safe enough ground, even if not explicitly true; many of the ponies she had known would have kept the wallet.
He had nodded, with what he must have imagined to be a sly look on his face – it more closely resembled constipation – and gave her a wink. “Of course. I must have misspoken. Consider this, a... gift. Unrelated to your giving to me the item. From me to you.”
Sticky Wings had never been a serious criminal; in the grand scheme of things, her crimes had been more venal than anything else, first out of a need to eat, and later out of a compulsion that she was only now getting a hold of. Probably the worst thing that she had ever done, outside of causing the odd object to go missing, had been to keep the newest Daring Do book out of the library for an extra three days – fast hooves, slow reader. This... felt different. Like something out of a crime novel, or worse. She had picked up the bags, and stood, about to put them back on the desk...
When the weight of the Manehattan constabulary had broken down the office door. Of course.
Golden Fortune had been trafficking in illegal magical items, and had thought that he was going to be receiving an item with the unlikely name of 'The Alicorn Amulet' from a blue mare dressed somewhat shabbily. The Manehattan constabulary, under the command of Captain Apple Peeler, had gotten the tip-off, and had broken down the door to see Sticky Wings receiving what was supposed to be payment for the arcane contraband. When it had turned out that she had just been there to return Fortune's wallet, they had... not taken it well.
Fortunately, Golden Fortune had been so flummoxed by the fact that he had been about to hand over fifty thousand bits to someone intent on returning his wallet, that he had developed a case of diarrhoea of the mouth, spilling all of his plans, his long-term schemes, and the not incidental fact that the money he had been handing to Sticky had been embezzled from the bank. The first piece of bad news that Sticky heard that day had been that no, she would not be allowed to keep the bits.
The second piece had come when they had checked their files on a pegasus named 'Sticky Wings'. The long file, rife with petty crimes from fillihood onward. Coupled with her unlikely presence at the scene of a major crime, they had given her a non-optional invitation to join them down at the station, 'to clear up some details'. Sticky had a good idea what that meant.
The interrogation had been gentle and polite, and Sticky had decided to tell the truth from the outset. Her therapist had, once upon a time, given her the piece of rather worn and frankly cliche advice that 'the truth would set her free', and she had decided, perhaps optimistically, to give it a shot. They had nodded understandingly when she had explained her condition, about how she had gone back to return the wallet, and how she had insisted that she was planning to refuse any reward. They had even said that they believed her, but couldn't she stick around for a day or two, in case they thought up any additional questions that only she could answer?
The words 'flight risk' had been bandied about when they had thought she wasn't listening. Frankly, she found that tribalist.
And so she sat, on a stupid bunk, in her stupid cell, and so forth, bemoaning a world that apparently disliked pegasus ponies, or perhaps her in particular. Sticky's downward spiral of anger and depression was interrupted by the gaoler clearing her throat. “Captain Peeler wishes to speak with you, Miss Wings.” Of bloody course she did. Sticky took a moment to wonder where it all had gone wrong.
* * *
Icewine was pretty sure he knew where it had all gone wrong.
He stood before a classroom of unimpressed looking undergraduates, trying to impress upon them the great gravity of the lesson he was giving. Whether he knew it or not, the diminutive brandy-coloured unicorn was managing a result better than the mean average, in that the majority of his students were awake, and more than half of them were actively listening to the lecture. He might have been content with that, were it not for the fat that his class – an introduction to the philosophical musics of Clover the Clever – had been scheduled immediately after an introduction to the writings of Mane Rand, and, as was the case every year, a few of the students had taken the Objectivist philosophy to heart.
The two most irksome, a pale green earthpony mare named Shrugging Map, and a pink unicorn stallion by the unlikely name of Fountain Head, were interrupting his lecture with 'questions' every five minutes or so, asking how the philosophy of Harmony benefited them personally, pointing out shortcomings in other students, and generally making nuisances of themselves. There's one in every classroom, mused Icewine to himself, and just my luck, I got two of them. If I had paid a little more attention when I was in Celestia's school for gifted unicorns, I might have gotten a nice quiet job as a country librarian on the strength of that alone. Instead, I slacked off, and for my sins, needed a Master's Degree.
The fact of the matter was that for all of his griping, Icewine really did love the study of philosophy. Although the Royal Pony Sisters held something resembling divine status in the eyes of the ponies under their care, they were understandably cautious when bestowing anything like holy commandments. The caution had been well-earned – in the Third Century after the banishment of Nightmare Moon, Celestia had tried her hoof at giving a holy order for ponies to be 'good', but had neglected to give a functional definition for same, leading to not a little chaos. Then, in the seventh century, pressed for holy commandments by one of the more... zealous ponies in her care, she had flippantly suggested starting each day with 'a good breakfast'. The Breakfaster Cult was still one of the dominant beliefs in Equestria, with their holy fibre-rich cereal, but it had taken some time to stamp out the cannibalistic sects that had remembered the third century commandment.(5)
In the absence of divine mandate or instruction, the ponies of Equestria had been left more or less to their own devices in discovering the answers to the big questions: the meaning of beauty, the nature of truth, and What Was It Really All About, When You Got Down To It? Philosophers like Immanuel Canter, Neightze, and Hay Carts had posited their ideas, and students of magic had built upon them as ideas like Harmony had emerged as sound thaumatalogical principles. The best mages were students of metaphysics alongside physics, because the study of ideas was genuinely useful in understanding magic.
Of course, not every idea was right either. And so you got ponies postulating bizarre or selfish notions, and it was only by virtue of rational discourse that such notions could be dismissed. Every year, some new undergraduate would internalize the message 'Mane Rand was right about everything', and the cycle would begin anew.
Honestly, Icewine could have lived with that. But Fountain Head and Shrugging Map had cottoned to the notion that he was irritated by jokes made about his height, and had latched onto that as their primary form of subtle attack. Actually ejecting them from the class over a minor sleight that he would have difficulty proving would damage his academic career, not least since both students came from privileged backgrounds. On the other hoof, he was moments away from deciding that he didn't really need a Master's degree, and defenestrating both students.
Ah, decisions, decisions.
The earthpony and the unicorn were spared unsolicited and impromptu flying lessons by a knock at the door, and a summons to the Dean's office. Apparently, some piece of mail had arrived from the palace.
* * *
Nurse Hot Streak was fretting over the piece of mail that had come from the Palace in Canterlot. Usually delighted to get mail, the burns ward nurse hadn't been able to open it when it had arrived, and while initially she could conceive of no possible reason for them to have sent her any kind of missive, her mind had begun to fret and come up with any number of possible horrible contents for the letter. Perhaps fire magic was being made illegal. Maybe she was being audited. Could it be that they had discovered that she was the one who had sent a poorly-spelled and punctuated letter to Equestria Daily? Did they still throw you in gaol for bad spelling? She was sure that she had read somewhere that they had at one point.(6)
Hot Streak had only recently secured her current position, and if she was a bit clumsy outside of work, she had been doing extremely well at it. Her employment history had haunted her a bit – in all honesty, the fireworks factory had been a poor choice, as had the 'all things tinder-dry' emporium – but she had a natural affinity for treating burns, complimented by what some might have called excessive practice. If some of the orderlies made jokes behind her back, about 'drumming up business', well, she could just ignore them. She was doing well – but more importantly to the mostly good-natured unicorn, she was doing good. Seeing ponies, wounded and hurting, convalesce under her care was exceptionally heartening, and she felt, possibly for the first time in her life, like she was making a positive difference. If she wished that she could apply her special talent and her magic more to her work, she could at least console herself, knowing that she was helping other ponies.
But now, there was this envelope, with the Royal Lunar seal on the back, threatening all of that with vague, stationary-oriented malfeasance. It could have contained something positive – and, if she were being perfectly up-front about things, she had no proof that it did not. But the burden of experience weighed heavily upon the usually chipper unicorn. Unexpected envelopes almost never bore positive fruit.
So lost in thought was Hot Streak that when she finally realized Head Nurse Soothing Salve was trying to get her attention, it was difficult to say how long the other pony had been trying. Embarrassed at her own woolgathering, she blinked, and tried for an apologetic smile. Soothing Salve was understanding, kind, and considerate. Surely, she had only good things to say.
“Streak, you're an extremely talented nurse, and one of the best experts in burn care on our staff.” So far, so good. Positive feedback, from a respected superior. “But I'm afraid we need to talk about your future with Manehattan General.” Less promising. Steak swallowed hard.
“Is this about the soup incident?” It had been one of those 'we'll look back at this and laugh someday' things that had seemed to plague Hot Streak for her entire adult life – and, for that matter, a great deal of her childhood. One of the patients had been distressed by the tepid hospital soup, and the kitchen had been two floors away. A little bit of unicorn magic could heat that soup right up, and Streak had been overjoyed at the opportunity to use her magical focus to do something nice for somepony. She had even been careful not to create any actual fire...
“The third floor is STILL a sauna, Streak.” Soothing Salve shook her head. “One of our patients is an expert in persistent magical effects, and even she can't figure out how to undo it. We've had to move everyone off of the floor.” Streak winced. She had been so focused on bringing the soup to a low boil that she hadn't noticed everything else heating up as well. As to why things were staying as warm as they were, she was completely lost at sea – she had always been magically powerful, but for the trifling problem with control...
“Ah... at least the soup was heated up?” She offered weakly.
Soothing Salve sighed, a slow release of breath coloured by genuine regret. “Streak, you're a fine nurse, but it's out of my hooves. I can keep you on for a couple of weeks, while the paperwork goes through, but the hospital board of directors are mad as Tartarus. I'd suggest updating your resume – you're likely to need it, in the not-too-distant future. I'm sorry.”
Streak's heart sank. “I... understand.” The pyromancer was downcast, and she fought back tears. She had managed to land a job that she had been genuinely good at, and then this had happened. What a rotten day this was turning out to be. First that probably awful letter, and now...
Now she was getting kicked out.
* * *
“We have to kick him out!”
It was one of the orderlies at the Happy Pastures Retirement Home that had finally put voice to the thought that had crossed more than a few minds among the staff, regarding Sharp Salute. Most ponies, upon reaching their retirement, were content to settle down a little bit – maybe pick up a hobby or two, catch up on the reading, or engage themselves in the various pass-times made available by the retirement home. Many was the pony that had discovered the joy of shuffleboard or bridge club, or who kept themselves sharp through yoga or perusing the Happy Pastures library.
When Sharp Salute had first come to Happy Pastures, the facility had been honoured. A decorated military pony, in his twilight years, gracing their facility with his presence. It had been a feather in their figurative cap – not quite a celebrity guest, but certainly one well-respected and with the well-earned prestige to back it up. When it had developed that he was still every bit as active and vivacious as he had been reputed to be in the prime of his life, they had been far from dismayed – after all, Happy Pastures catered to keeping older ponies well-looked-after and entertained. And Sharp Salute had been, by all accounts, happy to be there, enjoying their facilities. If he was slightly sour about his forced retirement, he was no more cantankerous than many of the other older ponies, and Salute had always been extremely polite and courteous to all of the staff and fellow residents of the home.
That had changed, however, when the retirement home had been bought out by a group of investment developers. Happy Pastures had always been fiscally in the black, but the high-quality care that they had made their reputation upon had come at a premium cost – and thus, the margin of profit was small, considering the not-inconsiderable price of admission. For Golden Fortune and his investment group however, a small return on investment was simply not good enough. The residents had been upset when pizza night had been cancelled. They had been outright irate when the free jazzercise classes had been cut. But not even the long-term employees of Happy Pastures had expected them to literally go to the barricades over the removal of half of the dessert menu.
Had the staff at Happy Pastures been students of military strategy, they would have known that an entrenched militant population can indeed be difficult to winkle out. What they had rapidly learned was that there were few populations more entrenched than the septuagenarians under their care, particularly when that latter group had reached the kitchens. Now, it was an all-out warfront, with walker and cane-wielding ponies hurling foodstuffs at staff that dared to intrude upon the seized domain. Needless to say, there had been a few deserters in the face of the dessert.
Mostly, the staff didn't have the heart to press the old-timers. They were, generally, not particularly pleased with the changes that had come down from Corporate, but were limited in their options – disagreeing with policy was fine, failing to implement it was grounds for dismissal. The siege of the kitchens had lasted for three days so far, with Sharp Salute leading the elderly rebels, and with regular supplies being delivered to the kitchen entrance, they were in no danger of running out any time soon.
Personally, Orderly Friendly Face, a mauve pegasus with an amiable temperament and a genuine love of her job, thought that the whole exercise probably wasn't bad for the residents. They certainly seemed more engaged and energetic than they had in the past few months, as their recreational activities had been whittled away by fiscal demand. That said, she could certainly understand how... problematic the current situation was for her colleagues and friends. Attempts to negotiate in good faith were undermined by the fact that they couldn't offer much and retain their own jobs. Attempts to negotiate in bad faith had been met with weaponized pastries and pie tins filled with meringue. One of the retirees had even developed something that could only be described as a party howitzer that shot full cakes, claiming that some party pony that played the accordion had given him the idea.
The real problem was that when it came to numbers, the staff were already at a disadvantage. When it came to raw volume of life experience, they were outnumbered twenty to one.
The outspoken orderly from before reiterated his point. “We have to kick him out, and soon, or we're all going to end up unemployed!”
Friendly Face raised an eyebrow. “We can't even expel them from the kitchen. How precisely do you imagine we're going to remove him from the nursing home?” The dissenting pony had paused, considering this for a moment. Friendly Face continued. “Besides, technically they haven't broken any of the rules of the nursing home.” It was true. Seniors occasionally being cantankerous, the nursing home had always been a place where dissenting opinions could be safely voiced by the residents, with a certain amount of 'like it or lump it' toward the staff, who were expected to continue to serve with a smile. Granted, 'armed rebellion' exceeded this general advisory by a broad margin, but similarly, hadn't been anticipated by the owners, and thus no specific exception was printed. This technically fell under the broad umbrella of 'the residents being difficult', which according to the brief that had come with the cut in services, 'was to be expected, within reason'.
The day, it turned out, was saved by the mailpony, who arrived at that very moment, bringing with her two important pieces of news.
Firstly: the investment group owned by Golden Fortune had turned out to be a front for an illegal artefact trafficking ring. The assets – including the nursing home – were being seized by the state. For now at least this meant to the various orderlies that, barring specific instructions from the new owners, the austerity measures could end. They could negotiate once more, and perhaps bring the Siege of the Kitchens to an end.
Secondly, a letter addressed to Sharp Salute from the Palace, re-activating the elderly pony's commission and assigning him to a new special task-force being put together by Princess Luna. There had been some debate about opening the mail of one of the residents, but given the address upon the envelope and the royal seal on the back, the thought of some respite from the former Master Sergeant had convinced even the sticklers among the staff to 'accidentally' allow the letter to 'fall open' so that its contents could be inspected. That solved the other problem... and while Salute was gone, some bylaws in the nursing home could hopefully be drafted, strongly discouraging his return. It would leave the grumpy senior relatively happy, an old warhorse called again to the front, and the staff equally so, leaving any future rebellion of old ponies without leadership quite so capable.
“This,” said Friendly Face, “is perfect.”
* * *
“This,” said Zorada, “is perfect.” She looked over the letter again and smiled.
There was no amusing anecdote specific to the zebra's decision to leave her high-paying job which afforded her a great deal of influence and respect. She made her arrangements, paid her last month's rent, collected her few possessions, and headed toward the palace with all reasonable haste.
Perhaps she was just a patriot.
Wasn't that convenient?
4: Her reasoning was thus: while finding something and then returning it for a reward still counted as a good deed, stealing an item and then returning it for a reward ranged from 'extortion' to 'kidnapping', depending on what was 'found'.
5: The ponies of Equestria, it should be said, were basically good, but frighteningly literal.
6: This was actually true. A short-lived coup d'etat led by the librarians of Equestria had rendered illegal poor spelling and grammar, the re-shelving of books by patrons, and speaking loudly. Celestia, returning from vacation, had ended the takeover with grace and aplomb, noting that it had been 'a necessary chapter' in Equestrian history.
Chapter 3: In Which an Amusing Anecdote is Recounted, Cultural Differences are Discussed, and a Brawl Ensues
The typical formation of a new squad of the Guard would involve either training or a formal meeting; this was no typical formation, and it was not for a new squad of the Guard, so Luna, Shining Armour, and Paper Weight were unburdened by precedent. All of the gathered guardponies-to-be were trained as soldiers to greater or lesser extents, and all of them had some manner of expertise beyond that basic training.
While Icewine and Zorada had been in Canterlot already, and Hot Streak had actually been fired from her job the day that her summons had arrived, leaving her free to catch the next train into the capitol, it had taken some time for the other two to arrive. Sticky Wings had actually been in gaol, and Sharp Salute... Luna wasn't entirely clear on what had been going on with Sharp Salute. Someone had mentioned something about a siege situation, but the old soldier was retired, and certainly not doing mercenary work. How serious could it possibly have been?(7)
Thus, the ponies had arrived separately, and been briefed separately. Luna and Shining Armour had both wanted an opportunity to interview the ponies, to ensure that their eccentricities wouldn't pose too great a risk. The results had been mixed; Shining Armour had been more or less able to guarantee that in a more formal guard regiment, the candidates would have had mediocre success at best; for the task that they were genuinely being set to, Luna was convinced that she had made the right choices. Either way, they only had to hold out until the end of the fiscal year.
The candidates, for their part, had been variably enthusiastic about the task being set before them, but mostly pleasant and positive. Sticky Wings had been a trifle too defensive, frequently re-iterating her efforts to become a better pony. Icewine had begun staid and academic, but had turned out to be an expert at earthpony-style brawling, an artifact of having three younger siblings that had all been bigger than him. Hot Streak had actually impressed Luna with the raw power that she could conjure – the Princess of the Night had some inklings as to what to do to improve the unicorn's control. Sharp Salute had been coarse and gruff, but Shining Armour had approved of his discipline, and for his years, the earth pony had been in remarkably good shape. Zorada had been terse but polite, asking a few intelligent and relevant questions.
To allow the formative squad an opportunity to meet and greet, a small affair had been arranged; somewhere between a formal briefing and a cocktail party, with, Luna hoped, the best parts of each. It had even worked fairly well; for all that the ponies gathered were variably sociable, they all had begun with some common factor about which they could speak, and a not-unreasonable amount of free liquor helped to loosen tongues and allow the various ponies to speak slightly more freely.
At present, although Luna was slightly too distant to make out the exact words, Sharp Salute appeared to be sharing a story with the rest of the recruits. They were alternating smiling – occasionally laughing – and favouring Sharp Salute with looks of bemused horror, and the moon princess found herself wondering as to the contents of the anecdote. She moved slightly closer, the better to hear.
“And when they came to, the castle was on fire, half of the artefacts in the Museum of Natural History had exploded, and every piece of food in the royal kitchen that began with the letter 'L' had mysteriously vanished without a trace.” Sharp Salute finished with a bit of showman's flourish. “The Guard never did find out all of the details, but some of the boffins over at the Royal College said they figured it out, and ever since then, it's been illegal to make Clover the Clever's thirteenth formulation for cosmically good macaroni and cheese.”
This, Luna reflected, was the peril of eavesdropping. Not that you would hear things you hadn't wanted to – but rather, that you would hear only half of a story, and it would be socially awkward to ask how it had begun.
“I had wondered about that.” Icewine said thoughtfully. “It was already on the forbidden list when I was in Celestia's School, but they never did say why.” He shrugged. “I didn't even know you could do that with an extradimensional entity.”
Zorada, sipping her own drink – something that the alchemist had whipped up with a few minutes unsupervised access to the bar, and which was smoking lightly – laughed gently. “It is true, that the perils of magical cooking can have unexpected consequence. There are some memories I have of my own training that fairly accentuate the point.”
Sticky Wings tilted her head at Zorada. “Actually, regarding that... do you mind if I ask a personal question?”
The zebra shrugged assent. “I cannot guarantee a fruitful answer, but you are free to ask.”
“Well...” Sticky seemed to have second thoughts about the question, but continued anyway. “I've read a number of books about Zebrani culture, and at least a few adventure narratives with zebra main characters. And they all...” She decided to stop beating around the bush. “Why don't you rhyme when you speak?”
“Lazy writing.” Zorada gave a self-effacing smile.
Sticky blinked. “Beg pardon?”
“The books that you have read – I have likely read a number of them myself.” Zorada took a sip of her drink, looking unoffended and mostly at ease – it was not, after all, the first time that she had been asked the question. “It is true that the Zebrani language has a natural rhyming cadence, as a result of the way that it handles subject-verb agreement, and that there are zebra nationals who have a practised enough mastery of the Equestrian tongue to rhyme their speech regardless of the fact that Equestrian does not have the same structure. They will often do this as a way of keeping connected to their roots, and writers who wish to emphasize the distinction between our cultures use this language difference to demonstrate it. However, while I am fluent in your tongue, I am not a native speaker, nor so practised that I can easily form my thoughts into rhyming couplets.”
Hot Streak nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that makes sense. I took a couple of years worth of Gryphaan lessons, but I'm not exactly able to write poetry in it.”
Zorada smiled. “Besides, many of the concepts that I have to convey in the course of my work are... difficult to set to a rhyme scheme. It is difficult to make the meter work for 'the amount of water hemlock that you have put into this face cream could kill three ponies and give a fourth organ troubles for the rest of their not-overlong life.”
This caused a slight lull in conversation. Luna decided to move in to fill it. It was refreshing to be the solution to an awkward moment, rather than the origin. “I am sure, Doctor Zorada, that we all appreciate your efforts.” Luna certainly did. The practice of adding potentially lethal ingredients to beauty products was hardly new – before the Nightmare Moon incident, there had been a pigment in mane-dyes that added a scintillating effervescence and also cut an average of twelve years off of the lifespan of a regular user.(8) The practice had modernized, but hardly gone extinct. “If I may interrupt the festivities a moment, now that you have been somewhat informally introduced, I wished to speak on the subject at hand – the task to which I intend to set this group.”
The pronouncement affected different ponies in different ways. Sharp Salute stood at a wary attention, the older pony graying at the temples but by no means deficient in the contents between them; he had been earmarked for a leadership position, and given a rough briefing, but was curious as to the contents of the more formal discussion. Icewine and Zorada were both curious, but for their own reasons affected expressions of studied bemusement – it never did to wear one's expression fully upon one's sleeve. Hot Streak was genuinely interested, but hadn't gone through the academic rigours that had trained the two scholars to guard their curiosity; she looked expectantly up at Luna. Sticky Wings was similar in interest, but there was an undercurrent of dread; formal announcements almost never seemed to end up going her way, and her curiosity was intermingled with an unspoken dread that had become so familiar as to be unnoticed.
Luna had considered sugar-coating a little bit – 'you're the best of what was available' did not tend to be the ego boost that one desired on the first day of the job – but had decided against it. Whether or not they were being seconded to the guarding of Equestria, the ponies gathered before her were being inducted into her personal guard, and lies, even well intended, did not become such a relationship well. The result of her labours – a speech that didn't fib, but also wasn't horrendously depressing – had been managed only with great effort and not a few late mornings with Paper Weight.
“I do not believe,” she began, “that it will come as any shock to anyone here that an alicorn princess of Equestria really doesn't need bodyguards. When, in ancient times, my sister and I went to war against outside threats, mountains were levelled and seas were boiled. If I have misled anyone with the belief that I am looking for any form of personal defense, you have my apologies. Neither have we any real need for an additional mundane constabulary. The Royal Guard serves well for Canterlot, as well some of you know, and the towns and cities outside of the capitol have their own policing forces. Nevertheless, you are officially members of my Lunar Guard, and it behoves me to welcome you as such. Welcome, to all of you.”
So far, so good. The assembled ponies looked variably flattered and thoughtful, and it occurred to Luna that it may indeed have been some time since any mortal pony had seen an alicorn cut loose with magic – the handful that had been in Ponyville for the Tirek incident notwithstanding. Probably best to keep it so.
“That being said,” Luna continued, “neither my sister nor I have any interest in being blunt instruments, and we can only attempt to contain those threats of which we are aware. The half-dozen or so near disasters that have occurred over the last year or so were as bad as they were because they were allowed to fester – or because safeguards that were meant to prevent such incidents either failed or were unaccountably absent. The former could have happened either through ignorance or negligence – I am told that few ponies had even heard of changelings outside of bedtime stories, prior to their invasion of Canterlot. The latter...” She let the pregnant pause hang, morning sick, in the air a moment, before resolving it. “It is the belief of myself and a few others that there is active malfeasance in Equestria, and that foreign or domestic powers are ultimately behind many of the problems we are now facing.”
She paused for effect, and was somewhat surprised by the lack of shock on most of the faces before her. Some thoughtfulness, perhaps – as if a question, long standing in the backs of some minds, had finally been resolved to the personal satisfaction of Icewine and Sharp Salute. Zorada actually looked nonplussed, but had a habit of not showing her emotions for general consumption, and Luna wasn't sure that she wasn't just misreading the enigmatic zebra's face. Sticky Wings had the expression of someone who had been bracing for one piece of bad news and had instead received a different one – Luna supposed that was the possible upside to what the pegasus' psych report had called 'a groundbreakingly pessimistic outlook'.
There was nothing to do but to move forward. “The service that you are being called upon is to uncover these cabals and conspiracies before they bear the fruit that is threatening our nation. If this program is successful, it will be expanded, with greater numbers and more extensive resources. If it is not...” Luna paused, as if considering, purely for effect – the elements of rhetoric had not greatly changed in a thousand years, simply the details. “If not, then there is little harm in trying.” A fond smile, to her little ponies. “Are there any questions?”
Perhaps surprisingly, it was one of Sticky's hooves that shot into the air. Luna considered telling the pegasus that hoof-raising was not required, but then, it kept everyone from talking at once, and it was polite. “Yes, Miss Wings?”
“Not that I'm trying to put us all out of work or anything, your highness, but aren't a few short blasts of weaponized friendship usually the ticket when it comes to this sort of problem?” Sticky didn't seem to be happy to be asking the question, but there was approval in the eyes of Icewine – a school teacher would appreciate that line of inquisition.
Luna smiled. “That certainly has worked on many of the recent problems. That said, we are hoping to try to forestall these problems entirely, and possibly even to treat the underlying problem, rather than the symptoms. Anything else?”
Sharp Salute asked about organization structure, which necessitated the bringing of charts. The members of the Night Watch – Luna had decided to revive an old title, from her previous reign – would be of approximately equal rank, but specific duties would be assigned to specific ponies based on experience and merit. Luna would be the de facto commander, but as her duties as a princess would often preclude a hooves on approach, Sharp Salute would serve as a de jure leader, and handle the day-to-day operations. Icewine and Zorada would serve as analysts and researchers, with Icewine doing double duty on enforcement with Hot Steak, who was also the team nurse. Sticky Wings, in addition to areal reconnaissance, would serve as the team's quartermaster.
There was not precisely friction, but a certain amount of sizing up, as the ponies reassessed one another from a professional rather than social standpoint. Sharp Salute's military record was above reproach, but a scuffle nearly broke out when Hot Streak asked if the greying pony might be a bit old for this sort of thing. Icewine served as the voice of reason, until Sticky Wings mentioned that he might be a little small to act in an enforcement role, leading to a fully realized scuffle. Luna was briefly impressed with the way that the diminutive unicorn had managed to tackle the flying pegasus out of the air from a standing start, and made a brief mental note to ask Icewine if he might be willing to teach some of those Earth Pony style martial arts moves to the rest of the team.
They weren't perfect, but they were a lot better than she had feared. Rather than a fractured mob, they were... well, in all truth, they were a mob, but there was a chemistry to them that Luna could see working. It had been one thing to pull a hoof full of names from a stack of dossiers, and to say that she felt there might be something to them. Watching Zorada and Hot Streak prise Icewine off of Sticky, Luna could actually see that there was something. Certainly not harmony – but what were the odds that a few random ponies would have that level of connection the first time they met? Perhaps with time, they might grow into that, but for now, not harmony, but a joyful noise.
A noise of family.
* * *
Paper Weight, Shining Armour, and Luna were sitting in Pony Joe's Doughnut Shop, enjoying a coffee and doughnut each. Shining Armour was holding a cold compress to his eye, which would not quite forestall a shiner that was forming beneath it, the wages of an attempt to break up the all-out brawl that had broken out amongst the recruits. Seeing, if not recognizing, an outsider attempting to pull them apart, the team had unexpectedly closed ranks against the outside invader. An errant hoof to the eye had been the only scrape that a quick and liberally applied healing spell hadn't been able to mend almost instantaneously, and Luna, when she had finished tallying up the score, had pulled everyone apart.(9)
“To paraphrase Duke Wellington Boots,” Shining began, “I don't know what they're going to do to the enemy, but that mob of yours sure scares the crap out of me.” His hoof moved up to touch his eye, but hard won experience dropped it again. Rubbing it would not help.
Luna smiled broadly. “I know! Is it not wonderful?” Her doughnut was daintily nibbled, her coffee greedily glugged.
Shining arched an eyebrow, then winced. “I might quibble about your definition of wonderful.” It hadn't been 'striking a superior officer', since he was officially retired from the guard and wasn't in their chain of command. Barring a desire for an international incident, it had been filed under 'the sort of accident that happens sometimes, and don't do it again'. No particularly hard feelings, although it did lead Shining to wonder if he was losing his edge a little bit. Roughhousing amongst the guard was a pretty old tradition, and his favourite part of participating had always been winning.
Luna shrugged. “They are still a little rough around the edges.” That particular choice of words had been suggested by Paper Weight on the walk over, and Luna had adopted it with speed that would have made the fastest of the Wonderbolts blush. “But once the fires were put out, they all seemed quite enthusiastic about the challenges that lay ahead, and did you see the way that they moved to defend one another once the threat became external?”
“I confess,” deadpanned Shining Armour, “the Day Guard never destroyed a conference room that quickly.” A pause. “The Hearths Warming party doesn't count. No matter what the papers said.”
Luna grinned hugely. “So, what you're saying is, my personal guard is much more interesting than Celestia's? How delightful.” She mused for a moment. “I wonder if there is an appropriate greeting card to send to her, to emphasize this point? Something tasteful.” She turned to her secretary. “If you find time in the next few days, Paper Weight, could you look into it?”
“Of course, your highness.”
Luna nodded. “Right then. Tonight, we shall let them sleep it off. Tomorrow, we put them to work. The presentation of the levy is scheduled for the first of next month. I know that it may take some fine tuning, and they may or may not be equal to the challenge, but I find myself cautiously optimistic. Once we get some little victories, we can move to big victories, and once we get some big victories...” She savaged the last doughnut in the box, washing it down with the balance of her coffee. “There will be no stopping us!”
* * *
“Soon, there shall be no stopping us!” Somewhat more ominously, but almost simultaneous to Luna's declaration, came the voice of a hooded pony, to a large but intimate group of similarly hooded ponies. Their garb, coupled with the flickering candles, and generally 'occult' decor(10) might lead one to believe that this was either the meeting of a dark cabal, or at least a college fraternity that took itself way too seriously. This is shameful stereotyping. For all that you might know, gentle reader, it could have been unseasonably chilly in the dark room, prompting a long, warm, hooded cloak. The decor might be left over from Nightmare Night. Do you see what happens when you snap to judgement?
“Yes, my brother! The Order of the Golden Scoop shall return the monsters of old, and our rise to power shall be unchallenged!” Then again, some snap judgements are occasionally accurate.
The first pony to speak sneered. “Those fools in the Castle think that their governance keeps ponies from falling to chaos? Let them see how quickly their illusions vanish when they are tried sorely by our machinations.”
“All hail the Golden Scoop!”
7: The exclusion of the siege of Happy Pastures from the history books would, in a fair world, have been viewed as a disgrace; good ponies, who had their entire lives ahead of them, had received thorough pastry-related drubbings, and could thereafter never again walk past a dessert table without pause.
8: The origin of the phrase 'drop dead gorgeous'. Luna had always admired the expression for its cold-blooded dedication to its play on words, the sort of pun that knifed you in the stomach several times before tittering and capering off.
9: The more curiously minded reader may wonder how the brawl had tallied up. Honourable mention had been given to Zorada, who had kept a level head, and had only joined the fight due to proximity. MVP had been awarded to Hot Streak, for raw property damage and managing to avoid actually setting anyone on fire. Shining Armour had been edged out for outright loss by the boardroom, which took 15605 bits worth of damage in a little under seven minutes. This, after much persuading, Paper Weight had charged to Princess Luna's entertainment fund, since it was broadly accurate.
10: Dribbly candles and rocks carved into vague skull-shapes, a bunch of intricate chalk markings on the floor, and wall-hangings dangerously close to the candles. Most competent unicorn magi could have told those gathered that almost none of this was necessary, and that it might constitute a fire hazard, or at least a tripping one.
Chapter 4: In which the Squad discovers mixed success, and the Dissatisfaction of a Carnivore in a Pony World is Explored.
It was difficult being a gryphon in a pony nation, Gawain considered, as he languished in front of a heavily wooden door. He had first come to Equestria in hopes of starting a new life, with every expectation that it would be just like the employment brochures had said. Armed with a freshly-printed law degree and a can-do attitude, he had hoped to serve as a barrister – perhaps even a public defender.
It hadn't worked out as he'd hoped. Apparently passing the bar in Gryphodonia would get you only so far in Equestria – the different countries had different standards of excellence, and for all that thousands of bits had gone into his education, he could barely serve as a research clerk in any of the law firms that Canterlot had to offer. Worse still, pony lands were... strange. Something to do with the way that their magic interacted with nature meant that all of the usually edible animals in most of the rest of the world were distressingly sapient. He'd seen literal choirs of bluebirds, and a squirrel rugby team competing in an inter-rodentia league.
Fish were just about an option, but given that all of the ponies were herbivores, fisherponies were somewhat thin on the ground. The food he had needed in order to survive had come at a premium, and the money that might have paid for his articling in a respected Canterlot firm had dried up quickly – as had most of his savings. He was just about making rent in one of the poorer neighbourhoods in Canterlot, but only because he had begun to capitalize on his apparently more employable qualities.
Even if nobody wanted to hire a Grypodonian-trained barrister, Gawain still cut a fine figure of a gryphon if he said so himself. Large, by pony standards, broad in the shoulders and wingspan, and with his species characteristic sharp claws and beak, a pony he had met in a pub had been willing to hire him as a night watchman, paid under the table, and no need to bother the revenue stallions. Gawain had the vague impression that the legality of whatever he was guarding was a grey issue at best, but his options were limited; it was easy to moralize on a full stomach, but more difficult by far under current circumstances. The job was undemanding, and he was being paid enough money that he was making a living – with very slender savings. Now and again, a pony would show up, picking up or dropping off. If they had the right emblems on their outfits, they were allowed inside. If they didn't, he... encouraged them to remember other appointments.
He was reasonably certain that whatever contraband he was guarding, it wasn't any kind of recreational pharmaceutical. Too many deliveries, not enough pick-ups. If someone was smuggling relics out of some of the old jungle temples or something, what did he care? Equestria's law-enforcement community had missed the boat on hiring him to give a crap about their preferences. Instead, the gryphon occupied himself with an academic treatise on the concept of in medias res. It really was an interesting narrative technique, but not one popular in gryphon lands.
Taking a bite out of a hay-bacon sandwich and wishing to the Ancestors that it was a real one, Gawain pulled his cap down over his eyes and hoped for a quiet evening. Things would be... well, not great, but fine, just so long as he maintained his current holding pattern. Sooner or later, he would raise up enough money, and he would be able to get his life back on track. Just so long as nothing unexpected happened.
“Night Watch! Put your claws in the air!”
Ah. Shit.
* * *
A week prior...
It had been a few days since the – call it a party, since very few formal briefings have classically ended with an outright brawl(11) - and the newly formed Night Watch had more or less offered all of the apologies which they intended to give to one another. That having been accomplished, the subject had changed to the much more pressing concern of actually accomplishing the task that the princess had set before them.
Tirak's escape from his imprisonment had been the apparent result of mischance; there was no serious evidence to disprove the theory, and at the moment, no pressing reason to send a pony to Tartarus without something specific to look for. Cerberus was being better looked after, anyway, and it was unlikely another of the hell-plane's residents was likely to slip the leash, at least not the same way. In the interests of being thorough, Sharp Salute had asked for a comprehensive list of old enemies with a potential grudge against or predatory intent toward the ponies of Equestria.
It had not been especially heartening when Luna had looked awkward and muttered something about 'hundreds that she could remember off-hoof.'
The moon princess had, to her credit, furnished her guard with the top threescore or so most likely suspects. None of them seemed especially credible as up-and-coming threats to Equestria, but then, nobody had predicted Discord or Tirak, either. A few dozen pony-hours of library research later, and some basic dossiers had been filled out; probably not enough to be actually useful, but enough that, in the unlikely but possible event that 'Drimzel the Devourer' reared her ugly mug, the Night Watch could conceivably do something other than look momentarily surprised.
The work had been necessary, and it had been heartening; the frankly immense task had become something that was at least conceivable in scope – having narrowed the possible threats that they were meant to combat from 'all things in existence'. This accomplished, the question had arisen as to where next the team might direct their attentions.
The Night Watch had split off, with different members each pursuing avenues that their skills suggested or encouraged. Zorada and Icewine had favoured academic angles, the zebra going to speak with her contacts in the corporate research fields, and the unicorn returning to the university for a quick look at just who might have been looking through catalogues of ancient evils readily at hand. That such catalogues even existed had come as something of a surprise to some members of the Watch, but as Icewine had observed, the university had, over the centuries, taken it upon itself to list and categorize just about everything of which its resident scholars could conceive, and as time had gone on such listings had grown quite extensive.
Sharp Salute had known some ponies from his Guard days, well enough informed to be unironically considered 'contacts', who kept their ears close enough to the ground that should some form of supernatural conspiracy be brewing, there was at least a reasonable chance that they might have caught wind of it. Sticky Wings had similar sorts of friends – more acquaintances really – that she had begrudgingly admitted to, presumably capable of similar acts of reconnaissance, but in differing circles.
Hot Streak, having no particular apparatuses in place to aid in the gathering or formulation of intelligence, had contented herself with gathering the various daily and periodical newspapers published over the previous few weeks, on the grounds that there was a chance that something remarkable or mysterious might have made the news. Promising articles were clipped out – dubious ones discarded. Hope sprang eternal, but after a rush of excitement, most of the tabloids were removed from the pile of searched papers, after a distressing number of false positives.(12)
In the end, the Night Watch's first real lead had been an amalgamation of efforts; Hot Streak had seen an article which had mentioned the recent wrongful arrest of a merchant banker by the name of Golden Fortune. The arresting officers were currently under investigation, and Equestria Daily was speculating that they might shortly lose their positions. As it had to do with an artefact trafficking ring, Hot Streak had set the article aside, where it had been spotted by Sticky Wings.
The facts-as-presented differed from her memory of the same events, and Sticky was immediately suspicious. “The thing is, he was guilty.”
Sharp Salute gave the pegasus a sharp look. “You sound like you have firsthoof knowledge of that.” Sticky nodded, and the elderly pony ran his upper teeth over his lower lip, thoughtfully. “There could still have been mistakes in the arrest procedure, or in how he was treated when incarcerated, but that does seem to paint this in a different light.”
“He mistook me for someone supposed to be selling him a magical amulet of some kind.” Sticky explained. “Trust me. I've been arrested a lot. Apple Peeler's boys are among the more professional of the various constabularies that have collared me, and the bust was good, I'm sure of it.” Leaving aside – for the moment – the fact that Sticky Wings apparently had a working knowledge of Equestrian arrest procedure from the point of view of the arrested, Sharp Salute had earmarked the article, and arranged a team meeting to discuss it.
Opinions were mixed. Zorada was fairly certain it was an old familiar foe of the Equestrian justice system rearing its ugly head again – rampant corruption. She had seen any number of companies bypass health-and-safety regulations in her time as a freelance corporate watchdog, and this seemed like a cut and dry example of a familiar tune with slightly different lyrics. Sticky Wings had suggested that some form of magic had been afoot, and Ice Wine had agreed that it seemed likely. Sharp Salute had listened to the ideas, before holding up a hoof and shaking his head. “Whatever the direct cause of this trouble, we don't have enough information. I should like for us to have more of it before we go jumping to conclusions – ideally, a good deal more. Thoughts?”
Ice Wine raised a hoof. “I think I know the reporter who wrote the article.” Knew, yes, liked... not so much. But that was beside the point. “I could go and ask her if there was any information that she couldn't follow up on. Maybe she might be willing to share? Looking at the article, it sounds like she was a bit put out that so little information was freely given.”
The reporter in question, a unicorn by the unlikely name of Poison Pen, had been a classmate of Ice Wine at the Celestia School for Gifted Unicorns. Where Ice Wine had not mixed well due to a short temper and otherwise lackadaisical attitude, Poison Pen had been the class gossip, and the two had butted heads more than once. Pressed upon the subject, Ice Wine admitted that he detested Poison Pen, and that it had been reciprocated, but he respected her ability to work a story down to its bones, and then 'grind those bones into a fine powder'. “If nothing else, the authority of working for the Lunar Guard should help at least a little.”
Sharp Salute was less convinced. “If this is going to be an official outing, rather than a basic fact-finding, you shouldn't go unaccompanied. Guard teams stick together, and it's worked for generations for a reason. This Poison Pen might not be the sort to turn violent, but someone is trying to get this Golden Fortune off the hook, and they might not be so polite. Hot Streak, you're with Ice Wine.”
Ice Wine blanched a little at that. He had been working down at the ranges with the other unicorn, and even with Princess Luna's advice and assistance, things had gone rather spectacularly – in the sense that all of those misfires had certainly been visually spectacular. “Permission to set myself on fire and save time, sir?” Hot Streak looked hurt, but Sticky Wings snickered.
Sharp Salute, for his part, looked unamused. “Denied. We need to start working together as a team, not taking pot shots at one another when the opportunity arises. While it's unlikely that you're going to end up in a combat situation for something so relatively innocuous, situations can change rapidly when you're working in the field.” For a moment, years seemed to slough off of the old earth pony, the injection of steel into his tone giving it a firmness that beggared defiance. It was only for a moment though, and as the command that brooked no argument seemed to be accepted, Salute regained the decades quickly, looking and sounding tired.
The sergeant continued. “Back here, Sticky Wings and Zorada, I'd like for you to find out what you can about which of the members of the House of Lords are causing the most trouble for the Guard in Manehattan. There's usually one or two that are for sale, and if you're trying to find the root of an obstruction of justice, you rarely have to look beyond a few auspicious deposits in the accounts of whatever young lordling or lady has recently developed a gambling problem.”
Zorada nodded, making a few notes with a quill she habitually kept behind an ear. “It is always at least a little off-putting to rediscover that be they zebra, pony, or any other civilized species, 'how much and who to' is a relevant question in most any culture.”
Hot Streak was chewing her lower lip nervously. “Are we sure that this is within our mandate? I mean, I set the article aside because 'people mucking around with old artefacts' sort of seems like one of the things we're supposed to look into, but I'll admit, we don't have any real direct link between that and 'Equestria threatening dangers'.”
Sharp Salute gave a laugh, with enough years of cynicism behind it to qualify it as primordial(13) “If we find something in all of this relevant to the job we're ostensibly being put to, then bonus. If we get to the bottom of it, and it turns out to just be ponies being mutton-headed and greedy, then justice is still served. If it's just a bad lead...” The earthpony shrugged. “Then we're really not much worse off than we were before. We're here to be vigilant, so we might as well try.”
It was hard to argue with that.
* * *
The meeting with Poison Pen had been arranged in the mid-afternoon, in a small bar and grill in uptown Canterlot. The restaurant was affordable, even on an academic's pay, and was within a short trot of the head offices for Equestria Daily, making it a reliable gin joint for those members of the fifth estate that were occasionally fond of tying one on. The bar's status as 'neutral ground' allowed journalists of every stripe a chance to let their manes down and relax a little, without worrying that some erstwhile colleague might be pumping them for information. While Ice Wine had never been there before, he was familiar with the bar's reputation – that is to say, infested with journalists – and as such had brought enough bits to ply snoopy reporters with drinks until the scheduled meeting time. Members of the public were not, reportedly, covered by the 'neutral ground' policy.
Poison Pen made her entrance ten minutes late, with all of the social grace of a wounded hydra, and Ice Wine felt an old familiar flame stirring deep inside of himself at the sight of his old classmate.
“Oy, are you quite alright?” Hot Streak asked, seeing the expression on her co-worker's face.
“Heartburn. Really bad heartburn.” Ice Wine popped a couple of antacids into his mouth, chewing and swallowing the tablets with the aid of a glass of water.
Poison trotted her way over to their table, while Ice Wine did his best to bury his reaction in his cup. The purple and green unicorn gave the two guardponies an appraising look. “I'm here. What is it that you want?”
Hot Streak glanced over at Ice Wine, who gave a 'go ahead' gesture with his spare hoof, still clinging feebly to the conceit that he was just so damn interested in the contents of his rapidly emptying water glass. She shrugged. “Miss Pen, we're here representing the Palace.” The journalist's eyebrows shot up, but she didn't interrupt, so Hot Streak continued. “We read your article about Golden Fortune's arrest, and we wanted to ask you a few questions. We believe it may be related to a matter of Equestrian security.”
Poison Pen's expression had rapidly shifted, from mild annoyance to something resembling – at a distance, and in bad light – delight. “Is that a fact?” She purred, producing a quill, a bottle of ink, and a notepad from her purse. “There was a fair amount of good reporting quashed in that article-” she was there interrupted by a derisive snort from Ice Wine, which she gallantly ignored, “- but I had thought it was just a case of the Old Stallions Club in the house of lords not wanting a wealthy backer to be embarrassed. What would you like to know, and more importantly...” the journalist left a pregnant pause long enough to develop morning sickness “... how can one hoof wash the other? What's in it for me?”
Ice Wine had recovered enough by this point to retort. “Princess and Country?”
Poison's expression did not shift an iota. “And?”
Ice Wine gave Hot Streak a glance that said little that was repeatable in polite company, and nothing which was fit for print, but which summarized to 'do you see what I meant?' She gave him an encouraging smile.
He relented. “And, if your information is useful, an exclusive interview with members of Princess Luna's new guard faction. After our current investigation is finished.” Poison Pen seemed to consider this, until he added “Or, we can go speak to Shocking Headline. He's always looking for new material.”
Poison Pen sputtered. “That muckraker? Fine, but you owe me one, smallfry.” Ignoring the narrowing of Ice Wine's eyes, the reporter continued. “I had a feeling there was more to the whole Golden Fortune story, so I looked into some of the holdings he had purchased, ostensibly on behalf of his investment group, and discovered that there were a lot of warehouses...”
* * *
“And so it looks as if there is a collection of mystical bric-a-brac being collected in a warehouse down by the Canterlot docks.” Ice Wine flipped to the next page of his notepad. “Owned by a Lord Clearing House, of the Manehattan Houses, the warehouse in question is in a block that was sealed off after the Changeling attacks due to excessive magic contamination.” He raised his eyebrows at that. “It would help to explain why there's been some difficulty winkling out the specific location of the cache. Most artefact detection spells and tools aren't finely enough tuned to discern between background radiation and shaped spells.”
Sharp Salute rubbed his grey jaw. “Interesting. And then due to some form of malfeasance, Peeler's guards can't get a warrant to search noble property, and they have to start defending themselves against some pile of horseapples of a 'wrongful arrest' conviction.” He shook his head. “Your friend say anything about the sort of stuff that this group supposedly had?”
Hot Streak shook her head. “No sir. Only that it tended to be expensive stuff, pulled from old ruins, bought from collectors, or 'missing' from museum archives.”
The three ponies were in the small office in the palace that had been put aside for them. Luna was working on finding them better quarters, but the day guard had flatly refused to share, and most of the rest of the unused rooms large enough for the Night Watch had been declared historical grounds and added to the tour run by the Canterlotian Historical Society(14). As yet, the supplies closet in the basement that had been emptied out for their use had yet to have anything of historical import happen in it, although a member of the Historical Society had been tasked to stop by every Wednesday to make sure that nothing significant happened when they weren't paying attention.
Ice Wine was fairly confident that nothing could happen. If a pony was lithe, nimble, double-jointed and severely determined, they could just about turn around in the room, which might be a heroic accomplishment, but far from a historic one.
Sharp Salute pondered for a moment. “Alright. Here's what we're going to do. We don't have much reach where the Day Watch doesn't, but we do have a few advantages. We answer directly to Princess Luna, and she'll support us as long as we don't overdo it. Just as importantly, our funding comes from the princess, and not from a stipend afforded by the House of Lords.” He gave a humourless smile. “All we need is some thin pretence under which to prod our noses into that warehouse, and maybe we'll get some answers about this whole affair.”
* * *
“Night Watch! Put your claws in the air!”
'Ah. Shit.' Thought Gawain, for whom a quiet evening had just evaporated. True, he could try to fly away, but there weren't that many gryphons living and working in Canterlot. Whoever this 'Night Watch' was, they had led with globes of piercingly bright light, killing Gawain's night vision and rendering them all but invisible in the glare. It was impossible to tell how many there were, and even whether running was even vaguely an option.
He put his claws in the air. “What can I do for you fine...” He squinted. “Ponies?” As his vision normalized, one of the self-proclaimed 'night watch' looked more and more like a zebra. This seemed... unlikely, and Gawain's subconscious forced him to reconsider, waving Occam's razor at him in a threatening manner.
“We have a warrant to search these premises!” There was a pause, and Gawain realized that a swift, hushed conversation, as much a whispered argument as anything else. “Strike that. We have reasonable cause to prod about somewhat. But still within the premises!”
Gawain considered this for a moment. He was mildly sure that Canterlot's venal aristocracy had some hand in the ownership chain of the warehouse that he was standing in front of – but if the Night Watch was the Lunar equivalent to the Day Guard, a reasonable line of logic to follow, then they had the backing of one of Equestria's diarchs. Triarchs? There was a new one, after all – but perhaps that was incidental. The point was, when it came to 'who is likely to be protected from prosecution', their noble most likely beat his, if the noble that was probably extant in his org chart somewhere was willing to stick his or her neck out for 'help, hired' to begin with.
It was a bitch to lose the job, but it beat the hell out of being arrested. “Come in, come in, let me get the door for you, I surrender unequivocally, and incidentally, would like to turn Princess' Evidence.”
Wasn't it just so hard to hire good help these days?
11: Only two, in fact, in Equestrian history. The first, a planning session between Brigadier Golden Delicious and Admiral Hurricane, had led to fisticuffs over (direct quote) “what she said about our Neville.” The latter brawl, considerably more renowned in the annals of military history, had been between Captain Shining Armour and Corporal Helping Hoof over the possibility of Changeling infiltration in the Guard and royal palace. Shining Armour's surety that such a happenstance would be inconceivable was not well-regarded in written histories of the incident, the foremost of which had in fact been written by Corporal Helping Hoof. Petty office politics struck again.
12: 'Night Princess Plots to Steal Equestria's Cutie Marks?' Luna had snorted derisively, and requested that Hot Streak save the crossword.
13: In that it was gently bubbling, would eventually evolve into more modern-day cynicism, and had suspicious looking things floating about within it.
14: When asked why she put up with the historical society, whose primary goals seemed to be declaring that parts of the Palace could no longer be used because History had happened there, Princess Celestia had once explained to Luna that informing the society that history had pretty much happened everywhere would break their collective hearts, and that she didn't have it in her to do so. Besides, she said, it kept them off the streets and out of mischief, and that alone was worth the sacrifice of the Irritatingly Pink Drawing Room.
Chapter 5: In Which Books and Covers are Discussed, and Luna Gets Frustrated
The alley was small, cramped, an despite Canterlot's relatively open style of architecture, didn't see direct sunlight even at high noon. Gawain felt a certain satisfaction in having found it – the finding had taken most of an afternoon, despite detailed instructions. The gryphon barrister checked the package that he had slung in a pack over his shoulder again – it was still there, and still secure in the sling. He didn't check the contents directly, but the weight was reassuring, and the damn thing was creepy to look at. Landing lightly, the gryphon proceeded down the narrow alleyway on foot.
Although a number of buildings had back or side doors that opened into the alleyway – and evidently used it as the dumping ground for whatever unsavoury debris was too awkward or uncouth to go into the standard garbage – only one store had its main entrance in the alley. A cramped little store, with bead curtain and faintly perfumed air, filled with all manner of mystical detritus. Small cards, placed near certain items, declared them to be items of power, Not to be Trifled With, and Gawain had heard too many tales of the dangers of screwing around with strange magic to take the risk. Even if some of it was clearly tourist junk, his contact had told him that the shop did occasionally deal in the genuine article, and his desire to end up cursed or transformed was less than zero.
This, Gawain had learned, was the original deal – the little curio shop that sold differently enchanted items and then vanished as soon as the unfortunate patron turned their back to it, item in hoof. It certainly matched the accounts given by the few reliable stories, down to the moustache and rheumy eyes of the proprietor, a greying stallion of advancing years.
Gawain cleared his throat loudly, and the shopkeep turned to him.
“Welcome, traveller,” the stallion began, “and how may I help you today? I deal to a discerning clientele, curios and wonders from all across the world...”
Gawain shook his head. “I'm interested in what you have in the back.”
The proprietor had the ill grace to look affronted. “I assure you, all of my wares – all that are available for sale, at any rate – are in the shop you see before you. I do not have special stock for customers, be they ever so heavy of purse.”
There was no reason to believe that the shopkeeper had any intention of stealing from him, but Gawain felt at the purse of coins that he had been provided with, and shifted it into his pack. Appearances of blindness notwithstanding, the shopkeeper had to be perceptive indeed to have spotted how it had hung upon his belt, and the gryphon reminded himself, not for the first time, not to underestimate the old pony. “I'm not here to buy. I need to consult with your... resident expert.”
The proprietor scowled. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
Gawain gave him a meaningful look. “I've been led to believe otherwise.” The purse re-appeared, and a small handful of the coins scattered across the counter.
“Oh! That expert. Follow me.” Gawain spoke excellent Gryphodonian, and reasonable Zebrani, but one thing was a consistency across all tongues. Money was the universal language.
* * *
The alley had been small, dark, and cramped. The store had been small, dark, and cramped. It really shouldn't have come as any sort of surprise that the hallway leading to the back room of the store would follow suit, but Gawain still felt claustrophobic, unable to unfurl his wings in the slightest. At the end of the hallway was a curtain of beads, and the older pony gestured to it. “He is through there.”
Gawain squeezed past the elderly shopkeeper, who carefully turned to head back to the front. The illumination from the light spells lingering in the hallway did not penetrate much past the beaded curtain, and he took a deep breath before proceeding inward. The information he had been given hadn't given much past this point – simply that there would be an 'expert' who could provide the information he needed. The rumours of the 'shop that had vanished when you looked back' had gotten him a certain distance, and it had occurred to the observant gryphon that the expert was probably a master of both dark magics and illusions...
...Which was why it was only mildly surprising when the lights in the chamber were lit, revealing a changeling, sitting comfortably in an overstuffed armchair by a fire. Although no expert on the species, Gawain got the impression that the changeling was old; it took no expertise whatever to realize that the milky white of the creature's eyes meant that it was quite blind.
“Come in, come in...” The tone was that of an old mare, the clipped accent Canterlot nobility; Gawain doubted that to be overly significant, given the changeling's supernatural abilities of disguise, but the tone was friendly enough. He hesitated, but then entered the room. The chintzy facade of the shop outside belied the luxury of the interior room; the carpets were rich and plush, the shelves made from exotic woods. He made his way over to the fireplace, where the elderly changeling sat, and cleared his throat.
“Er...”
The changeling's head turned to face him, and despite the fact that the eyes clearly provided no vision to their owner, Gawain got the unsettling impression he was being closely regarded. “What brings a gryphon from the warehouse district to us, hrm?” The changeling tilted her head slightly. “What has he got for us? And who is he working for?”
Gawain boggled slightly. “I... wait, can you see me or not? And who says I'm working for anyone?”
The changeling sat back in her chair, and there was the audible creak of the chitin on her old joints settling into a familiar position. “You are clearly not an equoid, from your gait. Your wings brushed the doorway on your way through it. You still bear the faintest scent of fish and machine oil, the unquestionable aroma of the Canterlot docks.” She shook her head. “And a dockworker does not carry around the kind of coin it would take to convince Questionable Purchase to let them in to see us. We do hope that whatever puzzle it is you believe that we can resolve for you is more challenging than that.”
Gawains brow knitted. There was technically no law against changelings being in Canterlot, but he knew that they were not welcome, especially after the affair that had been the royal wedding. Still, the affects of the room suggested that its sole resident spent most of her time within, and had for many years.
“I... have come across something. I was hired to guard it, but it seems dangerous, and I need to know what it is.” Despite himself, Gawain found his words stumbling to come out. He swallowed, and continued. “A pony I met at the pub suggested that you might be able to help me.”
The changeling looked thoughtful. “We are an expert in many things, but not all things. You have coin, so we will help you if we can, although we are quite sure that you will be discreet with whence came this information.”
Gawain reached into the pack he had slung over his shoulder, and produced the item, the lower half of a stone tablet, with strange runes and disturbing diagrams chiseled into it. The mercantile part of the gryphon's mind took note, as it had before, of the large gems that decorated the artistry, but without much pause, he set the tablet upon the table with an audible 'thunk'. The blind changeling raised a hoof, running it along the tablet, and there was faint nimbus of green around the hoof as she did so, a matching one lightly illuminating the insectoid equine's milky-white eyes.
The changeling looked up at Gawain – doubtless a practised gesture. Her expression was serious. “This is old magic, gryphon. We have not seen its like in some hundreds of years, and this...” the changeling face was not well-suited to emotive expression, but Gawain was quite certain that there was both concern and distaste in the subtle emotions that played across the changeling's face. “This is not... good magic.” She looked frustrated, as if having trouble finding words for what she meant to say.
“Ponies... they talk of 'light' and 'dark' magics.” The changeling shook her head. “Mostly, these distinctions are trifles. Magics that are consumptive, that are aggressive, that are... distasteful, the pony does not like. It evokes in them fear and anger; they do not use them, and speak of them as lesser because the spells so called can turn the head of one not strong enough of will. There are good and evil ponies; these spells that they so mislike simply allow those ponies to express what is already within them. Little wonder that they distrust it so.
“This is magic that is less wholesome than even that.” The changeling spat into the fire, a faint sizzling sound punctuating her distaste. “This is magic that we would hesitate to invoke. It is not the whole of the thing, but... We suspect that it is with an eye to bring something forth. As to what, we cannot tell without more of the tablet. Do you have it?” The question would have seemed ominous to Gawain, but the tone behind it was a distressed disinterest. It was possible that the changeling was the master manipulator and actor that her species implied, but... no, this was disdain for those that would use such magic, and not a little fear. In his work with the Griffon courts, Gawain had learned to read subtle oral and facial cues, and if the changeling's mask was near perfect, the inches by which it missed the full title were crucial and telling.
“No. The tablet was incomplete when it was recovered.”
The changeling scarcely moved – the stillness making the equimorph seem stranger and more alien – but to Gawain's discerning eye she sagged in relief. “We are happy to hear that. You seem a decent enough fellow. We'd hate to kill you.” There was an amused candour to the changeling's tone.
Gawain gathered up his effects. The changeling sat back, as if in deep contemplation, and Gawain squared away the tablet in his pack. “What do I owe you?”
The changeling didn't look up. “There will be no fee for the consultation. You have paid Questionable Purchase his due, and that will suffice. Take your bastard heathen magic and get out of our shop.” She seemed to be brooding. “Griffon... take our advice. Since we have come to Canterlot, we have seen fire rained upon it. Invaders, at its gate. Our hive, never large, is now merely us – a swarm of one. Had the upstart queen Chrysalis come upon us, we would be a thing that is extinct.” The changeling's voice was distant, and Gawain got the impression that she was talking past him now, rather than to him.
“We are alone now. Once, when we had hope that our people could be more than a parasite race, that would have frightened us. Now, little frightens us.” The unseeing eyes turned to Gawain. “Now, what frightens us is what you brought to our gate. Find out what is going on. Stop it.”
* * *
“Not a little melodramatic, was she?” In absence of an office space with anything like enough room, the Night Watch had adopted a bar that had been popular among the Day Guard during Sharp Salute's days, and the quiet booth where the Watch's unofficial base of operations had been established was far enough from the nearest table that reasonably confidential conversations could be had with some surety of privacy. Gawain had returned there after consulting with the changeling, and was now being debriefed by Icewine and Zorada.
Gawain shrugged. The logic behind sending him had been solid enough – it afforded the Night Watch some plausible deniability. They had found the tablet fragment in a safe, in a hidden compartment in the warehouse, and given the other contraband that hadn't been similarly protected, it had seemed a good bet that it was among the more important relics that the warehouse had housed. Still, it would be difficult to pin anything on Lord Clearing House without further information, and lacking sufficient evidence when accusing a peer of the realm of trafficking in misappropriated artefacts was the sort of mistake a guardspony's career only really suffered once. Gawain was, to the best of anyone's knowing, a free agent – so even if the follow-up investigations had been observed, it would look as if the gryphon was simply covering his own ass.
The truth of the matter was somewhat different. True, he had been found by the Watch with his figurative claws in the cookie jar, but it hadn't taken all that much effort to prove that he was the hired help, and little more. Looking through the files that the Canterlot immigration office had on him (most of which, he suspected, had been his own complaints, lodged with the office), they had determined that he had skills that they desired. Given broad powers in terms of his organization's roster, Sharp Salute had made the call that the virtues of having a skilled – if not licensed – barrister on the Watch's side carried a lot of weight. His first task had been to get an expert's appraisal of the fragment, and Gawin flattered himself to think that he had done so admirably.
Ice Wine was looking at him, and Gawain realized that the small academic had expected a response. The gryphon shook his head. “I get the impression that she was talking more to herself than to me. It can be hard to live in Canterlot when you aren't a pony.”
Zorada's eyes glittered a little at that. “Indeed. But it ill behoves us to discount an expert opinion after we have sought it.” Zorada was drinking ice water against the heat of the day, and Gawain had been unsurprised to learn that the zebra was a teatotaller. “I think that we may have to consider the possibility that somepony with ill intent toward the safety and security of Canterlot or Equestria might have a hoof in the warehouse that we raided – and I imagine that they will be missing their seized relics soon.”
Ice Wine rubbed his chin. “I'll have to do some digging. Most of these relics haven't been reported missing anywhere – I know that Sticky and Hot Streak are checking with the local museums and collectors. It seems likely that someone has been smuggling them into the city.”
Zorada glanced at the other two. “Yes... but why?”
* * *
Hot Streak didn't realize that she had walked into an ambush until it was too late.
True, the streets of Canterlot were classically safe to walk at any hour of the night, but she chided herself as she recognized the tell-tale signs of a magical suppression field. She wasn't the scholar that Icewine was, but the unicorn had been in such a field before – mostly in efforts to learn to control her own volatile magic. As the field went up, the yellow-orange nimbus of light illuminating the various records that she had acquired through her enquiries snuffed suddenly, causing the ring-binders to fall to the ground, no longer buoyed by her telepathy.
“Sticky, we're in trouble!”
The pegasus hadn't been paying attention either, but one did not last long as a petty thief on the harsh streets of Manehattan without being quick on the uptake, and on Sticky there were no flies.(15) Too late, she saw the netting that had been cast over the top of the alleyway, preventing swift escape by wing... and the burly-looking figures that had blocked off either entrance. Swearing under her breath, the pegasus landed, to take up a defensive position beside Hot Streak. “Right. So, I'll take the...” she paused, doing a quick nose count. “five on the left, and you take the six on the right?”
Steel glinted down the alley, as one of the toughs, a frankly enormous diamond dog, drew a holdout blade that he probably thought of as a knife, but which was a small sword by anyone else's standards.
Hot Streak crackled her neck. It had been a long time since she had undergone the Equestrian Guard's basic training, but she'd done well enough at the time. If only she hadn't set that training base on fire. “That hardly seems fair. We have them so badly outnumbered.” It was, perhaps, a bit of bravado, but when someone had your back to a wall, it didn't hurt to bluster a little bit. Just because a numerically superior, well-organized and heavily armed force had cut off your avenues of retreat was no reason to let them grow overconfident.
“True. Maybe I'll spot them an advantage and tie both wings behind my back.” Sticky was scanning the area with a refined eye. There were a couple of dumpsters, a few doors that looked like they locked from the inside – not, admittedly, a lot of advantages for the average brawler, but she had a few ideas in mind. Privately, the pegasus was wondering where Canterlot's famed city guard were – Ancestors knew that if she'd stolen the wallet of one of the advancing thugs, the guard would surely have been on her like red on an apple.
“It only seems fair.” The menacing figures were growing quite close now, and Hot Streak gritted her teeth. The magic-suppressant field was strong, but not overpowering, and if there were any flaws in it... there! Hot Streak found a flaw, and poured power into it.
The field cracked like an egg, and the unicorn and pegasus charged.
* * *
Luna was annoyed. The special meeting of the House of Lords had required the presence of both of the princesses, but both she and Celestia were both being ignored as noblepony after noblepony grandstanded and fillybustered(16) in an apparent attempt to express their displeasure about the levy. When the subject of the Night Watch had come up, it had been Lord Clearing House complaining about the legitimate raid that the group had performd on one of his warehouses near the Canterlot docks.
Lord House had evidently no idea where the illegal artefacts had come from, but protested his innocence with a vehemence that beggared belief. He loved law and order, and blessed its little cotton socks, and the past half hour at least had involved wild speculation as to whence might have come the illegal relics housed in his facility. Everything from a changeling plot to Discordian interference had been proposed, with Luna particularly amused by the proposed possibility of moon-ponies having done the dirty deed in flying cups and saucers. Herself excepted, there were no moon ponies, a point that underscored the inappropriateness of the implication.
This, she decided as the lord's filibuster reached a full forty-five minutes, had gone on long enough.
“Enough.” Technically, Luna was speaking out of turn, but the parliamentary niceties did not actually apply to either princess – they simply usually observed them because they were niceties. Alliterative statements about punctuality notwithstanding, politeness was the politeness of princesses. “Lord House, the rules regarding your holding of the floor do not extend to your slandering of the name of one of your sovereigns. You have not been directly implicated or accused of malfeasance in the trade of illegal artifacts... yet.” The night princess' eyes narrowed. “Our investigations are ongoing, and you can quite reasonably expect this to be amended should they turn up the faintest whiff of complicity.”
In truth, the investigation had turned up more than the least whiff, but the political realities of the situation had prevented the investigators from EIS from preferring charges. (A brief survey of the investigatory team had turned up a number of things that they would prefer instead, the list beginning and ending with a drinks order.) As Lord House was the current leader of the Opposition, an arrest or even formal accusation on anything less that direct evidence would... complicate the Government's initiative to remain solvent.
Particularly if the scandal sheets got a hold of it.
Luna reflected, not for the first time, that the wildly variable approaches Equestrian citizens took to their government made it difficult to predict precisely what tack would be best to take. On the one hoof, the average Equestrian-on-the-street could scarcely give less of a damn about the decisions made in parliament, excepting those that affected them personally. There was an air of apathetic savoir faire to this disregard that beggared belief at times. Mostly, the average pony on the street seemed to believe, the government would manage the relatively basic tasks of good governance and practical decision making.(17) They tended to be honest, pious, and hardworking, and put their faith in their royals and elected officials.
In absence of a scandal arising.
With the slightest hint of corruption (such as, say, the government attempting to gaol the leader of the opposition unjustly for smuggling charges), the average pony-on-the-street became a wildly opinionated creature, who knew every detail about every facet of the issue, whether this knowledge was based upon fact or otherwise. When the faint hints of corruption had reared their tiny heads in Luna's brief time as a serving royal again, Day and Night Court attendance had climbed a staggering four hundred percent.
All of which made things... tricky. The budgetary levy was important, and would probably be entirely stifled by the hint of scandal. Luna was not ready to pull another all-dayer with the budgetary committee to try and hammer out something else that could afford the relief efforts the necessary funds. More than that, she was coming to trust the team that she was putting together. If there was some kind of smuggling operation going on in Canterlot, and if it endangered the lives of Equestrian citizens, she trusted her team to sniff it out. They were an odd bunch, the Night Watch, but what most of them needed more than anything else had been a second chance.
Luna could relate.
Lord Clearing House was sputtering, and Luna rose from her throne. “Honoured peerage, we understand that the idea of additional taxation is a bitter pill to swallow. Many of you have spoken at length, complaining about how it is yet another expenditure from the throne. But there are ponies out there who need our help, and we intend to render it to them. If you have an answer to that which does not involve personal affront, I invite you to share it before this matter is put to a vote. If not...” The night princess did not so much smile as show her teeth. “... then we are quite certain that other, more personal matters, may be reserved until after the vote two weeks from this evening. From the throne, I request that we do not turn our backs upon ponies that need our help.”
* * *
“I think we might need help.”
The fight had been hilariously one-sided. Once the magic suppression field had failed, Hot Streak's elemental magic had proved nearly as decisive as Sticky Wings' less-than-decorous under-hoofed moves. Although there had been no serious injuries among the assailants, the dumpsters – and the contents thereof – had been used to humorous effect. All the more humorous if you didn't have to stand to close to the now malodorous thugs.
Sticky had just been beginning a run-up to give the diamond dog that had pulled a machete another kick where it would not show, when the Canterlot watch had showed up. Conveniently late to the scene, Hot Streak reflected.
Sticky and Hot Streak had both told the simple truth – that they had been the victims of an attack, and moreover, were a part of Princess Luna's task group – but either word of the Night Watch's existence had yet to permeate the layers of the Canterlot PD, or quite possibly, someone had been on the take. The Night Watch ponies had been placed in one cell, their assailants (many of whom still bore hold-out weapons, on or about their persons) in other facilities.
“Well,” Sticky mused, “it's a good thing we just hired a lawyer. Timing worked out pretty well, for that.”
* * *
“The timing has worked out pretty well.” Zorada said, taking a sip of a murky liquid as she sat across from someone in one of Canterlot's less reputable dive bars. “The team is coming together, and I think they are starting down the right track. Whether or not it will be decisive depends on what is yet to come, of course.”
The interviewer nodded, thoughtfully. “There's been pressure in parliament for Luna to disavow them.” The two shared a smirk. “That's unlikely to happen, to say the least. People think that the princess is untested in matters of politics, but they haven't been doing their history readings. She was a force to be reckoned with centuries before most of their great-grandparents were twinkles in their great-great grandparents eyes.”
Zorada looked briefly concerned. “Would you like me to bring some examples of the artifacts we have found in for your experts to take a look at?”
The interviewer made a dismissive gesture. “We'll be fine without it. Right now, it's important that Luna's mob get some real victories under their belt. They need to build up confidence. Just keep reporting in regularly. We wouldn't want things to get out from under us.
“There's just too much at stake.”
15: Or at least, no flies that still possessed anything valuable in their pockets. They had, after all, bumped into her.
16: Not classically how it was spelled, but Luna had always wondered why not, given the Equestrian propensity for pony puns.
17: With an underlying note of 'not as well as I would, but who has time for that sort of thing'. Equestrian citizens had, as a whole, a much higher esteem for their understanding of civics than was truly warranted, as well as an argumentative nature. Some, of course, would disagree.
Chapter 6: In Which The Secret to Really Keeping a Secret in the Equestrian Government is Discussed, and the Plot Thickens.
Fudged Numbers found herself slightly confused. The last thing she remembered, she had been drifting off to sleep in her own bed, with visions of embezzlement dancing in her head.(18) She had found herself walking down an infinitely-long corridor, and then in a waiting room. A handsomely-dressed minotaur in a bespoke suit, a clown wig, and juggling, walked in. “Miss Numbers? Her Highness, Princess of the Night, will see you presently.”
This was strange.
It wasn't that Fudged Numbers never dreampt of work – indeed, with the recent budgetary crisis, she had frequently been beset with nightmares, whatever her benefits package had promised. Despite this, she was quite certain that the circumstances in which she found herself were indeed odd. Firstly, because she had recognized her dream as such – Fudged Numbers had heard of such things as 'lucid dreamers', but had never encountered the state herself – but secondly and with equal weight, because whereas her dreams had a tendency toward the absurd, this had a strange clarity to it. Equally bemused and curious, and bracing herself for the strange and unnerving sights that would surely await her, the chairpony of the finance committee of Equestria found her way into the indicated doorway.
Within, it could safely be said, Fudged Numbers' expectations of grandeur and sublime absurdity were not met. It was a normal-looking conference room, with a hoofful of ponies that she had met upon occasion and vaguely recognized as other head of committees seated around a long table. Sitting at the end of it, and wearing a tastefully tailored suit, was Princess Luna. “Welcome, Chairpony Numbers. Please, have a seat, we're about to begin.”
Ancestors. Fudged Numbers found herself sweating. It's that dream again. I'm naked at work! There was a pause. Wait. I'm almost always naked at work. Clothing was a 'special occasions' conceit for Numbers, as with most of the ponies in the ministry. Embarrassed, she found a seat in the 'sweet spot' of conference chairs – sufficiently close to the heart of the gathered ponies to be able to clearly hear all speakers, far enough from the princess that she could rely upon at least a little privacy if her mind started to wander, and adjacent to a heaping pile of doughnuts.
Paper Weight, the princess' personal secretary called the meeting to order with a quick rap of a convenient gavel upon the table. “Let's come to order and get down to business, shall we? Some of us have other plans this evening. Yes, Chairpony Numbers?” Fudged Numbers realized, to her horror, that she had raised a hoof. Thus called upon, she felt compelled to speak.
“Ah... I seem to have missed the notice about this meeting? What's going on? I thought that I was asleep.”
Princess Luna's much put-upon secretary pushed her spectacles up her nose, and gave a soft sigh. “Miss Numbers, upon signing the Official Secrets Act, you initialled a clause that allowed for mystical means of conference to be used for the discussion of issues deemed to be Quite Secret Indeed or higher. Did you not wonder about the phrasing of a clause that officially gave the Equestrian government full authority over your very dreams?”
Fudged Numbers paused to give that a moment's consideration. She did seem to recall wondering about that phrasing... “I had sort of assumed it was meant in a more figurative sense, like when I signed up for my student loans. The wording was almost identical.”
The meeting came to order, and it was immediately clear why the topic of conversation had been deemed sensitive enough to warrant dream obfuscation. A member of the Quality – a term that Fudged Numbers had always hated, but had grudgingly come to internalize – was under suspicion for a rather lengthy laundry list of offences. The Celestial Diarchy was willing to forgive many a sin, but treason, the harbouring of dark artifacts, and a number of other transgressions against crown law had formed a noose too tight for even a peer to slip. Fudged Numbers looked a little shocked as she realized that the group of misfits that she had helped to sign into a position as law keepers had contributed to the investigation that had discovered such malfeasance.
The law of unintended consequences, rearing its ugly head. Numbers carefully partitioned 'embezzle enough bits to retire to the Bahayman Islands' into the portion of her brain dedicated solely to dreams.
“But what's this all about?” Numbers furrowed her brow. She had learned, in a roundabout way, to 'follow the money' when investigating fiscal ne'er-do-wells; she could certainly believe that a chain of connections strong enough to warrant investigation had been found, but couldn't figure what the possible motive might be. “Why would Lord Clearing House risk his title, his reputation, and his family name with such incaution? You've all clearly laid out means, opportunity – and indeed, some very minor evidence of his direct action... but why?”
Princess Luna frowned slightly. “That... is something that my agents are still investigating. You've all been called together because you are experts in your particular fields. Your jobs are to track down the evidence that has been mentioned tonight, and see to it that it is solid enough that we could bring a peer to task with it. In the meantime, if the Night Watch comes across data pertinent to your investigations, I shall see to it that it is shared with you.
“Needless to say, we would not be taking such extraordinary measures in regards to security if this investigation were prepared to go public. By the geas of public office under which you all labour, I bind all present to operational security on this matter. One of my hoofmaidens will be by tomorrow with affidavits confirming that this was not simply a dream. I expect the best of work from all of you.” That had a note of finality to it, and such an invocation was not lightly taken, so Fudged Numbers supposed that was that.
Paper Weight managed a somewhat fixed smile. “If you'll all please exit out of the door through which you entered, you'll find yourselves back in your regular, unaltered dreamscapes – whatever you were going to dream before the meeting. Please begin your investigations at soonest convenience upon waking, thank you.” One or two at a time, the various gathered ponies made their way out the door, with the mien of those finishing a task that was, while not unpleasant, thankfully complete.
Finally, only Fudged Numbers was left. She hesitated, but then turned to Paper Weight. “Ah... how bad is it going to be?”
Paper Weight gave the budgetary chairpony a humourless smile. “Bad enough.”
* * *
“This is awful!”
The declaration had come from a hooded pony with a better-than-average understanding of awfulness. He had, in his time, committed some reasonably heinous acts, and in doing so, acquired an enviable(19) appreciation for awful things transpiring – albeit usually by his hoof, rather than committed against his interests. Nevertheless, for all of his vaunted understanding of all things awful, the hooded pony did not seem to have his audience in full agreement. This was the cause of some mild consternation for him, and the author invites all readers to take this opportunity to express sympathy ranging from 'mild' to 'insincere' for this clearly bad pony.
Are we finished? Good. Moving on.
A rather more grounded pony, also hooded, but by her voice clearly female, tilted her head. “Come now, don't you think that you're overreacting a little bit?”
The first pony, who at least fancied himself the group's leader, shook his head. “The interlopers have broken into our warehouse and seized all of our precious artifacts from within! A full third of what he have spent months collecting, gone in an instant! Clearly, this is awful!”
There was murmuring around the room, ponies, all hooded, exchanging knowing looks and nodding. They hadn't been sure before, but this did indeed sound rather awful.
The second pony was having none of it however. “Come now. You've said yourself on multiple occasions that we only need half of what we had collected, and while I count my wasted days as a young schoolfilly among my favourite to recollect, I do seem to recall a lesson in arithmetic in which it was patiently explained to us that 'two thirds' – that is, the amount we have remaining of our magical cache – is well in excess of of 'one half' – which, in your own words, is the total of our requirements. Let's have no more of this 'awful' talk. Honestly, I had no idea you were so prone to defeatism.”
The leader felt a tension headache coming on. “Nor had I an idea you were such a pollyanna!” He paused. “I suppose the smiling faces and sunbeam in your cutie mark might have been a clue, actually.” The stallion rallied gamely. “Regardless, it must concern even you that we seem to have drawn the attention of the Equestrian government! This is a crisis!”
This was a mistake. The murmuring around the room changed timbre in a way detectable only by the skilled observer, and one hooded pony, distinct from the first two, raised her hoof.
The leader glowered. “Yes, sister Doorkeeper?”
The titled pony hemmed nervously a moment before putting herself forward. “Um. Well, I was just reading this book, and it said that the Camelean word for 'crisis' is made up of syllables meaning 'problem' and 'opportunity'!”
Another pony, less inclined toward hoof raising, snorted. “So? The Equestrian word for 'sandwich' is made up of syllables meaning 'coarse particulate grainy soil', and 'negatively-viewed female spell caster'. What, was your book titled 'relevant-seeming but pointless etymological facts from around the world'?”
The would-be leader sighed as Sister Doorkeeper rebutted the comment with a mean left hook, and all possible discussion was briefly put on hold as the scrap between the two was resolved, with other members of the group alternately placing bets or preparing first-aid for the wounded. That was the problem with recruiting just anyone, really. If he'd had his way, the organization would be filled purely from the finest stock of the Equestrian peerage. Instead, he'd had to rely on those somewhat less satisfied with their lots in life, and, well... twits.(20)
The fight resolved with neither winners nor serious injuries. The interlude had dome some good however, as a plan began to hatch in the leader's mind. Sure, the idea had come from Sister Doorkeeper – and as such was at least mildly suspect – but it could genuinely work! “Brothers and sisters, I have a plan!” The congregation looked to him, and the leader felt a swell of pride setting his chest fit to burst. “We shall use our remaining mystical resources to call forth the being, foretold in the prophecy! With the tablet and the rest of our magical goods in the hooves of those... interlopers, it should be drawn right to them!”
There was a pause. A hoof went up.
The leader massaged his temples. “Yes. Sister Doorkeeper.”
“Um. Well, how really... does that... help?”
It was true that there was frustration in the self-styled leader at this point – he had never liked to repeat what had already been said – but there was little he liked more than a straight line, particularly one that fed into his ability to listen to the sound of his own voice. On the balance of things, pride outweighed annoyance, at least for now. “Those incompetents over at Princess Luna's 'Night Watch' will never be able to anchor a being like the one we could conjure forth! They will be swiftly routed, and the princesses will have no choice but to bring forth their ultimate weapon!”
There was a pause as those gathered considered this. While, true, none of them were the world's most brilliant thinkers, the idea of raising an enormously powerful creature of darkness that was next to impossible to bind anywhere in the vicinity of themselves, caused some consternation. Further consternation arising from the notion of seriously pissed-off diarchs seeking to utilize an 'ultimate weapon' on those ultimately responsible caused a susurration of unrest to once again stir the gathered cultists.
A hoof went up again.
“Yes Sister Doorkeeper?”
“Um. And, ah... how does that help?”
The leader ground his teeth. True, the summoning ritual didn't call for a pony sacrifice, but he was growing increasingly certain that cause for one could be manufactured. “Because our entire goal, as has been explained several times is based around it.” He paused. It was possible, perhaps, that he was overestimating his audience. What really seemed to help was the rallying cry. “All in service to the Golden Scoop, my dear.”
There was a cheer as uncertainty melted away, like butter in front of a blast furnace. “ALL HAIL THE GOLDEN SCOOP!”
* * *
The good news had been that after much hemming and hawing, it had been decided that the spare supplies cupboard in the basement of the palace of Canterlot was not suitable for the Night Watch's headquarters. The cramped spaces, the occasional visitors in the form of janitorial staff, and the fact that it had actually turned out to be haunted(21) had not proven sufficient reason to find them new accommodation. Rather, the Canterlotian Historical Society had turned up the Lost Treasures of Celestia(22) in the supplies cupboard, behind some mops that hadn't been touched in what looked to be centuries, and declared the office to be an official part of the tour.
The occasional intrusion on the part of the custodial department had been bad enough. It was impossible, Sharp Salute had said flat-out, to maintain operational security on their surprisingly delicate case, when they were just three stops before the gift shop. And thus, as quick as a flash, new quarters had been found. It had not been an improvement.
The broom cupboard had been cramped. The broom cupboard had possessed fossilized spiders and industrial solvents that had bleached a strange pattern into Sticky's coat. The broom closet had been utterly inappropriate as quarters for even a second or third-tier appendage of the Equestrian justice system.
The furnace room was worse.
In truth, it was more spacious. Visits from the custodial staff had dropped off to next to zero, with the janitors deciding that the new residents of the furnace room were well-capable of performing the minor adjustments that were requested of them. But the furnace would turn on at odd times, flooding the room with heat, and while there was more room, an errant misstep could lead to a nasty burn on one of the pipes that tangled the room in a confounding knot. Somepony a while back had evidently decided that this would be an appropriate place to dump old magical rubbish, and there was something scuttling in the walls that made Gawain wonder if perhaps not all of the arcana had entirely drained from the refuse before it had been dumped.
That having been said, it wasn't all bad. Zorada had taken advantage of the boiler in the middle of the room to set up a field alchemy lab, and Hot Streak had taken to practising her power control by adjusting the heating of the boiler mystically, when it got too hot. Given that the boiler had, rumour had it, originally been designed to be powered by dragon's breath, the fire adept's occasional blunders hadn't caused the catastrophic structural damage here that it might have elsewhere.
Right now, it was lunch time, and Ice Pick had his dander up. “Look, all I'm saying is, from the perspective of the Equestrian military, having what amounts to a magical superweapon embodied in the form of six ponies that have to work in conjunction or nothing happens – it's insane! Particularly since the House of Lords has used it as an excuse to slash military funding while Equestria has been going through one of the longest runs of crises in centuries.”
Sharp Salute shook his head. “Look son, you might have an outsider's perspective on such things, but trust me. The Equestrian military has almost nothing that could have withstood most of the threats that came our way over the last couple of years. If we're lucky, we'll have time to get our hooves back under us before the next crisis hits.”
Sticky Wings was taking inventory of the seized goods, but took the opportunity to chime in her own opinion. “Icepick is just jealous because he ended up at the bottom of his class, while Princess Twilight Sparkle was top. Crown envy, Icy?”
Ice Pick glowered at the pegasus. “As it happens, no. Rather than spending years studying the 'magic of friendship', I decided to just have a healthy social life and a postgraduate education. Besides, there's something creepy about the idea of 'magicking ponies good'.” He shook his head, and took a bite out of his hayburger. “What are you brewing up anyway, Zorada? It smells like something that grew in my gym bag one time when my washer was on the fritz. Not quite enough to put me off my lunch, but...” Faint vapours were escaping the zebra's thrown-together fume hood, and perfumed the air with a malodorous cloud.
The zebra looked up. “I have been studying the tablet that Gawain took to have analyzed by the Changeling. The translations we worked up were not specifically helpful, but did remind me of something that I had read in one of my Alchemist's Primers back when I undertook my apprenticeship. I am attempting to brew up a reagent that will dampen dark magics such as those that would be employed by a creature fitting the description that the tablet fragment gives.” She paused, considering. “And certain moulds were used in the ingredient list. While not pleasantly perfumed, I suspect that the smell will be much less pronounced when the formula is bottled.”
Icepick sighed. “About as good as one might expect, I suppose. Any luck working through those dossiers, Gawain?” Technically, working through the suspect files was Ice Pick's job, but he had seconded it to the gryphon when Gawain had expressed an interest. In truth, while Ice Pick had been qualified enough for the job, he had been happy to give it to Gawain, whose legal experience had given him a much more discerning eye in such matters.
The gryphon nodded, only half acknowledging the question. “Hrm? Oh, yes, yes...” He looked up. “There are a few references I don't quite get, but it looks like there's enough here to provide the grounding for a motive at least.” The team had taken a fair amount of time chasing down leads, including finding the pony that had hired Gawain, and from descriptions and truth compelling spells, they had managed to form a small list of likely culprits.
Sharp Salute arched a brow at that. “Give us the facts of the matter, then?” The old pony was finished lunch, and had taken up a perch near the boiler, which he occasionally tossed a ladle full of water onto. He claimed that the steam helped with his arthritis, but Gawain was modestly certain that the veteran really just fancied the idea of having his own personal sauna.
“Right.” The Gawain rubbed his brow with a claw. “Well, most of the suspects are a member of a group called the 'Reformed Orthodox Breakfasters, which gives us a good point of meeting for them.” There was a groan from around the room, and the gryphon arched an eyebrow. “Clearly I'm missing something?”
Hot Streak tilted her head. “Well, the Breakfasters are a religious group of Celestia worshippers who claimed that Celestia's commandment that 'it's important to start the day with a good breakfast' has the strength of holy law. Mostly they run soup kitchens, but like a lot of Diarch worshippers, there are some really wacky variant groups and cults. There's no telling what one of those groups could want. I swear, pegasi or not, they've all got some loon blood in them.”
Sticky Wings protested. “Oi! Tribalist!”
Hot Streak apologized, and Gawain continued. “Well, that doesn't have to be the motive in itself – it just provides a pretty good place in their past to have met up, maybe begun to plan all of this. More than anything else, it looks like this is more a case of political ambition and greed than anything stemming from religious convictions. In addition to having considerable holdings in the warehouses down in the docks district, Lord Clearing House has purchased or started up a sizable percentage of the research and development firms intended to create more magical defences and combat evil magic. Most of it hasn't done too well on its own, but there's been sizable support, particularly from the peerage, for these privatized measures.
“Most of the other members are also members from the minor aristocracy – ponies unlikely to inherit directly, but who stand a chance of earning their own titles if they were involved in a positive defence of Canterlot, say. And Golden Fortune, the businesspony who recently got off on those embezzlement charges – his personal portfolio shows a lot of investment in the companies owned by Clearing House. All together, I'd say that in the event that there were some kind of invasion of monsters, of the sort described by the tablet, these ponies would be well positioned to do something about it- and in so doing, enrich or otherwise better their own positions, simply by virtue of being well-equipped and on the spot to do so.” The gryphon shrugged, expressively. “Put simply, it looks like a rather sordid but mostly cut-and-dry tale of overweening ambition and dangerous greed.”
Sticky Wings frowned. “I think you may have the general shape of things, but we can't take this to the princesses. It's too speculative – we'd need a lot more in terms of hard evidence in order to secure a conviction against somepony without the connections that Golden Fortune clearly has, to say nothing of the peerage. Even minor nobility can hide behind the aegis of their connections.”
It was true. Technically, by-the-books, all of the aristocracy fell under the common law that applied to all ponies. Every schoolcolt learned at a young age that Princesses Luna and Celestia had forced a reluctant aristocracy into the signing of the Manegna Carta, and had even agreed to abide by it themselves, well over a thousand years prior(23). That said, how the system had been intended and ow it had actually turned out were horses of entirely different colours. The judges of Equestria were generally even-hooved in their judgements, and actively corrupt officials were gaoled in short order, but a regional judge might bear in mind the fact that their salaries, as well as their appointments, were under the mandates of the Equestrian peerage.
Sharp Salute straightened up a bit, tossing the litter from his lunch into a nearby wastebin. “Right. We need to collect some more solid evidence before we can take this investigation anywhere. We have some fresh information now – connections, names, even some neighbourhoods to start looking for additional hard evidence in. Against all likelihood, we've found something in the wheelhouse of why the Night Watch was formed, and by the Ancestors, I am going to see to it that we fulfil our mandate and make Princess Luna proud of us.” The senior guard smiled, but it was a hungry smile that would have put a timber wolf to shame. “Let's be about it, people.”
* * *
In the space-between-spaces, there existed beings that defied description. Alien intelligences that existed simply because, sooner or later, they would be brought into some reality or another, fully formed as something – and since something could not be created from nothing, not even with magic, it was here that the potential-somethings existed prior to their calling. To say that they lay in wait would be erroneous, as waiting implied anticipation. Rather, the simply were, and the multiverse was the worse for it.
One of the numberless horde had little time left before it would be called into Equestria. Already, the first of the callings had begun. It would not be long now.
18: Some ponies dreamed of candy. Numbers dreamed of ledgers so complicated that she could hide entire defence budgets in the rounding errors. When it came down to it, the difference between Numbers and Sticky Wings was pretty much just a matter of scale and success.
19: Well, enviable for some. If you like that sort of thing.
20: Of which, at least, there had been plenty. And usually in positions which granted them more authority or power than they should rightly have, but rather less than they dreamed of having. Hope and ambition were powerful recruiting tools, for the cultist in the know... if one didn't mind drawing from the shallow end of the think tank.
21: By one of the aforesaid janitorial staff wearing a bedsheet with eyes cut out, looking to scare away tourists so that he could look for the lost treasures of Celestia. He was later caught by four ponies and a dog in an improbable trap after a long chase down one of the palace's many corridors. Some things really are universal.
22: And he would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for those meddling historians and their stupid dog.
23: Or rather, until quite recently, that Princess Celestia had. Textbooks including Princess Luna's involvement in statecraft were only now coming off of the presses.
Chapter 7: In Which Literary Allusions are Made, and Dark Forces Gather
No pony would have believed, near the beginning of the second millennium that Equestria was being watched keenly by intelligence greater than ponies', immortal and waiting for the right moment of weakness in the planar folds. With infinite complacency, ponies went to and fro about their business, serene in their assurance of their empire over nature. Was it not by pony labour that the seasons shifted? That rain and snow fell from the sky, that the leaves fell from the trees? Was it not their immortal diarchs that raised and lowered the very sun and moon?
Perhaps this belief had been shaken at least a little, of late. The manifestation of an elemental god of chaos, a magic-devouring monster that had attained seemingly divine levels of magic, and whatever the tyrant Sombra had made of himself within swift pace of one another certainly had opened the minds of many of Ponyville's residents to the threats that their nation might face. It was still a distance from there to the idea that otherworldly horrors, straight out of a novel by H.P. Hoofcraft or a portrait by M.C. Pasture might genuinely exist.(24) For the most part, Equestria's residents were quite certain that, extremely powerful magic notwithstanding, the threats that would plague Equestria fell firmly in the categories of the cult, the canny, and the natural – or at least, the supernatural, which suited an assortment of horned, supernaturally resilient, and winged ponies just fine.
Alas, it was not so. The only upside, if so it could be called, was that the barriers between realities were quite strong – particularly from their outside. It took dedicated, concentrated effort to open a breach large enough for a predatory intelligence to come through, and not a little preparation or effort. Be they ever so powerful, no unicorn could do it by themselves, much less accidentally. To open a breach, a great number of ponies would have to be trying.
The downside – and so it could well be called – was that some ponies were quite trying indeed.
* * *
It was a bright and stormless night. Ponies that preferred purple prose were perhaps a trifle disappointed, but the lights of Canterlot, both mystical and candlepower, were sufficient to cause a glare off of the low-hanging cirrus cloud cover. The result was that, even in absence of stars, at least in the vicinity of Canterlot, there was enough light to see by, although fine detail would have been difficult, and reading all but impossible.
Ser Sable Jet and Ser Ardent Tempest were maintaining their watch over Canterlot's weather factory. While most of the nation had to make do with mobile weather production facilities, the capitol was considered important enough to warrant its own. It had been some years since anyone had tried to lay siege to the city that had grown up around Celestia's castle, but the possibility still existed, and thus it was strategically important that the gardens of Canterlot have a steady supply of rain water whenever the need arose. Given the lack of military threat however, the position of guard to the Canterlot weather factory was more or less an honour guard, and the two pegasi had been the regular guard at the post for a few years now. Both were Wonderbolts veterans, decorated for courage and integrity, and named to the Order of Equestria as knights for valor.
Currently, they were playing cards. Sable and Tempest played a lot of cards, and had done so ever since having been appointed to their current post, a semi-retirement that helped to buoy a military pension that more or less covered the costs of living. Neither was the fighting pony that they'd been in their prime; Tempest had a trick hip that pained her when it was going to rain (which, given her position, was something she could usually predict with the accuracy of clockwork), and Sable had found that his flight speed had dropped precipitously with the onset of arthritis. All told, while they recognized that the position was mostly an honorarium, they were happy to have it, not least because they enjoyed the company of one another.
Unlike border towns and other smaller settlements, Canterlot's weather was precision tailored for the city, and rainfall tended to be temperate, and happened almost exclusively at night. No rain was called for this evening however, as careful application of rain had all gardens, lawns and beds registered with the weather department well-watered, at least for the next few days. Thus, the weather factory, excepting its honour guard, was empty, dark, and quiet. Rows of still machinery and apparatus for controls had no attendants, and while the few devices that shouldn't ever be shut off entirely still glowed with a faint magical light, the majority of the factory floor was otherwise without illumination. The two elderly knights were relaxed but vigilant, and as was her usual, Tempest was kicking sable's flank at the card game which had long ago begun as a variation on poker, but had evolved over the years into something unrecognizable, excepting to the pair.
“And the king of dragons consumes your nine diamonds, winning me the hoof and, I think, the game. Play again?” Tempest seemed quietly pleased with herself, and Sable sighed, and scrubbed his face.
“I'm pretty sure at this point I owe you a forest's worth of matchsticks.” He smiled ruefully. “I'll play again, but only if you're willing to offer me some matchstick credit. I had a few extra set aside, but like most of my money, the moment I put them in my saddlebags, they started burning a hole in my pocket. I tried to save them, but...” he put a hoof to his brow dramatically, “my matchstick fortune was up in smoke.”
Tempest gave Jet a wry look. “You're pleased with yourself, aren't you?”
Jet gave back an innocent look. “Well, yes.” He took the cards, and gave them a bridge shuffle. “Shall we?”
As the two knights bantered, not all was well in the darkened factory floor below. A shadowy presence, more mist than solid, had flowed in through the cloudwork that made up the structure of the building, and was coalescing into something with glowing emerald eyes. Silently, it moved toward the controls for the rain generator.
Using the equipment in a cloud factory toward its proper ends was not nearly as simple as the many recruitment posters in pegasus elementary flight schools would have led one to believe. The posters, designed decades prior, showed brightly coloured ponies wearing hard hats, carrying clipboards and standing next to enormous control wheels. They had been designed by Ink Blot, an earth pony who had never actually seen a weather factory in person, and had proven to be one of the Equestrian government's most effective propaganda poster series in history. It was not wholly disingenuous – pegasi had been legally required to wear hard hats on a work site for some years now, despite the fact that the most likely thing to fall on their heads was cloud – but work as a weather specialist required a college degree and apprenticeship, and most of the controls were in the form of vast control panels, each button, tab or switch serving a distinct and important purpose to operate the highly advanced instruments that gave Equestria its weather.
It was unlikely that the horrific green-eyed mist monster had ever attended one of the proper technical colleges, or undergone an apprenticeship in the proper use of the machinery it even now slunk toward. While the colleges were not strictly pony-specific, international students did not have their educations subsidized by the state, and it was therefore extremely expensive for an interested gryphon national to learn the technical skills required. There was no written ban on interdimensional students, but none of the reputable colleges had ever admitted one. It was with the eye of a novice therefore, that it approached the complex devices.
Regrettably, this was not a significant impediment. True, for finesse in weather control, it took a skilled practitioner. The weather controls for Canterlot were so finely tuned that a virtuoso could give her own backyard garden a sprinkle without so much as dampening the doghouse. The mist-monster had no such ambitions, and large, unsubtle stormy weather was distressingly easy to create.
The glowing panels on the powered-down equipment flared with a green aura, as the being took control. Sliders and dials moved of their own accords, being turned or shifted to their maximum positions, and then held in place. Thunder and lightning generators powered up, a low hum in the background, even as dormant systems sprang to life, marionettes to the puppeteer that had abruptly begun messing with their controls. The clouds over Canterlot darkened, and the machinery throbbed with bristling power.
Both of the pegasus knights felt the barometric pressure drop almost simultaneously. Although their positions in the military had not directly involved weather control, familiarity with the controls of the factory had been one of the requirements of their position within it – not that they had ever been expected o use the machinery, but simply enough to know what to do in the event of an emergency, at least until a proper weather expert arrived. Ser Tempest's hip throbbed painfully, and Ser Jet's instincts, although less rheumatic, foretold a storm such as had not hit the capitol in decades moments in the offing. The cards and matchsticks went flying as the two took to their wings, soaring down to shut of whatever malfunctioning piece of equipment was about to bombard the city, only to come face to face(25) with what was, unquestionably, a problem.
In their heydays, neither of the former Wonderbolts would have so much as hesitated. Age had worked harsh lessons upon them, doing little to undermine their valour, but tempering it with caution. Here was a creature evidently soaked in dark magic – and it hardly took an imaginative leap of logic to cross the distance to the too-recent events that had wracked the kingdom.
Tempest turned to Jet. “I'll hold it off. You're still the stronger flier of the two of us.” The building lurched, gauges buried deep in the red, as the Canterlot weather factory prepared to produce a storm the likes of which the city hadn't seen in decades. A thin patter of unscheduled rain started down upon the city, as merrymakers and wanderers in the streets below looked up with surprise, before scuttling off to find shelter.
Jet shook his head. “If the storm that's brewing hits, there's no way that I'd make it.” He flashed Tempest a grin. “Besides, Wonderbolts don't run.” And besides, you've been my best friend for twenty years. I'm not leaving you alone. Between friends of so many years, some thought didn't have to be spoken in order to be heard..
Tempest managed a weak smile. “Wonderbolts don't run.”
They fought bravely, and they were skilled. They had seen dozens of conflicts, and survived them all, and that had given the pair a sense for the melee, even against the supernatural creatures that had intermittently plagued the land. They did not break, falter, or hesitate. But at the end of things, there were only two of them. And the mist-creature was so very much stronger.
The storm broke over Canterlot.
* * *
The storm broke over Canterlot.
The Night Court bailiff, by the name of Pathetic Fallacy(26) looked up. He had been certain that the evening had been intended to be overcast but dry – consulting the schedule, he decided that he had been correct. It was odd – not that there was rain per se; the Canterlot weather corps occasionally made mistakes, and had to reschedule showers, with minimal notice – but for it to be such harsh rain, so intense, and with such durm and strang, as the gryphons would say, that was odd. He made a note in his notebook to ask Princess Luna about it, as soon as she was finished with the current petitioner.
Luna, for her part, was quite finished with the current petitioner. One of Lord Clearing House's business partners, she had come to protest the lord's treatment in court – never mind that had Luna had her way, had the budget crunch not been so dire and pressing, she would have done a great deal more to the errant lord, possibly beginning with defenestration, but certainly not stopping there. This evening's court was far more sparsely attended than was the average, as many of the Canterlot aristocracy were preparing to ease the city into autumn, using the power of their magic. Luna wondered if perhaps the Earth Pony way of doing things might not be best, but Leaf Day was a celebration among the unicorns of Canterlot, and she supposed different ponies could celebrate in different ways.
A crash of thunder all but shook the courtroom, and Luna blinked, bemused. Behind the thunder came the sound of driving rain, harsh and hard, beating a staccato tattoo against the windows. The court's windows flashed with vivid illumination, and Luna shook her head. If she didn't know better, she would have thought that the Canterlot weather factory had turned out a hurricane, but why would anypony possibly..?
“Excuse me your highness, but I'm not finished!” exclaimed the petitioner pony, one Coin Bank of the lower east of Manehattan. Luna's eyes narrowed.
“Yes. You are.” Luna drew herself up, nostrils flaring. Yes, that was dark magic. Carried by the storm, oppressive and vast, but subtle, masked by the fury of the storm and the intensity of the unexpected weather. The palace itself had been shielded against it, long ago, as had the castle that Luna had shared with her sister, but such wardings were rarely enough. And if someone is making an assault on Canterlot, while I'm here listening to this drivelling idiot of a banker... “I'm in the wrong place.” Luna didn't even realize that she had said the words out loud. She glanced at Pathetic Fallacy. “Arrest this pony. The crown may yet prefer charges. Find her a comfortable room to spend the night in, stick her in it, and have somepony watch the door.” The banker began to protest, and Luna cut her off. “Unless she would prefer to walk home this evening.”
Coin Bank looked out the windows across Canterlot. Hail had begun to fall, each icy stone half the size of a ping-pong ball. She swallowed hard, and no longer seemed to have the stomach for further protest.
Pathetic Fallacy had a bit of a wicked smile. In truth, he was a nice pony, gentle and kind, generous to the charities when they came by for Hearth's Warming, and a better pony for comforting children called before the court Luna could not ask for. But he was a large pony, broad of shoulder and of barrel, and while he would of course be as gentle as possible in throwing his weight around, he had no qualms about seeing to it that someone who had been annoying the princess stayed in her room for the evening.
“Alright you.” said Pathetic Fallacy. “You're coming with me.” Thunder rolled.
* * *
The storm broke over Canterlot.
Water from the rain found its way through the inexpert repair to the thatching in the old house that the Fellowship of the Golden Scoop rented for its meetings. It spattered across the leader's face, and he snorted himself awake, wiping the rainwater from his eyes. Right. He was here. A brief survey suggested that most of the Fellowship was here.
Memory came flooding back to him. They had summoned... something. None of the ancient texts or relics had been reliably specific about the exact nature of the creature, but that hadn't mattered. It had taken the combined efforts of two dozen unicorns, the sacrifice of dozens of potent – to say nothing of expensive magic items, and hours of preparatory work. And the process had been draining – the sudden enervation hitting like a bottle of Celestia's Old Peculiar on an empty stomach. The power had been heady, and he had channelled it.
They had succeeded! The creature had appeared, formless but unquestionably present, and they had held control over it. There had been a plan... the leader furrowed his brow, straining to recall. Yes. Using the Canterlot Weather Factory to spread an aura of hopelessness and despair, such as only the great heroes of Equestria could undo. And when great heroes arose... the leader smiled. Yes. The creature would disseminate the darkness of its essence, and then zero in on the relics that had been seized by the Night Watch. Once it had destroyed them, it would return for further instructions. Other unicorn wizards might not be able to bind it, but the summoners held the keys.
An old memory returned to him. His tutor in magic, years past, speaking to him on the matter of summonings, of calling upon greate powers,and of binding them to his will. The foolish old mare should see him now! But the words fluttered out, unbidden, in his memory, and he felt a slight lump in his throat. Never. Never conjure up that which you cannot put down. Fine then. Everything was alright. He was in control.
The process of the summoning and binding had knocked out most everyone in the room, whether or not they had contributed to the spell. Well, the leader mused, perhaps it would have been more apt to say 'whether or not they had intentionally done so. He might as well see to it that the rest of the Fellowship were roused, such that he could explain to all of them – probably several times – the nature of their triumph. The thought occurred to the leader that, oh surely, the gathered ponies must be truly exhausted. It might be best just to allow them their rest, to regain the energy, and to avoid long, pointless digressions. But for their own good, of course.
Emotions fought within him for a few minutes, and 'desire to have someone to boast to' won out over 'persistent, extreme consternation with those around him'. He walked from sleeping pony to sleeping pony, rousing them. He had a speech to give.
* * *
The storm broke over Canterlot. The Night Watch were not all assembled in one place, but their jurisdiction were the hours from dusk until dawn, and so they were on their way, mostly, to the furnace room in the palace basements. Some were closer than others – Sharp Salute, given both his age and the fact that he no longer held any personal or private residence in Canterlot, had been afforded a room in the palace. In somewhat stark contrast, Sticky Wings had used her new pay as a member of the Night Watch to lease a cloud condominium in an adjacent pegasus town, and was now fighting her way through the storm, growing increasingly concerned by its fury and power.
Sticky wasn't the only one. Hot Streak and Ice Pick, working together, managed to raise a shield that did double duty, repelling both raindrops and hailstones, as they made their way to the palace with Zorada. The zebra and the two unicorns had met at a nearby pub, comparing notes on the mystical threat, from different angles. The sudden storm had almost – almost – masked the dark magic underpinning it, but the unicorns had known what to look for. Zorada, for her part, had nodded sagely but inscrutably, upon being informed of the storm's mystical nature.
The three made it to the palace, just as their magical shield gave out. The unicorns had hoof-bumped – neither was particularly adept at raw magical manipulation, but the weeks of training had paid off. Ice Pick's careful shaping of the energy provided by Hot Streak had allowed them power and nuance that neither could have worked individually. The ponies were, if not strictly dry, merely damp instead of soaking as they found their way down to the furnace room, for once grateful for the boiler's intermittent periods of scorching heat.
Gawain was wringing out his feathers by the furnace, when they came in. The gryphon gave a brief smile, and pointed toward the back of the large room. “Oh, Zorada... Sharp Salute wanted to speak with you when you got in.” The gryphon shook, the remainder of his drenched feathers shedding their water in a small dome around him, leaving a damp mark on the floor.
“Thank you. I will go and speak with him right away.” Zorada nodded to her colleagues, before trotting off in the direction of the elderly pony, who was looking through the contents of an envelope with a look of mild consternation. That look was transferred to Zorada as she approached, and the two began speaking in muted but argumentative tones, as the rest of the Night Watch tried to warm up around the furnace – which, predictably, had chosen just that moment to disengage, the heat rapidly leaching into the stone floors of the basement.
Sticky Wings came in through the door not five minutes later, bedraggled and upset-looking. She made a vague gesture toward the heavens, and then at herself, and gave a moue of displeasure. “What in Tartarus was this all about? The forecast didn't call for anything like this. I think I passed a couple of weather ponies making their way up to the weather factory on my way here, but I'm not sure what they planned to do when they got there! This storm is intense!”
Hot Streak scowled a little bit, but shrugged. “We're still sorting out the details, but if I had to bet any money, I'd put my bits on our enemies showing their cards – some of them, at least. Ice Pick had a diagnostic spell that determined that there's some genuinely bad hoojoo in it.” She rubbed the back of her head. “He was talking with Zorada, and I'm a little hazy on some of the details, but they used the words 'major invocation' and 'grand summoning', and I'm at least mostly sure that bodes ill for those of us who have been traditionally opposed to such things.”
Ice Pick interjected. “Actually, we don't know for sure what if anything was actually summoned, but this 'dark rain' that's falling is definitely unseasonable, not to mention tainted by dark magic. I compared notes with Zorada over at the pub, and I'm pretty sure that whatever the tablet described could be causing all of this, but I'm hesitant to jump to conclusions. Our foes have shown themselves to be inconsistently capable – sometimes they're brilliant, and sometimes they make some serious errors. It's hard to determine which of those this is, until we have some kind of idea what they're trying to accomplish.”
Sticky nodded, following the stream of consciousness as best she could. “I think I follow. So this dark magic is... doing what, precisely? Apart from making it rain, which I'm pretty sure is the result of someone mucking about with the cloud factory, more than anything else.”
Ice Pick rubbed his chin. “I'd need more of a sample to determine for sure – the water on us got denatured when we entered the palace – but I think it's supposed to just be... oppressive. Bring up bad emotions – guilt, anger, fear. Whatever is being powered by that is not something I'd care to deal with, personally. Hopefully, the wards on the palace will keep out anything that hasn't been welcomed in.”
Without notice or explanation, the lanterns that kept up a cheery glow – and indeed, the light from the furnace itself – suddenly extinguished, plunging the room into a claustrophobic darkness, broken only by a sickly green light coming from the evidence locker, as the tablet fragment within began to glow, softly.
“... This could be a problem.”
24: True, many ponies believed in the goblin king, a powerful being with a strange fascination with orbs, but that just went to show that even a blind squirrel would sooner or later find a nut.
25: Well, face to amorphous black cloud with glowing green eyes. Common idioms were so cruel to the non-equimorphic in Equestria.
26: He went by Pat. Pony-parents with a fondness for pun names didn't always consider the consequences of their naming choices, but neither 'Pathetic' nor 'Fallacy' were good short-names for a bailiff of one of the highest courts in the land.
Chapter 8: In Which the Pains of a Creature Whose Powers Revolve Principally Around Fear are Discussed
A dark rain fell over Canterlot. Across the city, feelings of dread, hopelessness, fear and infernal energies fell from the clouds, poisoning the spirits of those it fell upon, and adding an air of oppressive gloom to the capitol. Worse still, as these emotions were fed by the rain, so too was the rain being fed by the emotions; as the air of dread became palpable, the pools in which the dark rain had fallen and collected the deepest, strange shapes stirred and moved within the water. Before long, nightmarish shapes began to form in the water, taking the form of secret fears, made manifest, arising from the puddles to stalk the streets.
But this was not the Canterlot of even a few short months prior. True, the citizenry had not always stood up for itself; the people of Canterlot were not necessarily the most rugged or endurant, so seldom had they traditionally been tested, but neither were they entirely incapable of learning from experience. While many of the citizens gave in to despair and terror, some had learned harsh lessons from the depredations of Tirek and the changeling horde. The heavy rain weighed harshly upon the spirits of most, but some stood fast, and refused to be bowed by the weight. Were Canterlot a tapestry, viewed from above, stained with dark magic, there would be points of light – pockets of resistance, where ponies refused to cower, refused to give in, and reused to submit their wills to yet another invasion that viewed them merely as prey.
* * *
The Equestria Daily offices had closed for the evening, but a few offices remained lit. Poison Pen had been working late on an article and had finished, but when the rain had begun to fall she had decided to wait it out rather than dashing across town. Worst case scenario, it would not have been the first time that the reporter had stayed at the offices overnight – there was a pull-out cot in the break room for those reporters that had decided, over the years, that it had been too late to go home. A handful of copy editors were in the building as well, laying out the morning edition. It was dark, but hardly lonely.
When the giant bug-beast with too many tentacles and not nearly enough substance had burst through the doors, one of the editors, facing his own personal nightmare, had promptly fainted. Poison Pen had not however, and moving swiftly, had used her own weak telekinesis to drag the fallen stallion – and encouragingly nudge the other editors that had come in to see what the commotion was – out of harm's way. There hadn't been time to follow them before the bug-beast had closed on her though, and the reporter admitted to mild trepidation as she stared up at the shadowy creature. She had no idea what the creature was, and it was ugly and frightening. Some mild trepidation was not a career-ending admission, she decided to herself.
The bug-beast, if it had possessed a will of its own, rather than simply feeding raw fear back to the eldritch abomination that had spawned it, would have been somewhat put out that its intended victim had been thrown from its grasp. Still, there was a pony before it, and if it couldn't acquire the level of fear that it had intended initially, it was still quite terrifying – there was no point in letting the perfect be enemy to the good. It reared up on its back dozen legs or so, waving its scuttling legs in a menacing manner, and let out an unearthly screech liable to liquify the bowels of any creature with an ounce of self-preservation, as it clicked its mandibles ferociously and allowed a small spray of spittle to accessorize the linoleum.
Poison Pen surprised herself by throwing a typewriter at it, her azure aura vanishing once the heavy machine had enough momentum to continue its trajectory unaided.
Although spawned of the dark waters, the fear that had allowed this nightmare creature had given it solid form, the better to terrify and destroy. The upside had been that its abilities vis a vis intimidation had been greatly increased, with its entrance to the newspaper's offices being managed by way of a bursting entrance through the heavy oaken doors of the building. The downside had been that this meant that it now had a solid form that had been thoroughly clonked by a flying typewriter. And that while it shook its head to try and free itself from both mild amazement and typewriter debris, it was subsequently being pummelled with a metal office chair, rapidly being dented beyond all recognition by the pony that it had thought it had sufficiently cowed.
It fell back toward the doors as office bricabrac of increasing size and volume came in a hailstorm, Poison Pen slowly remembering the instruction that had been given to her once upon a time about optimal use of telekinetic magic. The bug beast turned to flee back into the night, seeking easier prey, as Poison's magical aura flared, and there was the small whine of a rapid increase in available magical energy before the unicorn cast the most powerful light spell she had learned in Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns, and the nightmare creature knew no more.
Poison Pen blinked a little bit to clear her eyes, noticing as her vision returned to normal that everything in the entrance foyer seemed a bit faded in colour, as if they had been left out in the sun for too long. The mare smiled an unpleasant smile, but the witty phrases that so often came to the characters in the books that she read, after they had driven off the monster failed her, and she looked for a place to sit down, and if possible, throw up.
* * *
Happy Pastures nursing home was once again the site of a siege in progress, but Friendly Face was astonished how different such a situation could be when those within the facility were all pulling together. True, there was no Sharp Salute to organize the defenders, but as the pegasus pushed another bookshelf over in front of the nursing home's main door, she considered that both staff and residents had learned quite a lot from the old warhorse in his time at the facility. True, they hadn't been facing off against horrifying nightmare monsters, but things like securing entrances, maintaining a supply of fresh water and food for defenders, and no small measure of spunk had been imparted upon the staff and those under their care, and Friendly Face was grateful for the lessons.
It had been one of the elderly ponies, late of the Canterlot University that had first noticed something distinctly unnatural about the clouds forming overhead, but the evening's entertainment had gone on as scheduled, albeit strangely subdued. The evening had not improved, and then... something had come out of the darkness. They hadn't had a good look at the creatures, but they weren't ponies and they weren't friendly, and that had been enough for both staff and residents to retreat back into the building. And when the creatures had tried to enter anyway, Friendly Face had received another impromptu lesson in just how feisty old ponies could still be.
The pegasus set her jaw, and set about looking for something else heavy to reinforce the facility's entrances with. She had never been more proud of the work that she had done – and the residents even seemed to be enjoying themselves. Tough as old saddle leather some of them, and unwilling to let anyone or anything get the best of them. Despite herself, Friendly Face smiled.
* * *
Sitting at the university campus Starsbucked, and wondering not a little how it had come to be there, a nightmarish abomination sipped the remarkably good coffee that it had been served. Strictly speaking, it was a non-sapient appendage, subservient to the will of a Greater Being, cast into reality with the instruction that bordered upon divine mandate to Create Fear and Sow Despair. It should not have possessed within it the capacity to do anything other than obey its instructions, and they had been simultaneously both direct and scarcely subject to interpretation or equivocation. On the other hand...
On the other hand, the clearly undead pony that had served it a cup of coffee had not seemed to possess fear in any great capacity, and certainly had none to spare for it, lacking as she did adrenal glands that functioned. She had a remarkably short way with words as well, and while her co-workers had expressed some slight anxiety over the creature's appearance in their cafe, she had the commanding presence of a distinguished lecturer, and had instructed them to 'get a hold of themselves' – and remarkably, they had! The unicorn stallion, whom the beast had learned was known as Daunted, and the pegasus filly, known as Stargazer, had quietly bickered while the abomination had sipped its coffee, but the zombie, Tenure Track, had told it not to worry; this sort of thing happened to them all the time.
Although it didn't technically possess the capacity to feel either, this caused the creature puzzlement and more than slight concern. What was wrong with this picture?
* * *
Ice Pick frantically thought through what he knew of demons. True, the subject rarely came up in most magical studies – Celestia's school had not encouraged adventures in demon-calling – but for all that he had graduated at the bottom of his class, Ice had not lacked for academic aptitude, and with the recent discussion of greater callings, he had attained a pass to the royal Canterlot library, and done some reading up.
What he had found had not been especially heartening – the most extensively detailed semipublic library in Equestria had next to nothing about extraplanar beings. At first, he had thought this to be an embarrassing oversight on the library's behalf, but a few minutes of consulting with the head librarian had revealed the problem. The majority of ponies wished nothing to do with demonic forces – this was reinforced by ample years of folklore, which suggested that ponies that sought out such forces met with bad ends. Of those that ignored the warnings, they tended to fall into two categories; ponies ill-inclined to leave useful notes as to their doings and experiences, who perforce would not be contributing useful documentation for those that came after them, and ponies that were so accomplished that a minor dabbling with the serious occult barely warranted a footnote in their overall bibliography.
What information Ice Pick had managed to acquire came from the latter quality of dabbler, no less a source than Star Swirl the Bearded himself. A powerful wizard, Star Swirl's adventures in demon-raising had managed to be somehow less useful than looking up nothing at all, because they were barely adventures in their own right compared to the wizard's other doings, and consequently barely warranted footnotes in his journals and in accounts told of him. Nevertheless, through gruelling effort of research, he had managed to pull together a few of the basics.
Looking at the situation in front of him (in as much as he could – the near pitch darkness into which the boiler room had been plunged meant that very little could be seen, and he could not in fact see his own hoof in front of his face), it seemed reasonably evident that this demon drew power from the fear it evoked. It had a misty, cloud-like form – perhaps it was still deciding precisely what it was? The speculation was fruitless, until he had more information, a need which was swiftly addressed, as the preternatural darkness that had blocked out both Ice Pick and Hot Streak's attempts to call light abated, allowing at least enough illumination that the gathered members of the Night Watch could see one another – and the cloudlike being that now stood in front of their evidence locker.
“**Greetings, prey.**” It was a combination of audible sound and telepathic broadcast, understandable to each of the Night Watch members in their languages of preference. “**I am brought/summoned here to be your unmaking.**” It was difficult to put into words, Ice Pick decided, but the creature was floating in a smugly self-satisfied way that somehow got under his skin. The diminutive unicorn had never been fond of bullies, and here was the physical embodiment of smugness at the fear of others.
Ice Pick was surprised to feel a hoof on his shoulder, and looked back to see that it was Sticky – the pegasus had always had a good measure of empathy, and had clearly picked up on his tension. He forced himself to relax, as she addressed the shadowy being. “Alright, if you're so tough, who are you then?” Icy considered for a moment, before realizing her play. If the creature fed on fear, then it probably wouldn't handle sass well – and if there was one thing that Luna's personal guard seemed to be particularly good at...
The shadowy creature laughed, basking in the attention. “**You may refer to me as... The NIGHTMARE!**”
This did not have the desired effect upon the gathered crowd.
“I'm pretty sure that name is taken.” mused Hot Streak. “I mean, there was Princess Luna as Nightmare Moon. I don't know. Did she ever claim to just be 'The Nightmare?'”
Sticky shook her head. “Not personally, but I think I heard something from my cousin in Ponyville about some kind of creature she cooked up that was basically just a bringer of nightmares. I don't think it called itself The Nightmare, but only due to a lack of pretension.”
Sharp Salute weighed in on the issue, although it was unclear by this point as to whether the older pony was on board for the 'frustrate the nightmarish creature with sass' agenda, or if the team had simply been sidetracked by one of their characteristic digressions. “I think it's pretty safe to say that a new villain taking the title of 'The Nightmare' at this juncture would probably be pretty confusing at the very least. To say nothing of being pretentious. I mean, Nightmare Moon didn't claim to be the Nightmare, and if anyone had first claim to the title, it would be her highness.”
Gawain turned to the cloud-monster. “I think we've reached the consensus that no, you aren't. Would you care to make another attempt?”
This was not the reaction to which the shadow-beast had become accustomed. True, it had received more resistance to its initial attack on Canterlot than it had anticipated, both from its natural abilities as a nightmare-creature and from its briefing by its summoner, but even still, it had, in its brief existence as a being of extension, become accustomed to a certain amount of fear. Fear was, after all, its bread and butter – its life blood, in many senses, albeit none of them literal. It took a moment, did the metaphysical equivalent of some deep-breathing exercises, and returned its focus upon the bickering victims who did not seem to understand how such things were done. Very well. It was an enlightened being. It could adapt. This was literally its job.
“**Very well. I shall not be The Nightmare, but rather... The sower of discord!**” These ponies, with their orderly lives – these ponies in particular, brings of law and order – would surely fear such a title. After all, if there was safety in numbers, then clearly there was danger in division. It could work from such a start.
“... I don't think that Discord would like you honing in on his racket, much.” the pegasus known as Sticky mused.
The beast took a little longer to compose itself this time, as the Night Watch nattered to one another. It had never heard of any of its ilk having to deal with such... foolishness over something so simple as a name!
“**It does not matter what you call me!**” It didn't, not really. The being lacked a name so much as a series of descriptive syllables inscribed upon the tablet – it was that description that had allowed its summoners such a hold over it. “**For I shall be your doom! Watch now, as I take on the form of your greatest fear, and use it... to destroy you!**”
The shadow-beast reached out, mentally, to the subconscious of the four ponies, the zebra, and the gryphon. Surely one of them would have a deep fear – nested in their childhood, perhaps – that it could leverage. The shadow-beast knew that some residents of this plane feared insects, some feared the undead, some unaccountably feared performers in makeup. The fears did not have to be rational – merely strong, and they would be delicious to devour.
There was a... snag.
“**Are none of you afraid of actual... things!?**” Public speaking, growing old, the dark, being alone... what the hell kind of plane was this, where people didn't fear things that existed? That they were so forced to reach out for greatest fears that they made them up, made them out of literally nothing but the passage of time and their own imaginations? The creature didn't understand fear – not in the 'I have ever felt this as an emotion' sense – but it certainly understood the premise behind the concept. It was a survival instinct, and at least one of the ponies huddled about the beast in the room was afraid of living too long!
There was a pause, as the gathered Night Watch looked to one another. The subject of greatest fears had never come up, but it seemed that none of them had fears suitable for a monster to transform into. That was convenient, certainly, but could it be turned to some manner of advantage? The possibility existed, certainly.
Zorada made a stab at it. “Would you believe that I'm afraid of spiders?” She paused, considering, as her colleagues made gestures frantically, hooves and claws being brought very close together. “Exclusively small spiders. Tiny ones, in fact. Larger spiders? Pshaw. I grew up with two pet Arachnae. And so...” she squinted a little bit. Sharp Salute was making a broad gesture, and it was hard to read. “So I only fear ham sandwiches?” There was a facehoof, and Salute's gestures doubled in breadth and urgency. “And so... and so I only fear very small spiders! About the appropriate size to step on.” She nodded sagely. “Yes. It's not my greatest fear, but it's definitely up there. Right up there with 'easily defeatable evil clowns'. Please, whatever you do, do not turn into a very small spider of the appropriate size to step on, or an easily defeatable evil clown. I should be ever so terrified if you did so.” She smiled hopefully.
The shadow-beast gave Zorada an old fashioned look. “**Look, that's not even a good lie. What, are you next going to suggest that powerful as I am, I could not possibly fit inside of a bottle? That surely, if I'm so tough, I could do without my massive supernatural advantages, and so I should try to fight all of you without them? Or perhaps next you will suggest that you are secretly on my side, and thus I should let down my guard in front of you.**” It sneered.
The zebra shot the beast a hopeful look. “I do not suppose any of those ruses has even a remote chance of succeeding?” The shadow-beast seemed unimpressed. “You understand, I had to ask. What a fool I would feel if it would have worked, but I was too cynical!”
Gawain leaned over to whisper to Sharp Salute. “Why are we stalling? What good is that possibly going to do us?”
The older pony grimaced a little bit, but murmured back. “This chump made one heck of a mess before it got to us. We figured out that it was dark magic pretty quickly. Do you think that we were the only ones watching?”
* * *
Luna tore down yet another flight of stairs in the Royal Canterlot Palace. It had taken a little bit of time for the princess to locate the new offices of her official Royal Guard. Celestia had sent her a memorandum on the issue, after the Canterlot Historical Society had claimed their previous broom closet of an office and found one of Celly's lost trinkets. Paper Weight had been in attendance at the court, and had technically been responsible for Luna's personal communiques, but that had been a couple of weeks ago, and the secretary had filed the memo somewhere in the stacks.(27) It was the middle of the night, and rousing Celestia to find out where the Night Watch had been stuffed had been an entertaining fifteen minutes of physical comedy and sight gags, for which the Canterlot marching band had earned eleven hundred bits.
The furnace room! The wards had tripped when the demonic being had come into the castle, welcome guest or no, but tracking it within the castle had been difficult at best. If it was welcome, it was because someone had brought part of its name into the castle, and Luna knew from her biweekly meetings with Sharp Salute that the Night Watch had confiscated something that might just fit the bill. Luna passed sub-basement four, and rounded the corner toward the door to sub-basement five.
Her guard was brave to a point, and far more capable than she had thought likely, given the circumstances of their formation, but there were limits to what even gifted ponies could give, and at the end of the day, they had only been intended to be the 'call the alicorns' squad. It was time to answer the call.
* * *
“**ENOUGH!**” boomed the creature, less out of actual worry that the squabbling squad would get anything accomplished than out of annoyance that the likelihood suggested that they probably would not. “**If I cannot take the form of your greatest fears, then I shall at least see to it that your trust for one another is gone! You!**” It pointed at Zorada, whose eyes widened. “**You work with these ponies every day, but you keep your true allegiances hidden from them!**”
Sharp Salute snorted. “Of course she has. She's EIS.” The rest of the room, Zorada included, goggled at him. “I've been in the Canterlot guard for years. She's not bad as a spy, but she's far from gifted. Just because the Day Watch wouldn't hire her didn't mean that nobody else would. She's been giving updates to the Equestrian Intelligence Service – with whom, I hasten to remind everyone, we are allied – the whole time. It's what I was going to speak with her about before we were so rudely interrupted.”
Zorada blinked a little bit, but regained her composure. “It is true. The EIS was initially interested in Princess Luna's actions in forming a new group that might threaten their mandate, but the squad has been keeping to the goals that the princess stated, and I have been given carte blanche to continue as I see fit to.”
The ambient level of trust, the creature decided, had actually, unaccountably, risen as a result of the secret being brought to light. This was infuriating. “**Oh yes? Well... you!**” This time the tendril of smoke waved toward Ice Pick. “**You are intellectually arrogant, and think that you are the smartest member of your squad!**” Surely that would set the ponies to squabbling – the creature knew that Ice Pick feared the revelation of his beliefs might turn his allies against him and after all, he should know, surely.
“He probably is.” Hot Streak shrugged. “I mean, Gawain and Zorada both had pretty considerable educations as well, so I suppose they could get into an intellectual pissing match if they felt like it, but nobody is going to argue that Ice Pick isn't smart.” She smiled over at the short unicorn. “He's really starting to help me get my magic under control. Having a teacher who actually gives a damn about you makes a huge difference. Thanks Icy.”
The creature was flailing now in desperation. “**You!**” It pointed at Gawain. “**You used to be a criminal!**” The squad just looked at one another. This was pretty well common knowledge, wasn't it? That was literally how the gryphon had come to work with the squad. The creature scowled. “**Fine. Your cohesion renders you safe from me... for now. But all of your stupid city can not say the same! I'll be seeing you around, meat-bags!**”
The mist creature gathered up the tablet that bore its name in its smokey tendrils and vanished with a whiff of brimstone and a 'pop', just as Luna broke down the door to the furnace room, returning light to the room.
“Hello everyone. Did I miss anything?”
27: Which was what Paper Weight humorously called Luna's desk. Luna had put forward the opinion that she was not the princess of paperwork, and therefore had accrued enough of the bucking stuff on her groaning oak office desk to reconstitute four redwoods and a small birch sapling.
Chapter Nine: In Which a Trans-Dimensional Horror is Faced, And Daring Plans, Attempted
Luna stared out into the night, the driving rain echoing strangely against the windows of Canterlot Castle. The shadowy smokey creature had departed scant seconds before her arrival, sensing the presence of an immensely potent magic-user. The upside was that this indicated that it was a lesser version of the great unnameable beasts that lurked between worlds – she confessed, her dimensional theory was a bit rusty, but she held strong recollections of youthful experimentation with her sister, paging through ancient tomes and examining beastiaries filled with creatures with names altogether too full of punctuation, but absent vowels. One of those creatures would not have cared in the slightest.
Indeed, while the crisis was still in its offing, it did not yet look to be a catastrophe on par with the escape of other beasts of Tartarus. Not yet. But reports were beginning to trickle in, as messengers braved the storm to report to the castle, and Luna did not find herself hopeful about the balance of the night to come.
The night princess had sent pegasi to investigate the Canterlot weather factory, but the scouts had reported the factory to buttressed by wicked-looking stormheads, impossible to navigate, and spoke of high winds that had made even returning to tell the tale an uphill fight. By all accounts, it had been fortunate that they had returned at all, but the news that they had brought, that the storm only seemed to be escalating, brought Luna no happiness. Reports from the streets suggested that the ponies that made Canterlot their home were withstanding the manifestations of fear thus far, and no fatalities had been reported, but the casualty list was disheartening to say the least. There had been no indication that events would escalate this quickly, and thus no real preparations had been made.
Luna had considered asking Celestia to raise the sun, hours ahead of schedule. The effects on Equestria would have been chaotic, but creatures of dark magic often found direct sunlight interfered with their wicked doings. Celestia had not agreed to do it however – the cloud cover was too thick, and effectively burning it off in anything like short order would have required the sun to come far closer to Equestria than would have been healthy for those parts of the nation not currently experiencing torrential rains, sleet, and hail. A message had been sent to Ponyville, but thus far, there had been no response from the former bearers of the Elements of Harmony – probably because it was one in the morning.
So Luna stared out at the darkness of the streets, uncanny when compared to the lively lights that dotted the city most evenings, even late at night, and let out a breath that she had not been consciously holding, steaming the window where the moisture in her exhalation met the cool glass. Her guard had volunteered to go out there, and find the monster, to magically call Luna and Celestia when they had done so. She had let them go out into the darkness, the rain, the sleet, and face what lay in waiting.
She just hoped this would not be a choice that she would live to regret.
* * *
“For the record, I regret the life choices I've made that have brought me to this point.” Sticky Wings smiled when she said it, and the rest of the squad chuckled. Sticky often ran her mouth when she was nervous, and if there was nervousness enough to go around, then at least Sticky was in good company. The dark and the rain were oppressive, both in effect and spiritually, although the wardings and alchemical preparations that Ice Pick and Zorada had lavished upon the squad kept the worst of the dark magic off of their backs.
That said, it was difficult to figure where to go next. The streets of Canterlot were darker than they ever were, hailstones the size of cobblestones having shattered the lanterns that traditionally had lit the roads and paths of the city. Even magical light illuminated scarce feet in front of Ice Pick and Hot Streak, and cast weird shadows upon the walls of the buildings that they passed. It was, Sticky decided, an experience not unlike being in a haunted house on Nightmare Night, with the noted difference that there were genuine monsters trying to kill you, you were soaked to the skin, and it wasn't actually all that much like a make-believe fun scare at all.
Gawain, wearing a yellow slicker that had been designed for a pegasus over old pieces of gryphon-shaped armour borrowed from the Canterlot Historical Preservation Societyxxviii, kept pace with Sticky. The armour chafed uncomfortably, but he was mostly keeping dry, his eyes scanning the dark pathways as the squad passed them. The city that he had come to hadn't been like this. It had been friendly, welcoming, and not a little over-inclined to burst into musical numbers at a moment's notice. This was Canterlot as described by the equine poet Polearm Jostler in MacHoof: A haunted place that knows no joy, nor warmth/ The windows like dead eyes do mark our place/ How like the fearful soul the town becomes/ When death doth threat each step to show Her face. The gryphon screwed his courage to the sticking place, and hurried to catch up with the group.
The usually familiar streets were unfriendly and alien, with dark shadows twisting familiar sights into weird and monstrous figures. Even the sight of Canterlot Castle, now a fading outline mostly obscured by the storm, looked spiky and vicious in the eldritch storm.
It was Hot Streak that heard the sound from the alleyway, a sob that she might have believed to be dark rain gurgling down a gutter had it not repeated again, slightly louder, a moment later. Not a cry of terror – if anything, that would have been better. The evening was obviously full of terrible things; their presence was made extremely clear, in a 'you're being watched by predators' vibe that managed to pierce their shield and cause the hair on back of her neck stand at attention.
But a sob of fear was different. A scream meant that someone was startled by something terrible. A sob meant that they despaired of escaping it. “This way!” She broke into a run.
Strictly speaking, they weren't on a mission of mercy for everypony that was out in the night, out in the rain. Their mission was to find the source of the dark rain, and to send for the princesses – and to either shut it down, or to slow it down long enough for the princesses to do so. Stopping to save somepony wasn't expressly forbidden, but it didn't accomplish the end goal, and the end goal was under the header of 'at any cost'.
This crossed Hot Streak's mind for a fraction of a second, but was not given leave to linger.
Many ponies faced situations, in the course of their lives, where their abilities were insufficient to the tasks presented to them. Hot Streak had always lived with that, and perversely, its reflection, all at once: she had always had power to spare, but her control had been wanting. Now, she was finally able to bring her prodigious gifts into order, and it would take an act of divine power to stop her from using it to help a pony in need.
The alley was longer, darker, and dingier than it had any right to be, but Hot Streak had a gift, and magic charged with emotion was always stronger. Her magical aura flared, and the sleet sizzled as it touched it, the dark magic and the rain dissipating with equal alacrity as it steamed off of the unicorn's magic. A guardpony – Day Guard, one Sergeant Hoplite, she vaguely recognized – was cornered at the end of the alley by a creature with too many. Too many eyes, dark, beady, insectoid. Too many limbs, long and withered, a mockery of the equine form. Hot Streak had little doubt that this was Sergeant Hoplite's greatest fear, and if she was breaking with Guard tradition by showing emotion at all, it was difficult to blame her.
Hot Streak wasn't at all convinced that she wouldn't get some nightmares of her own just from seeing it.
But then, the creature was dark magic, and they were prepared for that. With her aura lighting up the alley, keeping the magic raining from the clouds from continuing to reinforce the miasma of fear and despair, the rest of the squad was able to advance.
Hot Streak snarled. “Hose it down.”
Most of the squad had a stash of alchemical 'water' balloons, loaded for bear with Zorada's mixture of antimagical gel. That would have been enough of an unpleasant surprise for the nightmare beast, but Sticky had known someone in the Palace gardener's corps, and had managed to secure a couple of the sprayers that they used. The gel was pressurized, and if Sharp Salute and Zorada were a little overzealous in their liberal application of the goop, it could at least be said that they were thorough.
Hot Streak and Sticky helped pry Hoplite free from the wall, to which she had been quite forcefully plastered. “You're going to be okay.”
Hoplite looked a little shellshocked. “I... am?” She shook her head. “I am.” She wiped her face, more managing to shift around the goop than to clear it off of herself. “What is this stuff?”
Zorada considered giving an ingredient list. Instead she managed an enigmatic smile. “You might be happier not knowing. It's not toxic to ponies, and it will wash out fine with some vinegar.” She paused. “Well, eventually.”
Sticky gave Hoplite a reassuring pat on the shoulder, not coincidentally one of the least-goopy places on the guard's torso. “Get to one of the shelters. We'll take care of what's going on tonight.”
As the guard broke into a gallop, heading toward one of the nearest emergency shelters, Ice Pick raised an eyebrow. “We can?”
Sticky shrugged. “Damned if I know.”
* * *
The gel had worked, and now the question was where to apply it for best effect. The squad had run into a few more of the shadow beasts, rescued a hoofful of civilians, but had no idea where to go next, in order to actually solve the problem, rather than treating the symptoms. The streets were quieter now – those ponies that weren't taking shelter in the buildings had made it to the communal shelter – but the rain was still dark, heavy, and enervating.
The squad had taken shelter in an abandoned coffee shop. Sticky had shaken hooves with the doorknob, and it had 'miraculously' come open for her. Sharp Salute had considered reprimanding the pegasus, and then thought better of it, even though he had tried the door immediately before her and found it to be locked. They were leaving bits for the coffee and doughnuts, at his command though.
“It's got to be somewhere up high.”
Zorada gave Ice Pick a look. “Theoretical magic is your field, Icy, but why?” She gestured around. “Once it got the weather machines going, why would it stay up, instead of enjoying the fruits of its awful labour?”
Ice Pick shook his head, in thought. He had a map of downtown Canterlot spread out in front of him, still miraculously dry despite his soaked saddlebags. “That's just it, though. Oppressive magic coming from on high. It's... hard to explain. Basically, you can't cast magic you don't believe in, at least a little bit. Every time you send magic out into the world, it's a reflection of the way that you want the world to be.”
Zorada frowned. “Assuming that dread beasts from other realms work the same way.”
“If it's using our magic, it's doing it our way.” Ice Pick gestured at the map. “If we weren't in the heart of Canterlot, I'd say it was possible that it could be using wild magic, or... something. But an effect this large? In the heart and home of Pony power for the last ten centuries?” He shook his head. “It would be fighting an uphill battle. At the very least, it's using our rules, even if it's using them in an unconventional way. So it has to be coming from on high, because that's how you oppress.”
Sharp Salute looked over the map. “So it's looking down on us, hence the 'oppressive' vibe. I get it.” He snorted, amused with himself. “I must've been paying more attention to some of those eggheads at the briefings over the years than I thought. I actually understand what you're saying. If it's set up somewhere near where it was summoned, then it would have to be somewhere that ponies aren't going all the time. We'd have heard a report if there was some strange cult activity going on in a high-traffic area.”
“Could be the air-mail headquarters.” Gawain offered. “They'd be closed on Sunday, and they're pretty high up.”
Sticky rubbed her jaw, unconsciously, a clear sign that she was thinking. “Risky, to use a government building though. And it's not very central to the heart of the city.” She jabbed her hoof near the middle of the map. “The Tower of Art, on the University campus. It's been shut down for renovations for more than half a year now. Something about an alumnus coming back from the grave and funding the repairs.”
Ice Pick nodded. “It's the best bet. Twenty-three stories up, heart of the downtown, and lightly trafficked at best. The workers don't do weekends, which is why the renovations have taken eight months.” The diminutive unicorn frowned. “Now we just have to get there.”
* * *
Getting to the Tower of Art hadn't been difficult. The rain was just as oppressive as when they had entered the coffee shop, but the end of a long struggle was in sight, and it was difficult to take the spring from the squad's stride. Getting into the tower was no less simple; Sticky's alacrity with gentle entry into restricted areas had proven no less capable on the University furnished lock than the coffee shop's.
The real problem was getting up the tower.
When the Tower of Art was a functioning building, it had a lift installed that operated using simple levitation. Some comedic escapades with a malfunctioning controlxxix had finally encouraged the University to disable the magical lift, and, with the funding provided for renovations, install a mechanical one, that ran on counterweights, using magic only for safety.
Sharp Salute kicked a counterweight, sitting neatly in a pile of counterweights, unhelpfully unattached to anything like a lift mechanism. “I guess we're taking the stairs.”
Ice Pick groaned. “It's twenty-three stories.”
Sharp Salute gave Ice Pick a look. “Have you been holding out on your ability to magically conjure and install an elevator?”
“No?”
The old guardspony raised a brow. “Then we're taking the stairs.”
* * *
It was later. Stairs had happened.
Strictly, Gawain and Sticky could probably have flown up ahead of the rest of the squad, had they felt any strong desire to meet an otherworldly evil alone, without backup, and without the extremely heavy tanks of anti-dark-magic goo. When this had been pointed out, the idea of taking a head start by way of flight had been summarily and enthusiastically dismissed. Despite the Night Watch's enforced guard training (which had largely consisted of scrapping with one another at the least provocation), Sticky was still slight of build, but Gawain was sturdy enough to make the hauling of the tanks in shifts slightly less unpleasant.
Nevertheless, by the time they reached the top floor, Ice Pick had revisited his supper frequently enough to acquire regrets about his dietary choices, and Hot Streak found herself desperately missing the dark-magic-soaked by thoroughly cool rain.
The door that stood in front of them was heavy and oaken, like many of the doors in the pars of the University that had been built around a certain time. This, Zorada explained, was deliberate. Chemists and potion-makers were frequently put in the tops of towers, so that in the event that a mixture turned out to be rather more potent than expected, there would be a reduced wastage of ceilings and floors. Heavy doors tended to be built into facilities where magical experimentation took place for much the same reason, and were reinforced against magical leakage as well.
Ice Pick looked uneasy. “Then the fact that I can feel dark magic through that door is...?”
“A bad sign, yes.”
The squad exchanged glances. They hadn't yet faced any real threat; the odd brawl or street fight, and a few cases where they had benefited from total surprise. This would be, hooves down, the greatest challenge that they had yet encountered.
“Ah, buck it.” Sharp Salute snorted. “What, you wanted to live forever?”
The door slammed open. The room beyond was... coated. Dark shadows, coalescing on every surface, squirming and writhing, as if the very walls and floor were alive, always on the outer edge of one's field of vision. And there, at the end of the room, was the being that they had encountered only once before. One that had been forced to flee only by the presence of a living goddess, who would not be appearing this evening.
It turned, and Looked at them. It had been different before, when It had come into their home, where they had some measure of advantage. Now, they had come into Its place of power, where every inch throbbed Its name. Now, It knew that It could win.
“Welco-” It began to hiss, menacingly.
In fairness to the Being of Outer Darkness, when last It had manifested on the Prime Plane, there had existed neither water balloons nor high-pressure sprayers. It rallied surprisingly gamely in light of this, and had intercepted both of the streams of fluid, which were diverted carefully, steaming as they countered the dark magic that covered the chamber, and the balloons, which were gently caught and therefore failed to break.
The squad exchanged worried glances. The being sputtered indignantly. “Did you really think that it would be that easy?”
Ice Pick held up a hoof. The squad huddled. There was much murmuring. Finally, Ice Pick came up again. “On the balance of things, we are prepared to commit to 'we didn't expect it would work, not really, but we sort of hoped that it might'.” There was nodding, as the four Night Watch members behind him gave agreeable gestures.
The being glowered at them. “You fools! You have sacrificed everything, and for nothing! You are the last of the effective resistance to my power, and soon, I shall defeat you all! What have you to say to that?!”
The huddle re-formed. The being waited patiently, as the murmuring recommenced. Ice Pick was once again chosen as spokespony. “We think there's one thing that you haven't taken into consideration. One thing that you could not possibly have considered, but which may lead to your downfall.”
The being scoffed. “And that is?”
“We aren't just random guards that showed up to oppose you. We're a rag-tag team of unlikely heroes, drawn together by fate, with an eclectic set of skills that, by design or coincidence, happen to compliment one another extremely well.” Icy gave his best confident smile, and the being paused. Unlikely heroes tended to have tricks up their sleeves, in worlds where Narrativium reigned.
“You don't mean?”
“Oh yes!” Icy was in full swing now, and all eyes were upon him. “Representing years of experience and wisdom, Sharp Salute is the embodiment of Empiricism!” The old guardpony managed a heroic pose and an enigmatic expression, as he was thrust to the forefront of the little group.
“No!”
“And with the courage to overcome the obstacles presented by life, and the drive to see a project through to completion, Sticky Wings represents Tenacity!” Sticky gave a sheepish grin, and a shy wave.
“With his outsider's opinion on Equestrian culture, Gawain here provides a valuable insight into how non-Pony agents might approach a subject! Thus, he embodies the element of Relative Objectivity!” Gawain gave Icy a skeptical look, but nevertheless adopted a militant stance, facing the Being.
“With the willingness to face the facts ahead of her with all that she has to bring to bear, and an unwillingness to be dissuaded by her own handicaps, Hot Streak truly is the Element of Optimism!” Icy had managed to work himself up into a sufficient rhetorical lather that he was spouting off Capitol Letters in his little introductions, and despite herself, Hot Streak felt buoyed by his somewhat backhanded compliments. The room's temperature lifted by three or four degrees as she beamed.
“With my book learning and desire to overcome obstacles through explanation and reason, I myself represent the Element of Rationalism!” The being was staggering now; it knew of the power of principles, and Icy had a showman's flair to his professorial tone. “Together, we are... the Elements of Inquiry, here to kick your shadowy butt back to whatever netherhell spawned it!”
The shadow beast cowered, fearing a flare of magical energy that would overcome even its dark defences as a mystical superweapon powered by principles was brought into reality. When no such flare of energy occurred, it blinked, considering. “Wait... that makes absolutely no sense. And weren't there six of you?”
Icy shrugged. “Sure. There's probably no such thing as Elements of Inquiry, and even if there was, it's practically impossible that beings embodied by it would just happen to come together because Princess Luna was looking for the best of the worst.” He grinned. “But, while you've been paying attention to me, you haven't been keeping an eye on Zorada. And as you yourself pointed out not that long ago, that's a sucker's bet.”
The zebra mare took this as her cue, and opened both of the heavy tanks of goo, directly behind the shadow beast. It barely had time to squawk in protest at the lack of narrative fulfilment as alchemical antimagic managed what nonexistent mystical superweapons did not, dissolving it, and banishing it, really and truly, from the world.
* * *
“Not a half-bad job.” Sharp Salute managed a smile. The storm had started to dissipate as the being fuelling it had melted, and the squad had left the heavy alchemical goop behind at the top of the tower. Going down had been a lot easier than up. “That was one hell of a distraction. How'd you manage to come up with all of that?”
Icy shrugged. “I get alumni newsletters from Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns. There was a five-page spread about Twilight Sparkle and the Elements of Harmony. Who knew that carrying a chip on your shoulder about your much-more-successful graduating class would come in handy?” He gestured at Zorada. “Real credit goes to Zorada, who rallies extremely gamely to absurd strategies.”
The zebra gave a smile. “A sucker's bet indeed."
Gawain glanced up at the sky. The storm had passed, but the cloud cover had remained, and with the streetlights still damaged beyond functionality, the night was still dark, if not stormy. “So what do we do now?”
Hot Streak paused. “Um. Go home?” She gestured about. “It looks like the crisis is over.”
Sticky shook her head. “No way. Sure, we got rid of the monster, but someone summoned it. Someone wanted all of this ruin and destruction, and while I might not be the legendary non-existent Element of Tenacity...” She gave Ice Pick a rueful grin. “But I want some answers. I want to know who, and why. All of this was awful, and I want to stop them from doing it, ever again.” She held up a tome, scavenged from the tower. “And I think I found a good place to start.”
Sharp Salute nodded. “Good instincts for a guard.” He smiled, technically. The edges of his mouth rose, and he showed teeth. It was a little vicious for the Royal Guard, but then, they were Night Watch. They went out, while the sun was resting, and made the world a little safer. “Let's go kick some teeth in.”
xxviii Without asking, but not without a little malicious spite.
xxixComedic, that is, with the benefit of hindsight.
Chapter 10: In Which Some Resolution is Found, But Not All Sins Forgiven
There are a great many studies, undertaken by ponies. A catalogue of ologies, ranging from the simplistic to the absurd, all of which are considered ultimately vital to the answering of the big questions of What’s Really Going On Here, at least by those embarked upon them.
Today, let us consider the study of doors.
A portologist could speak at length about the door that stood before the Night Watch, now, for all that, to the untrained eye, it greatly resembled the ones blocking immediate entrance through the apertures dexter and sinister. Heavy oak – reinforced with metal bars, with a tendency to swell in its frame in the damp. A peephole, itself on hinges, set into it. Suffering a trifle from woodworm, but sufficient in bulk that generations of the worms could live long, happy lives before the structural integrity was in any way compromised. This was a door that, in its inception, had been envisioned as a stalwart bulwark against the ravages of the outside world. And perhaps, in a kinder (or far, far crueller) world, it might well have been.
Corporal Sticky Wings of the Night Watch was not a portologist, and cared little for heavy oak, reinforcement, intentions or indeed woodworm. Her description of the door was, if less detailed, shorter, and considerably more grounded in the realm of the practical.
“It’s in the way. Get the ram.”
Although not exactly eloquent, this command did allow any amateur portologists in the region an opportunity to ascertain an additional factoid about the door. It did not have long for this world.
It was generally known by most unicorns that magical auras were unique to the caster. Indeed, they would have to be; a magical aura is the substance of a unicorn’s ability to work their will upon the world. Any unicorn that had been granted education in even the basics of magical theory would be able to cite a few sources and a great deal of empirical evidence, as understanding one’s own magical nature was key to casting any spell more complex than simple telekinesis.
What was less well known, even to those well conversant with magical theory, was that such auras leave residual traces. Tracking them is generally impractical, for in the natural places of the world, wild magic, which determines the seasons and the movements of the animals absent equine intervention, would surely interfere. Trying to track an aura through the streets of Canterlot on an average day (or night) would be like trying to find a needle in a needlestack.
But – aha – when the streets had been swamped with dark magic, the golden glow that Icy had been able to prize from the tome that Sticky had discovered had stood out in the night, scintillating yellow threads hanging in the air like flax from a distaff. True, there were signs of other magical auras, here and there, but the hoof traffic that would otherwise have so occluded such a mechanism of tracking had stopped shortly after the dark rain had begun, and so it was difficult but quite possible to follow the threads as they went along their merry way.
If the task was difficult, it could at least be said of the hunters that they were motivated.
And the tracking had led them here, to this door, an unassuming property that Gawain was able to say with confidence was held by a property management group, of which one Lord C. House was the primary shareholder. And while coincidence certainly was no stranger to the denizens of Equestria30, this was all but confirmation for the squad that they were in precisely the right place.
And thus, a huge, barrel-chested ram, head lowered and prepared by virtue of a good run-up, smashed the heavily reinforced and purpose built door straight off of its hinges, which were anchored into a frame significantly less security-minded than the door it purported to support. Because, realistically, there was no reason for anyone in the middle of downtown Canterlot to require a door that sturdy for any practical purpose, and because someone had just seen it on auction and decided it fit the aesthetic of the small house that they had been building.
The effect was somewhat like putting a vault door on a paper bag.
The ram, now thoroughly through the door, stood, dusted himself off, and gave Sticky a pleasant smile. Then, he adjusted his hat, and went back to the small shop down the street where he made his living.
“Thank you, M’sieur Bélier!” The ram didn’t look back, but gave a little nod of acknowledgement.
“We were fortunate that he was still up.” Gawain commented, looking at the devastated door. “We’d have been all night if we’d had to hit that thing with a log.”
Within, the building was dark, but there were lights coming from a room further in. No one seemed to be responding to the sound of the front door being taken from its hinges, but Sticky still signalled for quiet, as the members of the Night Watch filed in to the dark room. They crept along the hallway toward the source of the light.
Ice Pick shook his head. “If they didn’t hear our entry with the racket that we made, they’d have to be deaf, or dead, or...”
They rounded the corner. “... drunk.” Sticky’s diagnosis was an informed one; in addition to the irregular snoring, the scattered bottles, and the pair sitting in the back singing slurred and half-remembered songs, there was the distinct smell of alcohol.
Icy put up a hoof. “I’d like to note that they’re dead drunk. Half points to me?”
“So noted.”
* * *
It was an evening for portologists. Another door barred another path, apparently not having gotten wind of the scuttlebutt floating around the dread portal community about the fate of truculent doors. This was indeed unfortunate for lovers of heavy oaken doors, as it meant that the objects of their affection were growing increasingly collectible.
Co-equal in leading the charge were Sharp Salute and Shining Armour. The former had returned to the palace as soon as the trail of mystical breadcrumbs had led to Lord Clearing House’s properties, for both moral and tactical backup. The latter had been present, helping to maintain the palace’s mystical defences against the dark rain, and had been more than happy to lend a helping horn as soon as the enervating downpour had ended.
The two stallions were nothing like social equals; in addition to having been a Captain of the Guard, Shining Armour was also officially the prince consort of the Crystal Empire. When deciding who was going to be first through the door, this had mattered little if at all, as Shining Armour still had an inclination to defer to the senior sergeant that had been instilled when he had been beginning his training, and which had never flagged due to Sharp Salute’s retirement before Shining had risen in rank himself, never mind that he certainly didn’t fall into the same command structure as the earth pony now. There hadn’t even been any argument; neither pulled rank or respect as deciding cards. They would go through the door together.
And Luna Implaccibilis, once a warrior queen and now simply one of the semi-divine rulers of Equestria, was going to be following shortly thereafter.
The former guard captain and sergeant had both argued against it, as best they could, but the truth of the matter was, there wasn’t much by way of a leg to stand on for such an argument. True, raiding Clearing House’s personal estate could be risky, but Luna was, as near as anyone could tell, just this side of immortal. It required a sternness of character, but there she was hardly lacking, and if raiding the home of a peer of the realm would have political ramifications, it would be difficult to argue that the Night Watch’s actions wouldn’t reflect on her anyway, acting as they were in their capacity as her royal guard.
Besides, Luna had an axe to grind. Indeed, it was a double-bitted battle axe, which had been borrowed from the castle’s armoury.
The door never knew what hit it, but only because, as an inanimate object, it had no capacity for knowing things.
* * *
“Robes, hoods, weird iconography. I think ‘cult’ is a pretty straightforward extrapolation here.” Zorada shook her head. “I can’t say that I recognize any of the symbols though. Something local to pony lands?”
Ice Pick frowned, and looked around. “A large golden shovel?” He squinted at an altar set up near the back of the room. “Oh for the love of... it’s a Breakfaster cult.”
A cartoonish Celestia image, printed on cheap box cardboard clearly trimmed from a cereal box grinned mawkishly at the squad. In an artist’s rendition of her telekinetic aura, she bore two golden scoops, filled with the raisins that the lettering promised were in every box of fibre-enriched cereal. Ice Pick was pretty sure that the proportions were off (unless the artist had intended to convey raisins the size of Celestia’s eyes), but he recognized the branding from his foalhood. The marketing imagery had somewhat foundered in Canterlot, but the regional serial brand had still been fairly popular, once upon a time.
Then again, Canterlotians still remembered the Breakfaster cults, and the collision between having a ‘good’ breakfast and ponies being ‘good’. Adding in sun-worship to a breakfast theme had more or less guaranteed that there would be a mixed reception at best.
“O-kay...” Hot Streak looked around. “What do ancient unspeakable evils with unpronounceable names have to do with having a balanced breakfast?”
Gawain snorted. “What, is that some kind of zen thing?” The gryphon shook his head. “Nah. If we want answers, oh happy day, we have a building full of drunk ponies to shake it gently out of.” He glanced around at the liquor bottles scattered around him. “I’m pretty sure if we wait for their hangovers to kick in, they’ll give us all of the information that we need in exchange for a bottle of stomach medicine, a couple of headache pills, and a tall glass of water.”
“It’sh for the divine commandmentsh, offisher~!” One of the singing unicorns had broken off, seeing that they had guests, while the other seemed to have companionably fallen asleep leaning against her. The more alert of the two – and this was, it should be understood, an extremely low bar under which to limbo – was just sober enough to recognize that the company that had arrived were members of the Watch, but not quite lucid enough to realize what that entailed, being far enough into the bag that she seemed to have forgotten her own status as ‘one who had just broken several laws, and possibly sinned against nature’.
Icy glanced at Sticky, who shrugged. He turned back to the inebriate. “Divine commandments?”
“Yesh...” The unicorn swayed slightly in her seat. “There ain’t enough’ve them! It’sh hard to maintain a good head’a shteam when your holy book is three pagesh long...” She hiccuped.
“So all of the dark magic was... for what?”
The unicorn looked evenly at Icy, or as evenly as could be managed under the circumstances. “Well, when we last had a big ol’ crish... crisish, we gotta new princessh, right? Sho... we were hoping that if there’sh another big ol’ problem, another one of those bearersh of the Elements of Harmony would become a princessh! Hopefully the apple-based one. That’sh got ‘new food-related commandments’ written all over it!” Wicked scheme somewhat explained, at least to her own satisfaction, the drunken unicorn leaned against her fellow in mutual support, and began to snore.
“Wow, what a stupid plan.” Sticky wasn’t aware that she had spoken aloud, but there was no one sober enough to take offence. The larcenous pegasus rubbed her temples. “Threaten the lives of thousands of ponies, in the hopes that a very specific hero would arrive to stop them? Who are these ponies, anyway.”
Zorada trotted over, pulling hoods off of slumbering cultists. “It would appear to be... a number of third and fourth children of noble houses. Well past the ‘heir and spare’ mentality. A lot of ponies with a great deal of money behind them, no clear purpose, and more resources than sense. I can see them falling into bad company, but frankly, most of them would appear to be too stupid to set up something of this magnitude.” Her eyebrows knitted together. “In other words...”
Gawain finished for her. “In other words, we sent Sharp Salute to exactly the right place.”
* * *
Strictly speaking, a raid on the personal home of a Peer of the Realm was strictly circumscribed, in big red angry letters, by the constitution of Equestria. It wasn’t impossible – if the right warrants, including a royal warrant could be acquired, it was actually quite doable. But the fuss that it would kick up would likely end the career of any magistrate that signed the warrant, and any officers that sought one.
Justice Stone Heart, of the Celestial Court, was not particularly concerned about his political career. He was, first among all things, a justice of the law, and under the circumstances, he was quite confident that he had the support of the Princesses, both of whom had personally requested the warrant. Luna wasn’t concerned about the political implications – or, it might be more accurate to say, was less concerned by them than she was about the fact that a peer of the realm was implicated in a scheme that had endangered the lives of thousands of her citizens. Shining Armour was assisting in the raid, but was likewise fairly confident that his role as the leader of the army of a technical foreign power was pretty secure, to say nothing of his role as Prince Consort.
The pony that stood to lose the most in the resulting debacle was Sharp Salute, but at seventy-six years old, he was blissfully unconcerned. Tough as nails, and still able to hold his own in a fight - and to Tartarus with anyone who said otherwise – but if the past couple of months had taught him anything, it was that there came a time to retire, and his had come and gone. Only a fool would seek to dispute his courage, audacity, or professionalism, but even the toughest earth ponies had to stop sooner or later. It wasn’t giving up; it wasn’t giving in. It was simply the realization that you couldn’t fight forever.
It was hard. But, conversely, it was liberating.
When he knocked in the door with a mighty buck, the bones in his hips and legs sang the discordant tune of arthritis, but that wasn’t new. Pain when he moved, got up, walked around – he had kept up with the squad, but he likely wouldn’t be able to say that in a few months. It had taken a lot out of him, getting them up on their feet. Now, he would be serving them best by acting as their aegis against political blowback.
As the door went down, and he bellowed that this was an official raid, the valet who had been standing in the hall froze, and Sharp Salute gave him the look known to all guardsman of a certain era, that said ‘if you consider moving, I will consider stopping you with all possible prejudice’. Feeling the figurative hoof on his collar, the valet barely breathed.
They blew through the main entrance hall, a pair of bailiffs from the Night Court following along in the wake of Princess Luna, making arrests as they went. Eventually they came to the study, and this door was taken by Shining Armour, an azure telekinetic bolt splintering the door.
“On the ground, hooves behind your head, and if your horn so much as lights up, I shall make you swiftly wish that it had not!” Princess Luna, Sharp Salute decided, almost had the instincts of a sergeant. In his mind, there were few higher compliments, despite the slight disparity with her traditional rank.
“What the Princess said. Lord Clearing House, you are under arrest for involvement of the Incursion Event of this evening, formally lodged in the records of the Night Court as the Night of Dark Rain. You are not obliged to speak, but if you do so, understand that everything you say will be taken into consideration when you are tried for this crime.”
Clearing House sputtered. “This is an outrage! You can’t just barge in here! I’ll end your career!”
Sharp Salute gave a crooked smile. “Oh dear. And here I was, just negative sixteen years from retirement. However shall I acquire a pension now?”
Shining Armour was less glib. “Lord House, we have evidence of your involvement. You aren’t a cultist – we would know. EIS runs frequent background checks on all peers of the realm. Why go to all of this trouble?”
Clearing House snarled at the former captain of the guard. “To stop her!” He pointed a hoof at Luna. “The Breakfasters had a silly little plan about trying to engineer another alicorn ascension. If we water down the title of Princess enough, who will give a damn about it to follow?” He crossed his hooves. “Things might have gotten out of hoof, but that was simply because we got caught up in the power that the ritual afforded us.” He favoured Luna with a sickening grin. “We were ‘corrupted by power’.” A common phrase to describe the rise of Nightmare Moon, thrown into the mare’s own face.
Luna’s smile was sepulchral. “Ah, ‘power corrupts’. Now there’s a familiar tune.” The smile, silky and sickly at best, vanished from her face. “Allow me to clarify something, for the benefit of the record.
“Power does not corrupt, Lord House. True, a great many ponies have heard the saying to that effect, but few have paused to consider from whence that aphorism springs. It is not, as many believe, a warning against acquiring power, but a justification of the corrupt for their own actions. Normalizing them, because surely, in their place, all ponies would have done the same.
“Power does not corrupt. Power reveals. If morality and empathy would stop you from pursuing wicked ends, then they would do so regardless of your station, or the might you could bring to bear. If all that is stopping you is the capacity for ponies to stop you, then that is revealed when you believe yourself to be above them. I know the temptations of power better than many; indeed, my own fall is so well known as to be apocryphal. Do not believe, Lord House, that you will score any points by hiding behind that little seed of commonly held wisdom; it bears no fruit for you.”
Shining Armour was applying the manacles, and Sharp Salute looked at his sovereign, with different eyes than ever before. “That was.. quite the speech, your highness. A bit of a sore point?”
Luna looked down at the geriatric guardspony. “Sore? Perhaps. One that I am reminded of with passing glances and errant words, like a tongue finds a sore tooth. But also the benefit of earned wisdom, and so not lightly dismissed.” She gestured to Clearing House. “Have him thrown in the dungeons, until a court may be convened to try him at our leisure.”
“The dungeons? But we haven’t used the dungeons in years, your highness!” One of the bailiffs objected. “They’ve got the gift shop in them!”
Luna shook her head, suddenly tired. “Then arrange for dungeons.”
Clearing House objected again, demonstrating his lack of understanding for power dynamics in which he did not hold the winning cards. “This isn’t over!”
“Yes, my little pony.” Luna’s tone held no sympathy, nor threat, merely finality. “It is.”
30Just earlier that week in Canterlot, a single pegasus – one Extreme Outlier - had won the lotto, been struck by lightning, made a hole in one, and spontaneously combusted. At least, if one believed the Weekly Equestria News.
Epilogue: In Which the Nature of Causality is Discussed, and Some Things End
Six months had passed. Things were bewilderingly different, and yet frustratingly the same. It was very much like any other span of six months, which was to say, uniquely different from any other span of six months.
Time had wrought changes upon the Night Watch. The next budget had passed, and yet Luna’s personal guard had not been excised from it. Indeed, it had grown, been given something resembling proper facilities (although not much better than the boiler room), and while it still bore the burden of being acknowledged as the dumping grounds for ‘the best of the worst’, there were now ponies applying to join the Night Watch straightaway, rather than washing out of other, better applications first. The Night Watch was where you could make your name, if you weren’t quite right for EIS or the Royal Guard. You still had to produce results of course – Princess Luna would accept nothing less – but if you were a little off-beat, then you were at least dancing with a bunch of other, equally off-beat ponies.
The metaphor worked especially well when one took into consideration how often ponies working for the Night Watch ended up in traction.
Sharp Salute was out, and glad of it. He still held a supervisory role, but the Night of Dark Rain had shown him that however strong or tough you were, time would eventually win. Thus far, tensions with the management of the old ponies home hadn’t renewed, but this was generally considered to be a mere passing breeze, a calm between storms, or possibly the eye of a hurricane. The former weather team ponies now residing within the home had an unending number of metaphors for the temporary armistice, as well they might.
Sharp’s legacy was not forgotten however. In place of a single retired earth pony, the new Night Wash had two; in their early sixties, Sergeant Ampersand and Sergeant Honeycrisp had both served under Sharp Salute, and both had his tacit approval. If their records were less than spotless – and they were rather less accomplished than Sharp Salute – then at least the squad knew that they had done more with less.
Gawain was out too. His work in the Night Watch had earned him a place working with the crown prosecutors, and they had been impressed enough with his legal acumen that, when the business of mounting the prosecution was finished, he would be invited to become a prosecutor himself, one who specialized in immigration law, and the distinctions between gryphon and Equestrian legal practices.
Still, he was never far from hoof if the Night Watch needed some extra muscle. While he was excited to perform the work in which he specialized – using his head as something other than a blunt object – prosecutors in Equestria were expected to work hoof in hoof (or claw in hoof) with those sworn to enforce the laws of the land. In times to come, that relationship, forged in adversity and terror, would come to be very important indeed.
Zorada’s mission as a representative of EIS ended shortly after the Clearing House bust. Her infiltration, never particularly successful, had technically been a failure, as she had been identified as EIS within short order of joining the Night Watch. Nevertheless, respect for zebra alchemies had increased immensely, and she was shifted into a quartermaster position with the intelligence service, while serving as a liaison to the increasingly respected, if still much beleaguered Watch.
When a chain of contraband magical soaps started to make their way into the Canterlot underground, she relied heavily on the Night Watch as backup in her official capacities. When they were dealing with problems that ordinary magic had no real handle on, they called for her. This might have been considered a triumph for interdepartmental unity, but then, that might have just been what the EIS wanted everypony to think.
Ice Pick, Sticky Wings, and Hot Streak, all ended up in leadership capacities to greater and lesser extents in the Night Watch. The fact of the matter was that there was nowhere else that they quite fit. Ice Pick in particular rose to the occasion, his conversational style of lecturing translating very well to morning briefings. Hot Streak moved to part time work near the end of the six month interlude, resolving to go back to school to get a formal nursing degree, improving the Night Watch’s capacity as emergency responders.
Sticky Wings was promoted to Captain for a full week before being busted down to Lieutenant for petty theft. She continues to work on her kleptomania.
As the Night Watch continued to grow and develop, none were more pleased by the development than Princess Luna, whose confidence in the ponies – and gryphons, zebras, and eventually gryphons, breezies, camels and yaks – under her command remained eternally unshaken. If there was one thing that she knew, it was that sometimes, a second chance and the right opportunity to fit in could spin gold from straw.
* * *
Some ponies had been hurt, and a hoofful had died. That had been the fallout, but every expert that was consulted, even the ones most critical of the Crown, agreed that it would have been much, much worse. The papers had been filled with stories of ordinary ponies that had done what they could to help one another, and that had been good. Ponies were helping one another to rebuild, setting aside differences that seemed petty now. That was even better. Eventually they would return to their usual patterns, because the nature of the pony is obsession, but for now it was possible to believe that ponies would keep to it, this time.
Most of the Breakfaster cultists had weaseled their way out of prosecution. Although they were very junior members of old houses, they were still associated with the names and titles of some very influential ponies, and between the exertion of political influence and a little bit of not-entirely-above-board angling, this had been enough to stave off prosecution.
Not so with Clearing House. His family had disavowed him, and while he retained some political support in Opposition, it was generally agreed that there was no place for unsuccessful treason within the House of Lords. Whether or not successful treason would have been winked at was not discussed in detail, forcing rampant speculation to take the place of surety.
Nothing new there, then.
Bookmakers were making odds on whether or not the case against him would succeed, but Luna wasn’t vastly concerned. Certainly, Clearing House had been a thorn in her side for some time, but that was part of being in charge; the inevitability of opposition. Even among those of Equestria’s lawmakers who agreed upon priorities, how to implement them was disputed using terms of vehement vernacular that she would have hesitated before using before her troops, once upon a time. For now, they had found the bits, and Equestria could turn toward another turning of the seasons, well assured that the bits that it needed to function would continue to appear as required.
Her own pet experiment had paid considerable dividends in political goodwill as well. Not really her main priority, but a pleasant bonus, certainly.
“Equestria to Luna? Are you there?” She was taking tea with Celestia this afternoon, and apparently had missed something significant in the conversation. Ah, well. That was part of being a sociable pony as well, she was told.
Luna took a moment to sip her coffee, composing her thoughts. “Hrm? Oh, yes. Sorry. In my own little world for a moment, I suppose.” She had no great love for tea, not the way that Celestia did. Stewed leaf water. Then again, she supposed that ‘stewed bean water’ would be an apt description for her drink of choice, so perhaps it was best to eschew the throwing of stones.
Celestia looked at her sister through the steam rising from her cup. “I was asking if you were alright. You’ve been... moody, the last few months. Melancholic. I was concerned for you, and I know that Twilight and her friends have been asking after you.”
Luna forced a smile. “Nothing to complain about really. Just... an old warhorse that only feels her age when she’s between battles.” There was only a little bit of coffee at the bottom of her cup, and the question of whether or not to slurp was the burning issue of the moment. Which, really, was the problem. “I know that I shouldn’t wish conflict on our subjects, but it’s easier to forget the bad times when you’re barrel deep in alligators of one stripe or another.”
Celestia’s exquisitely sculpted eyebrow arched a fraction of an inch. “’Old warhorse’? Luna, you do recall that I’m your older sister, yes?” A telekinetic aura snatched a scone from a nearby tray.
“And you don’t look a day over five thousand.” The scone, most of the way to Celestia’s mouth, changed directory to a collision course with Luna’s face, as her older sister stuck out her tongue. “Acting like you’re six...” Luna tilted her head slightly to the left, and the scone paffed against the wall behind her. “... and throwing like a foal doesn’t change it.”
“I’m sure I won’t dignify that with an answer.”
Luna’s smile was more genuine now. “And I’m sure that you won’t be able to resist, as soon as you’ve come up with a bon mot sufficiently clever to share.” Society might shift and change, and the nature of their duties with it, but Luna knew her sister. The pillars of the world shook, but did not fall. “Face it, Celly. I knew all of your moves twelve hundred years ago.”
Celestia’s response involved her own telekinetic aura seizing every piece of loose pastry in the room. “Perhaps. But while I haven’t gotten a lot more powerful since then, I’ve grown much, much trickier.”
The palace staff would have to budget some overtime to clean up the room, and Luna was going to have to grab a bath before her briefing with Lieutenant Sticky Wings, but for now the world was flowing as it should. The halls rang with laughter and the echoes of mock battle; the sounds of family.
* * *
A small shop down a dark alleyway, that absolutely hadn’t been there two hours prior switched its shingle to ‘closed’ around time for the midday meal. Questionable Purchase made his way to the back room where his tenant lived and worked.
She looked right at him as he moved through the beads. It shouldn’t have been an issue – he knew that was why the beads were there, and besides, she had acute hearing, and the entire setup was to put marks off of their game. The ‘strange and mystical consultant’ gig was a good one, if he said so himself; it more than paid for the room.
But then again, she was blind, and yet she was looking right at him. He composed himself, although he was still ill at ease. “Lunch time, Lady Swarm.”
The changeling tilted her head. “And what is on the menu today, Questionable?”
“Memories of the enjoyment of a bowl of tomato soup and a hayburger.”
She laughed, lightly. “All of this junk food. You simply wish for us to grow too large to fly, and then we shall be your consultant forever.” Again, he knew that she was blind. She no more had to look at what she was doing than she had to look at him. But it seemed unnerving, how her many-holed hooves continued their work even as her white eyes failed to watch him. “You are ill at ease?”
“I... admit, I had wondered, Lady...” Questionable Purchase was more accustomed to being the unnerving one in a conversation. Anything else went against nature and supernature both. “You said that the gryphon that came in... the article that he brought for you to look at. It had served its purpose, and been countermanded.”
“We seem to recall you telling us about it being in all of the papers, yes.”
Questionable gestured about him. Streamers of red silk, stitched with arcane runes and wards bannered the entire chamber, and even as they spoke, the changeling continued to stitch a new one. They practically thrummed with power, and although he was by nature something of a charlatan, he was a skilled enough practitioner to know that every one of them was a defensive charm by nature. “What’s all this? You’ve been at it for months, even after the matter was all resolved. If the monster is gone, isn’t it a little late to hang wards?”
The changeling’s sightless eyes did not move, as her needle continued to slip through the fine fabric. “Oh, my dear pony. A monster was slain, yes. But first it was called. There will be beings that take note. There was a challenge to the rule of this pony capitol. There will be beings that have already taken note.” She shook her head.
“So... it’s not over?”
“All causes have effects. It is implied in the name. All effects are causes. This is how all things that are or will be have come to pass.” The needle continued its precise course. “Nothing is ever truly over, Mister Purchase. And some things have merely begun.”