Chapter I: Due Process

Try as she might, Princess Celestia was unable to shake the feeling of apprehension for what awaited her.

As she and her carriage flew through Canterlot’s airspace, she tried to look at the city, her beautiful capital, about which she had always been unable to speak without going into raptures. “Canterlot’s unparalleled and inimitable architecture is the manifestation of my subjects’ insatiable desire for excellence and innovation,” she’d said at one time. “A city that is sober but not somber, commanding but not oppressive, noble but not highfalutin, such as our Canterlot, is the only city fit for a princess and those of her subjects tasked with the responsibility to decide the fate of a great nation,” she’d said at another. “Canterlot is Equestria’s crowning jewel whose light shines across the globe entire, a beacon for ponies everywhere, whether they be rustic or refined, to rally round in harmony” was her personal favorite. These were just a few of the many platitudes that her brilliant speech writers over the years had come up with, and she liked to recall them in her stressful moments, finding that they always gave her a certain solace.

Yet, today, no matter how many bromides she repeated to herself, Canterlot passed by, its sights and sounds growing and dying away in an incomprehensible and inconsequential blur, yet all she could feel was the cool wind in her face; all she could taste was her heart in her throat; and all she could hear was the rattle and stir of the harnesses attached to the charioteers who were pulling her through the city’s airspace at a fearful speed. She wished they’d slow down; then, maybe, she wouldn’t have to face what awaited her so soon.

No, it was not apprehension, she thought to herself; it was more of a mild vexation, bordering on indignation.

She had been groomed since infancy for her position. When she had been a foal, somepony had always been lecturing her. In the morning it had been: “Brush your hair to the left, no less than eighty strokes, and do not wear any shoes that haven’t been shined at least twice since the last time you wore them; but it’s also important to not be ostentatious, for modesty goes a long way.” In the afternoon, it had been: “Sit with your legs in front of you, and hold your head high—not so low as to suggest to your courtiers that you regard them as on the same social level, but also not so high that it suggests you think you’re a morally superior being.” In the evening it had been: “Shake like this; smile like this; bring your knees up as you walk like this. Exhaustion is no excuse.” She was Princess Celestia, ruler of Equestria, commander and chief of the armed forces and the sun itself; yet she had kept her equanimity through it all, and had never regarded anything, neither in thought nor in deed, as being beneath her. And, after a hundred and some-odd centuries of rule, after twice as many crises against her kingdom faced and finally subdued, Princess Celestia liked to think that there was, at this point, nothing she couldn’t face without an imperturbable resolve.

Yet her cheek twitched. The wisp of a how-dare-they-bother-me-with-such-trifling-matters skimmed the topmost frontiers of her mind, and the more she fought against it, the more salient it became and the more it unsettled her. After realizing that fighting it was a pointless endeavor, she did permit herself one indulgence:

Pony Rights Administrative Tribunal, she thought. What an absurd name. Tribunal. How silly. It’s as if I were some genocidal dictator being tried for war crimes.

“You might as well be, Your Majesty.”

At the sound of that high-pitched, sententious voice, all at once the world, and all its ugliness, came rushing back to her, and her first image on returning to reality was the figure of a little beige pegasus, dressed in a black pinstripe suit and a tie which he continually had to pry off his face when the wind of the carriage’s flight flung it out of kilter, sitting and looking rather uncomfortable next to her on the carriage.

His sneer struck the princess as odd. She had first seen it two months ago, when they had introduced him into her chamber and he had extended his hoof and bellowed: “Due Process, Esquire, Attorney at Law, at your service, Your Majesty.” Then he had given her the same sneer she saw now, one she had often seen from lawyers; but in his, unlike in those of the lawyers she was accustomed to, the affectation showed, and behind it she could see the nervous colt who, observing the success of those he admired, was trying to emulate their behavior. It wasn’t a good facade; his genuineness, sincerity, and desire to please showed through then, just as it did now. For this supposition of him, Princess Celestia adduced the fact that when she had extended her hoof to him in return (albeit in a very different manner), after a few seconds of pause and perplexity, Due Process’s sneer had vanished; his face had turned as red as blood, and, after rapidly withdrawing his extended hoof, had bent down on shaking knees to kiss hers. The faux pas hadn’t even surprised her, for the lawyer looked awfully young, so much so that had Princess Celestia been informed that shortly before his appointment with her he had been in tears for a want of apple juice in his house, she would have scarcely been surprised.

When the lawyer had left, she had then erupted in a private fury to her sister, insisting that she was going to dismiss him on the spot and get proper counsel; and Princess Luna, with an outlook unusually politic for her, which came as a great surprise to Princess Celestia, had suggested that that would perhaps not be decent, for refusing a gift of free counsel and representation from the University of Canterlot, in recognition of the royal family’s generous contribution, the amount exceeding the combined sum of all the other donations the school had received that year, would not be suitable to the magnanimity of a princess. After much cursing, and some other words that would’ve probably sparked a revolution if the public had heard, Princess Celestia, unable to evade the fact that her sister was right, had given her reluctant consent to the free counsel, but, using the divers concerns that face a ruler as her excuse, had then proceeded to ignore the lawyer’s calls, to endlessly reschedule and cancel the appointments he had made, hoping that this whole “tribunal” thing was one of those issues that just went away on their own if she ignored them long enough, like the terrorist threats their administration received on a daily basis.

Yet Princess Celestia’s secretary, who had told Her Majesty twenty minutes ago that her chariot was ready and waiting to take her to the PRAT, had shown that that vague hope had been horribly, horribly unfounded.

A particularly thick air pocket struck her flush in her royally outstretched chest. “I beg your pardon?” said Princess Celestia with a gasp she could not suppress. “I might as well be what?”

“You won’t have to do, or even say, anything—leave it all to me, Your Majesty—but you might as well be told about the proceedings,” said Due Process, trying to make his voice as professional and disinterested as possible, though his vexation with his client’s complacency remained. “We haven’t really had time to prepare, but—”

“You must understand that I’ve been very busy,” Princess Celestia interrupted.

“Yes, of course, Your Majesty. It’s all right, Your Majesty; your employees have provided me with enough information to work with. They’ve been nothing but helpful, and—”

“What’s your experience?”

This is a joke they’re playing on me, she thought. They’ve dressed up an elementary school colt in a lawyer’s suit and are now trying to pass him off onto me.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty?”

“Have you ever defended anypony against alleged infringements on pony rights?”

Due Process broke eye contact, smiled, and made a peculiar gesture with his hoof as if to begin an elucidation—which Princess Celestia, having been in the upper circles of society for more than a thousand years, instantly recognized as a nervous twitch.

“Well, Your Majesty,” he stammered, “I . . .”

“Have you ever defended anypony, in any context?”

He gulped. “I defended . . . on a few occasions . . . allegations against a few students by the University of Canterlot’s . . . alma mater society . . . but I’m really not at liberty to say more than that; and I’m sure you’d agree, Your Majesty, that, given the circumstances—”

“What’s your degree in?”

Due Process blushed. “Why, Your Majesty, I’m a juris doctor; I’m sure the university already told you that I graduated second in a class size of—”

“Yes, I understand that. But permit me to ask: what kind of juris, if you understand? What kind of law do you specialize in?”

Due Process turned away. “Co . . . co . . . co . . .” he mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Corpo . . . corpor . . .”

“Corporate law?”

The little lawyer twitched on his cushion, and sat upright, staring at the princess with a gleaming eye, but also with a trembling chin.

“Your Majesty!” he exclaimed. “I can assure you that corporate law is just like pony rights law!”

“How so?”

He ground his teeth. “Simple!” he said, simpering painfully. “In pony rights law, as with corporate law, the defendant is guilty. It doesn’t matter that he did nothing wrong; it doesn’t matter that the plaintiff is a liar; it doesn’t matter that the defendant can adduce mountains of evidence to show this; what matters is that he was accused, and that itself is an unforgiveable crime. In an hour, Your Majesty, you will witness one of the most perverse inversions of justice ever implemented: where the accused—you, Your Majesty, I mean—is guilty till proven innocent.”

“So do you mean to suggest, my good sir,” said the princess, screwing up her eyes at him, “that my case is a foregone conclusion? That you can do nothing?”

“Yes—I mean no! No, not at all! I mean, I will certainly try my best to represent you, Your Majesty, to the best of my ability, for the sake of your honor and mine. And I do think that, given the nature of your case and the good reasons you had for doing what you did, Your Majesty, I do believe there’s a good chance the tribunal will see and understand after I’ve carefully laid out the facts for them.”

“That might be difficult,” coolly drawled the princess, unable to suppress the trace of a scowl appearing on her lips, “considering that this law is completely out of your field of study.”

“Your Majesty, please!” said Due Process with a hearty, excruciating laugh. “In school, they don’t teach us the law; it’s simply too big and abstruse. Rather, they teach us how to read, interpret, and apply the law. And I’m proud to say, Your Majesty, that for the past month, I’ve done nothing but read, interpret, and memorize the Equestrian Pony Rights Act.”

“You have it memorized?”

“It wasn’t hard!” The lawyer withdrew from the breast pocket of his jacket a small, thin booklet, looking quite like one of those meretricious flyers destined for the trash that divers special interest groups handed out to passers-by downtown. “It wasn’t very long,” he said, balancing the book on the bottom of his hoof and extending it to her. “And I’m proud to say—ah!”

A slight, but unexpected, gust of wind had caught the folds of the paper in the book, snatching it from the lawyer’s tenuous hold, and he at once had dived headfirst out of the carriage after it.

Princess Celestia, a second or two after he had disappeared, leaned slightly over the side of the carriage and looked down but saw nothing but the confusion of pegasi, coaches, and the general traffic of the city.

The coachpony on the raised seat of the carriage looked over his shoulder at her; she returned the inquiring stare with an insouciant shrug, which he answered with one of his own before turning his eyes back to the sky.

It was markedly quieter in the carriage now, giving her a brief moment to collect her thoughts. Perhaps, she thought, I should take this opportunity to plan what I’m going to say. Put tactfully, I’m sure a kind word of mine could change the court’s mind, and could make them dismiss this silly complaint. They’ll respond to reason, especially when coming from their merciful, generous, and beneficent princess.

And then she immediately thought of Discord, and the long, arduous, bloody war she and her sister had had to fight to regain their thrones and restore their land to law and order; then she thought of Tirek, how the fate of Equestria, unbeknownst to all, had been situated on a tipping point, on one side the status quo, on the other the abyss, and how narrowly a crisis had been averted, and how hard it had been to keep up appearances the next day when she had had to go about her usual royal duties, with Parliament clamoring in one ear and the gentry in the other, as if they all had not been a breath away from eternal suffering and slavery the day before; she thought of Nightmare Moon, and how she had had to take the role of two princesses for a thousand years; she thought of the tumultuous and fragile relationship Equestria had with Saddle Arabia, conscious how a single, “infidel” word she could inadvertently speak in the ultra-conservative ambassador’s presence during their weekly meetings could spark a world war; and now she thought of Queen’s Chrysalis, the Elements of Harmony, the prime minister, the cabinet, the Senate, and the upcoming summit of world leaders she had to attend in a week which she knew, from long experience, would be six hours of talking and would yield precisely zero results.

And all at once, in a stentorian cry that made the coachpony jump, and the charioteers start, giving the carriage a violent jerk, she screamed: “No!”

“Hggmmmmfffff!” came a muffled voice from somewhere.

She looked back, and saw the lawyer clinging feebly with his teeth onto one of the ornamental sashes that trailed from the back of the carriage, his wings twirling uselessly in the overwhelming speed of the chariot.

She let him dangle there for a few seconds, as she deliberated upon something. Finally, sighing, she lit her horn, and levitated him back to his place beside her.

“Thank . . . thank you, Your Majesty,” he stammered, smoothing the myriad creases of his suit covered with the dust that seems to permeate the air and streets of every major metropolis, and making a feeble attempt to readjust his tattered tie. “My word, your charioteers are fast!”

“At least,” she said, with a slight smile, levitating a handkerchief out to him, “you got your book back.”

He used the proffered cloth to blow his nose. “I’m afraid to say that in that particular endeavor, I was unsuccessful, Your Majesty.” He handed the soiled rag back to her on a hoof.

“No matter,” she replied, taking the rag in her magical aura, and applying a quick incineration spell to it, instantly turning it to ash. “After all, you have it memorized.”

“But not my annotations. I annotated the whole book . . . what will I do without it?”

Princess Celestia was old enough and had enough experience with social situations to know when a full grown stallion was about to cry.

“Come now,” she said, feeling it necessary to speak something in order to abort the birth of such a pitiful sight as a stallion’s tears, “would you like to hear what I’ve been thinking about?”

“As . . . as you please, Your . . . Your Majesty.”

“I was thinking, while you went for your little flight, about everything that I’ve done, all the issues and affairs I have, and am currently dealing with—and, no matter how bad it has seemed, I’ve realized that, somehow, life will always go on. When you put everything in perspective, this court and the nature of the complaint against me—it all seems rather silly doesn’t it?”

Due Process laughed. “Yes, Your Majesty. It’s incredibly silly!”

A short silence followed, in which they, though each conscious of the bothersome procedure that was waiting for them, shared an unspoken, unaccountable little sentiment, not quite joy insomuch as it was a slight, modest contentment.

“Your Majesty,” Due Process said at length, somewhat reconciled, “you could avoid this all. Just a flick of your hoof, and you can go right back to your palace, and I right back to my apartment, and that would be that. Please do it, Your Majesty. You’d be doing both of us a huge favor.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The lawyer snickered. “Come now, Your Majesty. Your word is the law of the land. All you would have to do is say: ‘Be it proclaimed, and promulgated throughout the land,’ etc., etc., ‘I, Princess Celestia the Supreme, the Benevolent,’ etc., etc., ‘do hereby denounce and decree that the Pony Rights Administrative Tribunal is hereby and forthwith dissolved, and all pending complaints dismissed accordingly.’”

The princess sighed, and gave a haughty, almost mocking, sidelong glance at him. “Were it so easy, my dear.”

“It is that easy, Your Majesty,” the lawyer replied, the gravity of his tone striking the princess, and uncomfortably rousing her from her nonchalance. “I’m in your service to give you my opinion and advice. Well, Your Majesty, here they are: Waste neither your time nor mine with these proceedings. Abolish the PRAT. Let us go home.”

Princess Celestia, suppressing a transient velleity to strike the arrogant attorney in the head, calmly explained: “Even were it in my power to do that, I have read enough to know what happens to leaders—or rather, I should say, tyrants—who rule by their whims. I enjoy bachelorhood too much to marry Mademoiselle Guillotine just yet.” Seeing his look of absolute bemusement, she concluded that the allusion had not had its intended effect. “But it’s not in my power. You undoubtedly learned about the division of governmental powers in school, one of the most important being the requirement of all bills to bear the signature of both me and my sister before becoming law. That is explicitly required by the Constitution of the Principality of Equestria. I remember writing that part, in fact.”

Due Process laughed, and sidled closer to her on the cushion—perhaps a bit too much into the personal space of a princess—and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial, eldritch whisper.

“Now now, Your Majesty,” he breathed, uncomfortably quietly, right into her ear, “I imagine that being a princess must be hard. Perhaps it might feel as if the whole world were conspiring to undermine you. And you probably have reason to believe that. But I can assure you, Your Majesty”—sidling yet closer—“I, as a bar-certified attorney under contract to you, can assure you, Your Majesty, that you have at least one friend in this world: me. I’m sworn, by oath and honor, to not only advise you to the best of my ability, but to also keep everything—everything—you say confidential. You may think you have no friends nor allies, but I can say with absolute certainty you have at least one, and he is sitting right in this carriage with you. Anything you wish to tell me, I will take to the grave. My only concern here is that you receive the best counsel possible under the circumstances.

“So, I’ll ask you again, Your Majesty—and this time, please answer honestly, for how can I give you proper advice otherwise? I ask you, Your Majesty: why don’t you just flick your hoof and will this problem away?”

Princess Celestia frowned and slid to the other end of the carriage. Due Process had not realized how far he had been leaning over, and landed chin first on the seat.

“And I say to you again, sir,” she replied, now with enough force to make the little lawyer tremble, “even were I so inclined to arbitrarily circumvent the democratic process, bills require the signature of both me and my sister. If a bill can get neither, or if it can get one but not the other, then due process necessitates that it be returned to Parliament. It is to ensure that neither I nor my sister can rule arbitrarily. It is an integral part of our government’s division of powers. That is why it’s mandated by the Constitution.”

“The Constitution?” repeated Due Process, raising his brow, much the same way a parent would to the fantastic claims of a child.

“Yes, the Constitution.”

The finality of the princess’s last statement seemed to completely change the lawyer’s bearing: from amused, now he was confused.

“Wait . . .” he said, “are you serious?”

“Has anything I’ve done or said given you reason to believe that I should joke around in matters so important?”

“No, no, Your Majesty! Forgive me, I’m just . . . shocked . . .”

“Shocked at what?”

“So you honestly—honestly, from you, Your Majesty, the princess of Equestria, in confidence to your lawyer—you don’t . . . know?”

“Please speak straight!”

At the princess’s injunction, Due Process nearly leaped once more out of the carriage. He did manage to keep his balance, but not without losing one or two feathers.

He cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, that part of the Constitution is null and void . . . if not the whole Constitution itself,” he whispered.

She groaned. A thousand and more years of experience with legal circumlocution had made her too jaded to take what he was about to say next seriously. Yet she reluctantly droned: “How, praytell?” if for no other reason than to keep him talking awhile so that she wouldn’t have to.

Due Process took a deep breath. “Your sister, forsaking her royal duties, and becoming Nightmare Moon, compelled you, Your Majesty, to exile her, and take over her duties for the past one thousand years—is this not true?”

Why are you asking if it’s true, you slippery little ferret, when literally every single pony in Equestria—if not the world—knows this? was what she was dying to say, but her royal longanimity held yet a little longer, and she managed to constrain herself to: “That’s correct.”

“Did Princess Luna sign any laws between her exile and return, Your Majesty?”

“No. It would have been hard to do that from four hundred thousand kilometers away.”

Due Process winced. “Then I’m afraid to say that no law has been passed for the last thousand years, Your Majesty.”

Princess Celestia shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see how you can draw that conclusion.”

“For the past thousand years, your sister has been . . . indisposed, and therefore unable to sign any bills brought to her by Parliament. As per the Constitution, anything that bears just your signature and not hers in addition is not law. Therefore, no law has been passed in the past thousand years.”

Princess Celestia chuckled. “That, quite frankly, sir, is ridiculous.”

“I’m giving you only my interpretation, Your Majesty, which is the only logical and legal possibility.”

“The governing of Equestria fell to me!” she cried. “I had to do everything; circumstances changed!”

“But the Constitution did not, Your Majesty.”

“An irrelevant nicety.”

“Perhaps, Your Majesty” said Due Process, “but the Constitution is the supreme law of the land; and as common law builds itself upon precedents, therefore, legally speaking, there are only two possibilities: either the constitutional requirement of needing the signatures of both you and your sister is null and void, or no law has been passed for the past one thousand years. For the sake of Equestria’s law and order, I would suggest that you take the former interpretation—unless you think that nothing of great import has been made in the past thousand years. That bill passed six hundred years ago abolishing serfdom might have been silly anyway, perhaps?”

Squinting at her in disbelief, he added: “How did you not know this, Your Majesty? If I were to go back to school, I’d write my master’s thesis on it. I thought I’d be exposing some grand conspiracy!”

Princess Celestia, shrugging, sat back, taking a deep breath of the chilly air. “I do know that law is necessarily muddled, confused, and contradictory,” she said. “You’ve brought me no news.”

Due Process fell back, mouth open, in the throes of a diminutive epiphany. “Our government isn’t malicious,” he whispered, half to himself, “it’s just incompetent.”

Then, to the princess, he said: “So I suppose Her Majesty is determined to face the tribunal?”

“Yes, Her Majesty is.”

He collapsed in a sigh and a groan. “So be it, Your Majesty. Now, I know we’ve had no time to prepare, but that’s okay. I just wanted to let you know that I believe Res Judicata plans—”

“Who?”

“Res Judicata.”

“What is?”

“No, Your Majesty, not ‘what is,’ but ‘who is.’” And then he sat up, in more disbelief at this than he had been at her ignorance of the law. “You don’t know Res Judicata? The pony who carved her name as a Crown prosecutor for ten years, winning over ninety-five percent of the cases she engaged, and who cemented that name as a defense attorney for twenty, winning over ninety-eight percent of the cases for her clients? Why, she’s only the most incredible, dogged, determined lawyer who ever lived! I’ve read the transcripts for all her trials; never before have I seen the most innocent, purest ponies so violently arraigned, so convincingly censured, to such an extent that even you yourself, Your Majesty, Bringer of Light, would have thought them the lowest of criminals; and never before have I seen such brutal, depraved, degenerate murderers painted in such a relief, that even you, Your Majesty, Defender of Truth, would have thought them no more guilty than a bee alighting upon a petal to get nectar for her hive’s sweet, sweet honey!”

“She sounds like a marvelous pony.”

“Oh, she is! I wrote a paper on her methodology in my second year. But how have you not heard of her, Your Majesty? She’s so well known, her exploits so fantastic, her arguments so ingeniously designed—how is it possible you don’t know her?”

Princess Celestia gently touched a hoof to his shoulder. “My dear,” she said, “I’ve lived a long, long time, and I still don’t know most things. And one thing that took me almost half my life to learn is that no matter who you and your friends are, no matter how great your and your friends’ achievements, no matter the ineffability of the grandeur of the accomplishments of those whom you most respect, the second you step out of the spheres in which you orbit, all those things you had held so high in esteem are unknown and irrelevant to millions. You would think I, ruler of the greatest country in the world, who raises the sun and puts him to bed every day, should be exalted and renowned by all; but would you believe it if I told you that I’ve visited distant lands where millions of ponies don’t know what the sun is, let alone that all their food cannot be grown without it?”

Due Process pinned his ears; his smile out of the corners of which enthusiasm had oozed vanished; he slouched in his seat, his head bowed. “I see,” he murmured.

After a while, a modicum of his confidence having been restored by difficult meditation, he finally worked up the courage to say: “As I was saying, Your Majesty—”

“Excuse me!” exclaimed Princess Celestia.

Due Process had not even the dignity to say he had been interrupted so she could say something to him; the words had been addressed to the coachpony.

“Excuse me,” she repeated, after the coachpony had turned in response, with an incredibly dumb look in his eyes. “I believe the courthouse is that way.” She pointed in the direction directly opposite to the one in which they were currently careering.

“Eeet eez correct, Your More Exceelence,” said the coachpony, staring at her vacuously.

She waited for him to elucidate. Nothing came.

“Listen to me, Magic Muzhik,” she said between her teeth, after a thirty second pause had elapsed, “perhaps my sister was slightly harsh when she told you to answer only the questions that were directly put to you, when she asked you if the palace was out of milk and you merely told her there was some in the fridge.”

Magic Muzhik flattened his ears. “I vas not being aware that tornado could be make in building, Your Exceelence.”

“I understand. But please, for my sake, now’s not the time for formalities. We have somewhere to be, and I believe we’re headed in the wrong direction. The courthouse is that way.”

“Ve not going to courthouse, Your Supreme.”

Another half minute of silent, incredulous stares.

Knowing that princesses had the legal power to order summary executions, and having a bit of pity for the poor immigrant, Due Process interpolated: “Your Majesty, the PRAT does not hold its hearings in a courtroom, as, legally speaking, the PRAT, as its power is delegated to it not through the Constitution but through the Equestrian Pony Rights Act, is not a court, but a tribunal, and thus cannot operate in federal facilities, as was the holding of the Supreme Court in Daisy v.—”

“Then where are we going? Please!” She grabbed the lawyer with her magic and lifted him, his limbs flailing, right to her face. “If not the federal courtroom, where? Parliament? The provincial court? City Hall? The small claims court? Please, for the love of all that is good, your princess beseeches you to tell her where she’s being taken!”

Chapter II: Canterlot High

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It had been difficult, but after years of planning, they had done it: Canterlot’s finest civil engineers and architects, given a piece of land that had been deemed inutile due to its size, which ponies at first had said would be suitable only for a colony of slightly-larger-than-usual ants, had managed to construct a school, complete with classrooms, a gymnasium, an auditorium, an office, bathrooms, and all other accommodations necessary to the facilitation of learning, that was able to contain the fifty-five ponies who were the staff and the nine hundred fifty who were the students. And, furthermore, after the chief inspector of the city had made his circumspect tour of the building, sedulously applying the full extent of his professional insight, he concluded that not only had the engineers succeeded but had gone beyond: though the school had to only, at the most, be able to hold one thousand and five ponies at one time, the building and its environs, in accordance with building codes, could safely hold up to five thousand.

At present, the number of ponies in Canterlot High’s halls, rooms, lawns, and immediate vicinity numbered ten thousand.

Well before the school itself came into sight, Due Process, leaning over the side of the carriage, could see the streets below beginning to become congested, and could hear the growing roar of thousands of voices. Around a building, over a hill, and there was his old school in full view beneath them—or, rather, there was the shape of his old school. He couldn’t see the grounds themselves, but he recognized each one of the peculiar dimples, rises, and falls of the property, by the dimples, rises, and falls of the mass of ponies packed into that small area.

“Wow!” he exclaimed, as the carriage passed overhead, and a sea of flashes, from the cameras of the reporters who had just caught sight of the princess’s carriage, erupted from the crowd. “I’ve never seen the school so packed! Are there usually this many ponies whenever you make an appearance?”

Princess Celestia took a quick peek over the side. “Oh no, not at all,” she said flatly. “There are usually many more.” Not even my subjects think it worth their time to follow these ludicrous proceedings, she thought bitterly.

“A high school,” she droned. “I take it the court’s usual building is under construction?”

“Tribunal, Your Majesty,” corrected Due Process. “And this is the Tribunal’s usual building. A combination of budget, logistics, compromises, and politics means that the Tribunal was not allocated its own location, though it fights to this day to get one.”

As the carriage approached in for landing, Due Process could see that not all of the yard was filled: A small, narrow clearing, one end terminating at the stairs to the school, the other large enough to permit the landing of a chariot, was plainly visible. Two rows of armored police barely held the undulating crush in check; here and there could be seen the gaudy yellow armor and overblown crests of the Royal Guards, interspersed here and there in the clearing behind the police.

The carriage landed. At once, a bevy of Royal Guards swarmed them, forming a protective shield all around and above, composed of tall, meaty earth ponies on the ground, and pegasi in the air so corpulent that Due Process wondered how it was possible for such tiny wings to lift such a great mass of muscle and armor from the ground. The vigorous flapping of their wings undid what remained of the knot of his tie.

Through the sound of their grunting, flapping, wheezing, and unintelligible orders, Due Process could hear the roar of the crush outside.

“Uh . . .” stammered Due Process, trembling, “after . . . after you, Your Majesty.”

“You are my lawyer, are you not?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, but I don’t see—”

“You represent me to the public. For as long as you are under my employment, you are I; you speak for me; everything that you say is the same as if I were to say it. Go on, I’m right behind you. Don’t worry; my guards may look silly, but they’re highly trained, committed stallions. Nothing will happen; I promise.”

She gestured to a small opening in the wall of flesh that the guards had just made, through which there could be seen the path, which the policeponies had carved out and were now desperately trying to maintain, toward the front steps of the school. Due Process gulped.

But there was nothing for it. After taking a deep breath, pungent with the sweat of a score of soldiers on their twelfth hour of duty, he squeezed his way through their mass, becoming a little bit too intimate with the anatomy of a Royal Guard than was comfortable as he wriggled himself through.

He stepped out on the ground, and around him the air burst into blinding flashes. A deafening cacophony of ten thousand voices pierced his ears. In a panic, he collapsed, covering his eyes with his hooves and wings.

Divers worst case scenarios passed through his head, each one more terrible than the last, each bumping up his blood pressure a few more points in both systolic and diastolic.

But somewhere in that confusion, the words of his therapist prevailed. There’s nothing to be scared of, they said. You’re fit for life and your job. Look deep, Due Process, and in you you will find your power, unique to you!

But what have I done? he screamed to himself. Who am I? Just a little, inexperienced, ignorant attorney! And I’m supposed to represent the Princess of Equestria . . .

The words of his client a minute ago echoed in his ear. “You represent me to the public. You are I. You speak for me.”

I’m Princess Celestia, he realized, with all her rights, powers, and offices. Would the Princess of Equestria cower like a little colt?

“No!” he said aloud. He felt the power of a princess and demigod rise in him, first in his legs, then in his torso, and at last in his wings, and thereupon he took flight, above the line of police to see the ponies clamoring for the princess’s—his—attention.

“No!” he repeated, moving toward the front doors of the school at a confident pace. “The princess has nothing to say to you! . . . No questions, no comments, no comments! . . . Back off, and make way! . . . No, I will not say anything—that is my right in this free and democratic society!”

“Make way for your sovereign, your divinely-appointed head of state, who literally brings the light of day to ye, ye peasants!” cried a Royal Guard right behind the lawyer, breaking the nose of a particularly eager reporter who had crossed an inch over the police line.

Due Process touched down upon the steps of the school, hoarse from his shouting, blind from the flashes, tired, bewildered, but triumphant. When he regained his vision, he saw beside him on the front step, her face mostly obscured by her wings which she had placed over her brow to preserve her eyes from the cameras, an old pegasus mare. The wrinkles around her mouth, eyes, and cheeks, imparted to her countenance, remarkable in one of her sex, not the signs of a white collar geriatric, but the augustness and wisdom of an emperor. Even as she stood silently still, staring at him with a coy, calculating smile, Due Process could tell that age had only sharpened her mind; and while case after case had wearied her peers and forced them to retire, she, like a changeling which becomes thirstier the more it feeds, had to argue, speak, attack, defend more, her rapacity, her need to be right, ever becoming the more keen as she consumed, and she looked upon the young lawyer with much the same way a lioness would at a weak, young antelope.

Due Process, his joy and wonder overwhelming him, could barely manage to squeak: “Ms. Res . . . Judicata.”

“Dear me,” she said, with the self-assured, matter-of-fact tone only long experience can give a professional, “why, the university is puttin’ them out younger and younger, seems.”

“Careful, Ms. Judicata,” said Due Process, the attention he had absorbed with his walk down the aisle giving him the hubris to venture a quip. “Make too many comments about my age, and we shall soon see each other as opponents once again, but with you as the defendant and I as the complainant seeking reparations for age-based harassment and discrimination.”

Her laugh gave him singularly pleasurable tingles. “Young, handsome—and witty too!” she chuckled in her pleasing Manehattan drawl. “A winning combination. Kid, you gotta lot goin’ for ya.”

“Ms. Judicata . . .” he breathed, “I . . .”

“Please, son,”—gently touching him on the shoulder—“call me Judy.”

A particularly astute, fast-thinking, and fast-acting Royal Guard leaped over to Due Process and caught him before he smashed his skull against the concrete in a faint.

Her next comment brought him back to an alert, agitated consciousness. “Yes, a lot goin’ for ya kid. Losing’ll be good for you—a much needed lesson in modesty. Winning too many cases too early in a lawyer’s career gives him a false sense of order—can drive ’im to the bottle later.”

“Do not be presumptuous, Ms. Jud—Judy. It’s not over till the commissioners give their opinion.”

“What an imagination! But look at me; look at me now, kid,” she said, drawing closer. “Shake my hoof. Smile.” Without thinking, this he did, and when she turned to look at the crowd, he did too, if only out of reflex. The flashes of the cameras erupted with a greater intensity now, capturing the charming, attractive, stately grin of Res Judicata, and the bemused, half-formed, slightly indignant gape of Due Process.

When they separated, Due Process opened his mouth to speak, but already Res Judicata had forged ahead, holding open the door to the school for him, gesturing him through. He had half a mind to open his own door; but, seeing the princess following up behind him, and remembering whom he represented—or, rather, who he was—he curtsied slightly to his opponent, and went through, she following closely behind.

“That’s funny, what you said earlier,” he said to Res Judicata, when the two of them were inside and out of view of the cameras. “You speak so certainly!”

“I can tell you’re smart, my dear,” she said. “I know you’ve studied hard, both my cases and the Tribunal’s, and I know you’re smart enough t’know, without me havin’ to tell ya, given what the princess has been accused of and what you have t’work with, you mighta’s well try’ta settle now. Little Hearty Bucks and his mommy don’t need me to win. Ya know all they hafta do is show up, maybe mommy tells ’im he gets no ice cream; he cries; she gets indignant before the Tribunal, and then what are the commissioners going to see? The broke earth ponies on one side, in their unwashed, stained working clothes; and on the other side a princess of Equestria, the diamonds on her shoes newly polished. Even if you can prove without a doubt your client’s case, they’re gonna rule in favor of me. Why not? The princess can stand ta lose a few thousand bits and perhaps hold only fifty balls this year ’stead of fifty-five.”

“I like to think,” riposted Due Process, “that the commissioners are a little more disinterested than you would have me believe.”

Res Judicata gave a wistful sigh and tousled Due Process’s mane. “Ah!” she cooed. “So long has it been since school! But still I remember the idealism I had when I was in your shoes: I remember thinking that our society and our law, though flawed, were fundamentally just. I remember when I genuinely believed that there’s no satisfactory conclusion that two rational, reasonable ponies couldn’t come ta, both of them usin’ their reason alone. Yes, I believe I can remember when I thought that a pony, qua a pony, though he could commit evil, nevertheless carried a fundamental idea of justice that he, to the best of his ability, endeavored ta effect. Ah! Such naïveté of youth!”

Due Process frowned. “I don’t think it’s naïve at all,” he said. “If you look at all the oppressors and tyrants in history, they all were trying to address terrible injustices. They all unanimously identified what was unequivocally wrong; they just were even more wrong in the ways they tried to fix it. But the fundamental concepts of the just and the unjust were there in them. If they had been raised and educated better, they would have found better ways to act on them.”

When Res Judicata laughed, once again Due Process shivered; only this time, it didn’t feel so good. “Oh, you’re so adorable!” she chirped. “If I weren’t old enough ta be your grandmother, I’d kiss ya, yes I’d!” Again she tousled his mane.

“Ribbing!” she said, noticing his scowl. “Healthy ribbing between two lawyers on opposite sides. We’ll both be laughing once it’s done, I can assure ya. Best of buddies I’d hope us ta be. Well!” she said, “I believe this is the auditorium. After you! No, no, you first, I insist. I’ve already been there many times. Go on, my dear; go on and see your future!”

Due Process, obeying, opened the door and stepped inside.

A long, empty chamber. Rows upon rows of cheap, fold-up plastic chairs served as the pews. Pupils’ desks served as the seats for the complainant and defendant; on the slightly elevated stage were teachers’ desks for the commissioners. And all along the walls, layers upon layers of crudely cobbled together posters advertising divers meretricious musicals, the plots and songs of which nopony in Equestria could still summarize or sing.

Chapter III: The Gravamen

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The Royal Guard had thought it best to let the princess and her counsel enter first, rather than to try to squeeze her unmolested into the auditorium through the crush that would undoubtedly form as reporters, courtiers, and vagrants tried to compete for leg room, to more comfortably view the public evisceration of a princess.

Due Process had taken his seat on the right facing the stage, and shortly after Princess Celestia had joined him. Res Judicata sat to the left, and already her briefcase was out, her reading glasses on, reviewing the notes on the case she had made. A little while later, the little complainant, Hearty Bucks, walked—or, rather, rode in, on the back of his rather stocky, corpulent mother. This was all done in silence, save for a brief moment when they passed by the defendants’ bench, and Hearty Bucks, rousing himself all of a sudden from his reverie, sat up straight on his mother’s back, wide-eyed and chirping with the unadulterated wonder that only a child can feel: “Mommy, mommy! Is that the princess? Hi, Princess! I love you!” before being quickly hushed.

Here there ensued an awkward interim, as the police and guards began, as slowly and as orderly as they could, to let the spectators in. Sluggishly, and silently, one by one ponies began to fill up the pews, as the belligerents and their counsels waited.

On the desk in front of her were stacked a few identical copies of a small book, which, when Princess Celestia looked closer, she realized was the same as the one Due Process had so inconveniently and painfully lost on the ride over. Out of curiosity, she levitated one up to her face: Equestrian Pony Rights Act. Looking beside her, and seeing that her lawyer, though pretending to be absorbed in his notes, happily twitched his wings at the light and sound of her magic lifting up the text, she opened it and began to read, in an honest attempt to educate herself on the matter that faced her now, for there was indeed within her a modicum of guilt for having avoiding thinking about this issue for too long.

On the first page, she read:

Be it here and forthwith denounced, that Their Royal Majesties, Princess Celestia the Magnanimous, the Light of the World, the Envy of the Earth, the Benefactor of all Things mundane, the Ambassador for all Things celestial; and Her Most Exalted Sibling, Princess Luna the Somber, the Light of the Night, the Beauty of the Stars, the Scourge of Nightmares, the Interceder of Eclipses, the Sentry of the Slumbering; by and with the Advice and Consent of the Prime Minister and his Parliament, in Representation of Their most devout and loyal Subjects’ Will; do hereby declare and promulgate, as a solemn Law, the following

That was as far as she got before the little pamphlet erupted into flame, and crumbled to ash in the envelope of her magical aura, making her lawyer sneeze.

He went on reading as if nothing had happened; but now she noticed his ears were drooping.

Sighing, she picked up another copy, and flipped to somewhere in the middle.

and, whereas the basic Rights of Dignity and Honor, being necessary to the Life and further Productivity of a free People and their democratic Society, necessitate

In disbelief, she flipped to the end: and, as she expected, there was a facsimile of her—and only her—signature.

By now the auditorium was alive with the voices and stench of scores of densely packed spectators trembling with anticipation. The proceedings were to start soon.

“Now, remember, Your Majesty,” Due Process said, but paused to pour half the pitcher of water that was on his table into one of the glasses provided for them, and drank it all in one slug, his need of oxygen at that moment clearly less than his need for hydration. “Now, Your Majesty,” he said again, “you don’t have to do anything. You, Your Majesty, literally just have to be here. Leave all the talking to me, Your Majesty; that’s why I’m here. Of course, this isn’t because I doubt your ability to speak for yourself, Your Majesty—quite the contrary actually, considering you, Your Majesty, have had a few, uh . . . millenniums? Millennia of practice. I’m sure geological periods have come and passed in which Your Majesty have—has spoken for herself before I even was conceived. It’s not that I doubt your speaking ability, Your Majesty, it’s just that—well, when a mare is before the legal authority, and she’s in heat, she . . . I mean, I mean to say, Your Majesty, that when a mare, in the heat of the moment, tries to . . . no, no, Your Majesty, when a mare is hot on the spot—when somepony needs to represent himself—or herself, of course—when that somepony has to give arguments, it can be hard for that somepony to remain objective under pressure! This is why we—that is to say, ponies in general, or, rather, ponies that have been accused of wrongdoing and who have to stand before a court, or rather, a tribunal—need lawyers. And I, as your attorney and legal advisor, Your Majesty, who have reviewed the case, and I who have no material goods to win or gain from this process, am removed from personal details and am therefore objective! Now, please, Your Majesty, let me make mincemeat of that magniloquent mare!”

He poured the rest of the water into his glass, and drank that too.

A second after he had finished, and had flashed her his triumphant smile, he blushed, and hid his face in his hooves.

“All rise,” came a voice from somewhere.

From behind the stage, in shuffled the three commissioners: Affirmative Action, the oldest, a retired school teacher, who had filed five complaints with the PRAT in her youth and had won in each, becoming wealthy enough from the processes to quit her job and devote her life to one of leisure in the capacity of a commissioner of the Tribunal; Radical Reformer, the youngest, having graduated from the University of Canterlot the preceding year with a degree in gender studies, and who had just went through a painful breakup with her boyfriend, whom she had left for the same reason she had left her previous ten, namely, that when he was at home, he was lazy, and when he worked he had no time for her; and Petty Nicety, the chief commissioner of the Tribunal, who had been an arbiter for the disputes of farmers, when festivals had been trying to figure out whom to award the prize of Most Voluptuous Vegetable to.

Three mares, one young, one middle-aged, and one already planning her eternal slumber six feet underground; one liberal, one moderate, and one conservative; one earth pony, one unicorn, and one pegasus. But they had two things in common: none of them had any previous experience in law, and each of the three had undergone, or was currently going through, an incredibly expensive divorce.

At once, the auditorium went silent, save for the rustling of three hundred ponies rising to their feet—three hundred, minus two: Due Process and Princess Celestia remained seated. To be sure, the lawyer’s first instinct had been to rise; but, noticing that his client had remained impassive through the call, to show solidarity and his empathy, he had remained seated.

The commissioners took their seats. Petty Nicety cleared her throat; and, thanks to the miracle that is signal processing, the microphone in front of her ensured that every single pony in that auditorium knew the exact chemical makeup of the phlegm in her sinuses.

“Before we begin,” she droned, “I would like to take the opportunity to remind the defendant and her counsel to stand when the order is given. Is that clear?”

Due Process hoped the princess would say something, but she only stared impassively ahead.

“Mr. Process!” said Petty Nicety, louder this time. “Is that clear?”

“No,” he said, his face turning red, and the parliament of his stomach holding an emergency session to vote on the question of whether or not the stress of the situation necessitated the immediate evacuation of the latest meal.

“Excuse me?”

“Why do we need to stand?” he said, the verdict of the parliament reaching no majority.

“Because it is the will of the Tribunal.”

“And what happens if I disregard the will of the Tribunal?” said Due Process. “What are you going to do: hold me in ‘Contempt of Tribunal’?”

Res Judicata, on the other side of the room, chuckled.

The chief commissioner cast a scowl down on Due Process which only a mustard gas wound could’ve rivaled in sheer ugliness, and adjusted her glasses as she set herself to reading the paper before her. Due Process looked at his client, hoping to see some indication of approval—but he was met with the same look with which she had met the commissioners’ entrance.

“The two hundred, ninety-second thousandth, five hundred, and sixty-second sitting of the Pony Rights Administrative Tribunal is now in session,” read Petty Nicety. “Complaint number nine hundred thousand, eight hundred and five: Hearty Bucks, filing; Cross Bun in loco parentis; counsel, Res Judicata—claiming a grievance against the Crown corporation of Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns; the proprietor and namesake, Her Majesty Princess Celestia of Equestria, standing in representation and defense of the said corporation; counsel, Due Process. The Tribunal gives the floor to the complainant to present his gravamen.”

“Thank you, Commissioner,” said Res Judicata, springing from her seat, her wings perked. “But please, call me Judy.”

The chief commissioner blushed like a schoolgirl just asked to the prom by the quarterback. “All . . . all right, Judy. Go ahead . . .” she squeaked.

Due Process had wondered why a pony Res Judicata’s age, who had received so many honorary degrees, who had formed so many connections, written so many books, would agree to provide counsel to something so beneath her as a complaint to the PRAT, on a pro bono basis no less, the illustriousness of the defendant notwithstanding; but upon seeing the alacrity with which she leaped to the Tribunal’s call, seeing her wings spread, Due Process realized that it had nothing to do with money, justice, or work for the sake of work. She got an inordinate, and possibly unhealthy, amount of pleasure from what she did.

“For my opening remarks, I’ll constrain myself to the facts,” Res Judicata said to the Tribunal, her accent having strangely vanished. “Interpretations and conclusions shall follow in their due time. A year ago, my client applied to Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, hoping to gain admission. His grades were well within the school’s admission requirements, which I have here and will produce at the Tribunal’s leisure. Upon being selected for an interview, the interviewer, seeing my client, at once, with no questions, no examinations of any kind, turned him away; when his mother inquired as to the reason, the interviewer said that as Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns was an institution with the purpose of fostering the development of young unicorns, so that they may go on to devise spells, new theories of magic, and to forward ponykind’s understanding of the mystical arts, a student, as a prerequisite for study, needed to be a unicorn, which my client is not. What is more, when my client’s mother wrote a letter to the school, demanding this to be elucidated, a reply, which I have here, written and signed by the dean of the said school, no less, explicitly states, I quote: ‘While it gives us great pleasure to know that you wish to trust the rearing of your son’—my client—‘to Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, he, being an earth pony, would be unable to complete the course of studies the school would require of him; thus, we regret to inform you that we are unable to accept his candidacy at this time.’ End quote. From section four, clause one of the Equestrian Pony Rights Act, quote: ‘No Pony, of any Age, Sex, or Race, shall be compelled to suffer a Refusal of any Good, Service, Occupation, Employment, or Contract on the Basis of said Pony’s Age, Sex, or Race.’ End quote. My client, who was told not once, but twice, of which the proof is here, that he was refused even the consideration of being a student of Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns on the basis of his race, has clearly and unequivocally been a victim of racially motivated discrimination, and beseeches the Tribunal to rectify this matter.”

In silence, the commissioners took notes. Princess Celestia was impassive. Due Process trembled, mouthing the words to his response.

Finally, Petty Nicety, turning to the defendant’s bench, said: “The defense may make an opening argument.” And then, firing a sneer upon Due Process, the commissioner evidently taking a bitter umbrage to the comment he had made earlier, she added: “It’s a serious accusation. Is it true?”

At once Due Process sprang to his feet.

Res Judicata was many things: she was cunning, clever, crafty, incisive, discerning, discriminating, mordant, and sly—but predictable. Due Process had had enough time in school to study her methodology and every single case of hers, that he had been able to predict, nearly word-for-word, what she would open with; and he had labored, for a week straight, barely sleeping, in the composition of his response. It lay before him on the table, an unassailable, irrefutable, impeccable argument, complete with a response to every possible objection that could be raised to it, in one perfect little paragraph.

He took a triumphant breath, and was about to release the legal equivalent of a thermonuclear weapon—when, all of a sudden, his client ejaculated:

“Yes. That’s exactly what happened.”

A swift, sudden kick in the abdomen with a steel-toe boot delivered by the biggest of his client’s guards would not have knocked the wind out of Due Process with as much force, and with as much unexpectedness, as Princess Celestia’s interruption just did.

He keeled over, nearly falling to the floor, clutching his sides, the abortion of his speech dying away in dry wheezes. Somewhere, he thought he heard the clamor of the spectators, who were reacting to the princess’s peremptory words, while the chief commissioner, not furnished with a gavel, despite her frequent and fervent petitions for one, had to content herself with banging loudly with her bare hoof upon the table. The last of Due Process’s strength leaving him, he just managed to croak out: “I . . . request a recess . . . to confer . . . with my client!”

“Request denied!” yelled the chief commissioner over the roar of the crowd. “I will not stop these proceedings, when they have just started, for such petty things as you should have taken care of earlier.”

“I have to pee!” Hearty Bucks cried.

“The Tribunal will take a fifteen minute recess!” said the chief commissioner.

Not waiting for any further words, Due Process, unable in his confusion to take flight, got up, stumbling, and blindly pushed his way through the crowd. Various hoofs, feathers, and horns brushed, poked, and collided against him as he tore in a mad panic to the exit. So many ponies, so little space, so little air!

He made it to the doors, scratched, bruised, hardly knowing who or where he was, and flew into the hallway, which the police had cleared. At the end of the corridor into which he emerged was the front door, and he flew straight toward it. Unable to slow down in time, he crashed headfirst against the door. Rising, dizzy, his head pounding, but too frenzied to be checked by pain, he threw open the doors and emerged outside.

Inhaling, expecting to breathe the outside world and absorb its serenity, he, to his not quite unexpected horror, met with the even bigger crowd outside, who, immediately upon the lawyer’s exiting from the building, struck up a row, shattering him with thousands of camera lights and questions.

In full view of the entirety of Equestria, he collapsed on the front steps in a pool of his sweat and tears.

Princess Celestia, with a nod to a nearby captain, was also able to clear a path out of the auditorium and into the hallways, albeit with much less effort on her part, her guard gladly taking the abuse of the crush on her behalf. Now she was walking through the empty halls of the building’s other wing, as far as possible from the auditorium and its sonorous, echoing walls. Here it was quiet enough, if not to think, then at least to give her brain and body a much-needed rest.

Her poor little lawyer had looked so eager that she, for a brief moment, had considered letting him actually make his case, unwilling to tell him his efforts were pointless, for the same reason she would’ve been unwilling to tell a quadriplegic colt that his dream of becoming an astronaut was simply unrealistic. But when she had seen the commissioners and their wrinkled, frowning countenances, and heard the captious, sententious opening words of that vile old mare Res Judicata, not to mention her disgust at seeing that fat mother subjecting her innocent son to the proceedings in order to make a quick bit, her longanimity had finally given way: thus her outburst that had so consternated her counsel. She henceforth resolved to not permit the Tribunal one iota of her usually generously given patience and understanding. She would not unilaterally abolish an institution created through the democratic process, but she would not pretend, even for an instant, that it was a legitimate, respectable institution suitable for a princess’s time.

Presently, she heard something that sounded like a cry coming from the classroom at the end of the hall. She reached the room, opened the door, and entered.

Inside were two Canterlot policeponies and one corporal of the Guard, standing around and looking down at a shuddering mass, the identity of which she could not ascertain.

Without needing any word of command, the policeponies and the guard, seeing her enter, immediately retreated, and fawningly shuffled in their uncomfortable bows toward the door and out of the room.

Her poor lawyer lay sprawled on the hard floor of the classroom, his hooves over his eyes, his wings awkwardly stretched and twisted about him. Upon catching a glimpse of her, he winced, recoiled, and turned away, curling himself up into a ball.

“I’m sorry that had to happen,” she said, “but I’ve decided to—”

“She wouldn’t take it, you know,” squeaked the lawyer.

“Excuse me?”

“They offered it to her before me, and she said no.”

“What do you mean to say? I don’t follow. Who is ‘she’?”

“Fine Print,” he said, still not turning to face her, “the top student of my graduating class. The university offered her to you for your case before me, but she said no. That’s why you have me. Why do you think the Princess of Equestria was given the mere second-best? Because the first best didn’t want it.”

“Well,” said the princess, pained to see this pitiful sight, “given that even I barely have the patience and intelligence to follow everything, perhaps she thought she wasn’t up to my case.”

At these words, Due Process leaped to his feet and glared at her, his tears gone, his teeth bared, his wings lifted as if ready to strike. For a second, the princess had half a mind to call in her guard or just incinerate him on the spot.

“Princess,” he said, his voice unexpectedly calm and measured, “I will not suffer to hear such talk about Fine Print, even from you, Your Majesty. I have never met a pony smarter and more assiduous in her work than she. She could spin arguments around your head and pull a score of precedents out of her flank on a whim to support her case no matter what it may be. If she didn’t take your case, it isn’t because she couldn’t handle it; let me assure you, Your Majesty, that she would have been able to do a much, much better job than I . . . though, I guess”—pinning his ears, and taking a step back—“given what just happened, that bar isn’t very high now, is it?” He sighed, bowing his head. “The reason she wouldn’t take it, Your Majesty, is because every lawyer wants to win his first case, and Fine Print was smart enough to immediately see that your case is unwinnable for a defense attorney, even if he didn’t have to go up against Res Judicata. That’s why she turned it down.”

“So why did you take it?”

“Because I thought . . .” he said, laughing and sobbing in the same breath. “Because I thought, for the tiniest bit, you could win, Your Majesty. I mean, you can see how I’d think that, right? You’re Princess Celestia, for crying out loud! You’ve been nothing but a beneficent, magnanimous ruler for thousands of years. The School for Gifted Unicorns has put out some of the greatest thinkers, philosophers, and wizards in the history of the world! I couldn’t see how anypony could ever think you and your school were anything but a service to ponykind. But . . . I see now. Res Judicata was right; I am naïve.”

He paused, wiping his tears away with a wing. “And you’re right, Your Majesty. You’re right to respond the way you did. You didn’t really make anything worse, after all; you just made them clear. I totally understand: You’re the Princess of Equestria, and divers protectorates; you have too many concerns to waste time bothering with some nonsense like the PRAT! And who cares if you lose? At worst, you pay a fine, maybe change the name of your school, maybe tighten up the interviewing process for plausible deniability, and everything will go back to normal. I understand if you don’t want me in your service; your forbearance and intelligence being what they are, you probably don’t even need me.”

He gave a slight curtsey, and walked past her toward the door, not daring to look into her eyes. Before he left, turning slightly, he said: “I would dare, Your Majesty, hoping it not impudent of me, to ask you only one thing: Please don’t capitulate. I beg you, Your Majesty, don’t give them everything they want unconditionally. Make an argument, make a deal, call them mean names—do something, whatever you’re willing to give, but something . . . anything . . .”

And with that, he turned and was gone.

Princess Celestia was left alone.

Out of the classroom window, she could see that it was a beautiful day: there was not a cloud in the sky; the temperature was neither scorching nor chilly; and there was just the right amount of wind to give the air a crisp freshness, and to animate the trees, making them dance as if bursting to express their joy at being alive. Somewhere out in the city, she thought she could hear the laughter of children at play.

“Esquire,” she said.

Due Process poked his head around the corner of the room, his ears perked. Princesses never called anyone but knights in training esquire; in the civilian world, the title was used only by arrogant holders of undergraduate degrees to refer to themselves.

“You called, Your Majesty?” he squeaked.

“Yes, I did. Come here.”

He tiptoed in front of her, keeping his head bowed.

“Stop that groveling,” she said. “No esquire of mine grovels before anyone. Look at me.”

“I cannot but show deference to my sovereign, Your Majesty.”

“Then show deference,” she ordered, “not obsequiousness.”

When he had looked her in the eye, and when his limbs had stopped shaking, she said: “What can you promise me?”

He fell to his knees, crawled up to her, and pressed his forehead to her shoe. “My princess!” he said. “I can’t promise you I’ll have any argument, any word of rebuttal, any piece of exculpatory evidence; much less can I promise you a verdict. But what I can promise you is that, till your will be satisfied, I will remain in your service, carrying out your desires to the best of my ability, representing you with as much dignity and grandeur as befits you. You will be my sun, and I your magnifying glass!”

“Enough with metaphors,” she said. “What can you promise me in terms of outcome?”

“I can’t promise you that we’ll win—”

“And enough with negatives. What can you promise me?”

Due Process opened his mouth, made a sound, but then checked himself. After a moment of thought, he murmured: “I can promise you that, no matter the outcome, the dignity of the School for Gifted Unicorns will remain intact, will continue to operate just as it did before, and that the result of this tribunal will not result in a nationwide revolution.”

She rolled her eyes. “Good enough,” she groaned. “Arise, esquire. Your princess needs you.”

When they reached the auditorium, Due Process opened the door and gestured his princess through, not so much out of courtesy as it was out of a fear of being the first in front of all eyes; but she, sensing his apprehension, nodded to him, letting him know that she desired that he should go in front, in representation of her.

They walked down the aisle, the lawyer in front, his client a few steps behind. Once or twice before they got to their bench, he stopped, but she, touching him gently on the back, gave him the courage to go forward.

Which almost turned him into a convert of every single one of the world’s religions, the glass pitcher of water on his desk had been refilled. He drank it all straight from the vessel, not even bothering to pour the water into his cup.

“And there’s the defendant,” said the chief commissioner.

“That’s your princess you’re talking about,” muttered Due Process under his breath.

“We left in kind of a hurry last time,” continued the commissioner, “and, if I remember correctly, your client was interrupted. Does she wish to strike from the record anything she has said?”

Due Process looked over to Princess Celestia, who returned his glance with a shake of her head.

“I . . .” Due Process stammered. He looked down at his prepared opening remark with a melancholy tenderness. It had been so perfect, but now it was useless. Though, legally speaking, he had the opportunity to start right where Res Judicata had ended, he still had a little bit of social cognizance to be aware of the fact that most of the speech’s impact would be lost should he deliver it now in its current form.

“No,” he continued, at length, “my client wishes the statement to stand.” He crumpled the speech up in his hooves with a sigh. “What she meant to say is, yes, what the events the complainant has described are exactly what happened; and my client rejects the accusation that such an act was unlawful discrimination, asserting that such a refusal as her school made was proper, as the complainant was unable to meet the bona fide occupational requirement of a student at Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns—namely, being a unicorn—which she will demonstrate in the presence of this Tribunal.”

“Can we go home now?” whined the little complainant to his mommy.

Chapter IV: The Complaint

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The proceedings of a court, despite what may be the perception of the vulgar population, whose only exposure to the law is that which they can glean from cable dramas, and which faulty conception is exacerbated by politicians trying to scare, by legal lecturers trying to keep an auditorium awake; and by hack writers of derivative comedies, who have just as much experience as the masses themselves, desperate to grab the attention of a reader or two lest the poor artists and their meretricious novels decompose, the former from malnutrition due to an inability to make money, and the latter due to the fate that befalls all paper in a landfill—such proceedings, conducted in an abstruse language replete with highfalutin terminology, are slow, monotonous, with many interludes and interims; and, above all, somnolent; though this last quality, trying as it is to the public, is not an insurmountable obstacle for lawyers, whose education and experience have strengthened their forbearance to such dry situations. A court, though tiring, is nothing the constitution of a lawyer, and even his accused client, couldn’t withstand, as long as the effort toward it is put in.

A tribunal, however, is absolutely insufferable to one and all.

With the exception, perhaps, of the complainant, who initiated the proceedings, and who, perhaps, for some unearthly reason, likes to have the legal sanction to accuse innocents and force them to attempt the Sisyphean task of proving a negative; of the commissioners, for which supposition is adduced the facts that they have made their professions out of the tribunal, and that most of them, upon attaining the office, hold it till death; and, perhaps, of the particularly sick and twisted lunatic the complainant chose as his counsel, whose nature is probably such a significant amount of the time, given that said counsel is usually a lawyer.

Due Process and Princess Celestia had taken their seats with their new determination; but as soon as the proceedings began, they were taken to task with just staying awake. Still, they survived the first day, and they were so happy that they had that they forgot that there were about five or so more to go, till they could even begin to make their defense.

On the second day, the audience fell asleep the moment the call of “all rise” was given. Princess Celestia, though used to proceedings like this, still struggled; she stayed awake without managing to pay attention to the words. His honor kept Due Process, whom cases usually fascinated and galvanized more so than any cup of coffee, from drifting off, if unsuccessful in suppressing his very noisy yawns, which aroused the ire of the commissioners, and by consequence augmented the pleasure and hopes of Res Judicata. The only spectators who remained unaffected by the tribunal’s somnolent spell were the Royal Guards—though they were more plaster and concrete than flesh anyway.

“From this,” Res Judicata was expostulating, “the next piece of evidence can be presented a fortiori; namely, because this tribunal operates ex æquo et bono, or at least was founded under those principles, this act of discrimination per se, in the capacity of hostis manni generis, is, universitas rerum, clearly, ipso facto, ultra vires reginæ. If you please, mei parvi manni, if I may draw your attention to a precedent, namely, in R. v. Flash, it is true, demirabar, thirty years ago, quid esset amicitia, though it was ultimately mooted, tunc ejus magicam mihi communicavistis. Yes, indeed, magnum iter, and multum deliciæ, pulchrum cor, fidele potensque! Communicare beneficia facile est, et magica omnia complet! Mei parvi manni, scitisne ipsos mihi amicos optimos esse? Et . . .”

“What is she saying?” whispered Princess Celestia.

“I have no idea,” her counsel replied. “But it all sounds very legal and dignified, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve been in foreign politics long enough to know what filibustering sounds like in every language. You need to stop her.”

Due Process gulped. He had considered saying something from the outset; a certain fear had stopped him. But now, as it was his client’s desire, he had no choice.

He rose from his seat. “I must,” he interjected, interrupting Res Judicata, “insist that this irrelevant and incomprehensible screed be put to an end.”

Res Judicata stopped at once and, with a knowing, sly smile, looked at the commissioners, who glared with angry scowls down at Due Process.

“I find Judy’s words completely comprehensible,” shot Petty Nicety, “and, not only that, but lucid and relevant. It is not the tribunal’s fault if the lack of your erudition precludes your understanding its proceedings. Continue, Judy.”

“Gratias tibi ago,” replied she. “Nunc, Rainbow, mea cara, meam sonare lætitiam non possum . . .”

Due Process, his fear being fulfilled, let his forehead fall to the table with a heavy thud.

Res Judicata had the letter, which explicitly stated the reason for Hearty Bucks’s rejection from the school. All her case was there, and she did not need the totality of the five days that followed for speeches, and she most certainly did not need to question the poor interviewer, who had issued the first rejection, and the dean of the school, who had confirmed it.

The said interviewer, a kindly, shy looking old mare, shook and stuttered as she waited for Res Judicata to organize her notes. For ten long minutes, the witness, alone and silent on the stand, simmered in her own fear, as the entirety of the courtroom watched and judged her, and the consciousness that all her words would be recorded and promulgated for posterity and tabloids probably did not help her nerves, or her blood pressure, much.

“Did you reject my client because he’s a unicorn?” Res Judicata finally asked.

The interviewer looked as if she were about to collapse, so white as she was. She was unable to choke out a response. Desperately, more out of pity for her than any sort of desire for justice, Due Process rose and interrupted the proceedings. “She’s leading the witness!” he cried.

It was a good, healthy, robust outburst, and Due Process felt himself, and the interviewer, vindicated from it. He cocked his ear, expecting to hear from the commissioners’ bench a low word of agreement—but instead, there was silence.

He took a look around, and saw the bemused look of the audience, the disgusted sneers of the commissioners, and the haughty grin of Res Judicata.

Res Judicata, affectedly raising her brow, said only: “So?”

For about three seconds, Due Process was so shocked that he was unable to reply. “What do you mean ‘so’?” he at last squeaked out, surprised to find himself growing indignant now. “You can’t lead your witness.”

“Why not?” said Petty Nicety.

Due Process fell back in his chair. “Because . . . because . . .” was all he could breathe.

“It’s a relevant point of questioning. Continue,” said the chief commissioner.

“Well?” snapped Res Judicata. “Any time now, ma’am.”

The interviewer, who had erupted into a fit of coughing and who had to be given a glass of water before she could say anything, finally managed to stammer: “That . . . is correct.”

“Why did it never occur to you that such a refusal would be unlawful?”

“The . . . the amount of things that need to be objected to in that question . . .” Due Process murmured.

“I . . .” stammered the witness, “well . . . you see, so what happens is that . . . after I approve ponies, they have to . . . demonstrate their magic to a second round of interviewers . . . so it doesn’t really make sense to—”

“Please answer only the questions put to you,” said Res Judicata, cutting her off. “Commissioners, I request that all the witness’s foregoing comments be stricken from the record.”

Due Process, his head wrapped in his wings, didn’t even have to hear Petty Nicety’s response to know that it was one of complete agreement.

In much the same way proceeded the rest of Res Judicata’s line of questioning, and by the end of it the remaining strands of colored hair in the witness’s mane had turned completely white.

Now it was Due Process’s turn to examine her.

“Is being a unicorn a requirement for admission to the School for Gifted Unicorns?” asked he.

“I ask,” interrupted Res Judicata, “that the tribunal not allow that question, as it is leading.”

“Rephrase the question, Mr. Process,” said Petty Nicety.

“Commissioner!” screeched he. “Res Judicata—”

“Judy,” said she, eliciting a hearty, mirthful laugh from the audience, and from the commissioners.

When Due Process was discomfited, and circumstances precluded his venting of frustration in the form of invective, his voice, to his supreme embarrassment, became screechy and high-pitched. It was in this helium-like tone, that he said, to the backdrop of the laughs of the spectators: “She took such umbrage with my suggesting . . . that her leading question was unacceptable, and now . . . now that it’s my turn for a cross-examination, it is totally legitimate to ask leading questions.”

When the audience and the commissioners had recollected themselves, Petty Nicety responded: “Since it has been unequivocally demonstrated that the complainant’s race was indeed the reason for his refusal, and since this is in violation of the Equestrian Pony Rights Act, it is incumbent on the defendant to prove her defense. Therefore, Judy’s objection will stand.”

Due Process, unable to see how exactly this justified the objection, did not have enough time to ponder it. Instead, he gave an audible groan, and, turning to the witness, said: “Can you name one requirement of admission to Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns?”

The witness, sensing Due Process’s meaning, promptly replied: “That the student be a unicorn.”

“Who wrote that requirement?”

“The school, whoever is responsible for that—the dean, I presume.”

“The witness is speculating,” interjected Res Judicata.

“Stricken from the record,” said Petty Nicety. “Mr. Process,” she said, turning toward him, “please tread lightly, for you are very close to annoying the tribunal.”

As Due Process turned back to the witness, he could feel several parts of himself dying inside.

“I do have the admission requirement documents here,” said Due Process, handing them to the witness. “Can you read point number four, toward the middle of the page?”

The old mare, adjusting her glasses, read: “That the student be able to perform, in front of the examiners, a class A charm by Starswirl the Bearded, or a kinetic spell from Super Nova’s middle years (see form Y68W for a complete list of the curriculum’s spell classifications and categorizations).”

“For which users of magic did Starswirl the Bearded and Super Nova compose their spells?” asked Due Process.

“There is no way,” objected Res Judicata, “that the witness could possibly tell us the exact thoughts of two ponies who have been dead for thousands of years.”

“Actually,” shot back the witness, her voice rising one or two decibels higher, “I can. Because in the preface to Starswirl’s On the Order and Harmony of Natural and Mystical Matters, he says, I quote: ‘The spells in this book are intended for any unicorn so inclined.’ And in Super Nova’s Les Éléments de la magie, he says, in the acknowledgements, I quote: ‘J’espère que chaque licorne essayera au moins un des charmes que je fis.’ Therefore, I can say with some certainty that both these wizards intended their spells for unicorns, as that word, unicorn, licorne, is explicit in their texts.”

Res Judicata nodded, and sat back down; and no matter how prim and proper she was, how expressionless she made her features, Due Process can tell she had been struck—not deeply, of course, but enough to give him a bit of pleasure.

His confidence rising, he said: “It seems to me a reasonable inference, that, since these spells the school require were composed for unicorns’ use, as evinced by their composers’ explicit words, being a unicorn is a proper requirement for admission to the school.”

With that, he reclaimed his seat. As the witness was leaving, she turned to him, and Due Process was surprised to feel a new hope rising within him, when he saw that she mouthed to him the words: “Thank you.”

Whatever fleeting morsel of exculpatory testimony Due Process had been able to tease out of that foregoing performance, he would be unable to claim he was able to procure likewise with the testimony of the dean of the school.

The dean, an old, but still virile, unicorn, with a neatly polished and maintained mustache, sat on the witness’s stand, his forelegs crossed in front of him, frowning and snorting superciliously at every aspect of the tribunal.

“Did you write this letter?” said Res Judicata, extending it to him.

“Sincerely, Dean Magnus Sol,” he said, reading the signature at the bottom of the page. And then, glaring at Res Judicata, he snapped: “Is there any other dean of Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns named Magnus Sol?”

“You wrote here,” continued Res Judicata, “I quote: ‘While it gives us great pleasure to know that you wish to trust the rearing of your son to Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, he, being an earth pony, would be unable to complete the course of studies the school would require of him; thus, we regret to inform you that we are unable to accept his candidacy at this time.’ Would you please tell the tribunal what you meant by that?”

“It means exactly what it says.”

“But, for the sake of absolute clarity, could you summarize the meaning in ten words or fewer?”

The dean leaned over his podium and shot a fierce, angry glare at her, so unsettling that even Due Process shivered and mouthed a silent thank you to the firmament for making him ineligible to ever be a student at the school and have to risk one day being sent to his office.

“He,” said the dean, emphasizing each word with bitter precision, “cannot—be—a—student—because—he—is—an—earth—pony.”

“Dean Sol,” replied Res Judicata, “I believe that’s eleven words.”

“Well, I’m sorry that I’m unable to distill such a complex idea into a shorter, more digestible morsel suitable for your consumption.”

“I find the ‘at this time’ part of your letter to be most intriguing,” Res Judicata continued, unfazed. “Can you tell the tribunal what a time when my client would be able to enroll and be a student at your school would look like?”

“Sure,” riposted the dean. “He could be a student, if it would please the school’s namesake to turn him into an alicorn.”

Princess Celestia’s regal laugh resounded in the midst of the silent auditorium. His scornful air, and his laconic, disdainful answers to Res Judicata’s questioning, reminded Princess Celestia, to her lasting and overwhelming pleasure, that she had selected the dean of her school wisely, as being a stallion who was one of the few remaining holders of that scarce resource known as reason, for he had said everything she would have said herself had her office and its concerns of public image not forbade her from doing so; but to Due Process, who saw that Res Judicata was doing everything in her power to paint him as the archetype of the outdated gentry, complete with all its connotations of elitism and bigotry, and succeeding at it too, the dean could not have shown the school in a worse light.

Much the same was the rest of Res Judicata’s questioning, as she goaded him on and on toward answers that would appear yet more and more bigoted to a captious listener. When she stopped, Due Process let out a long-held breath. He genuinely believed that had the dean been allowed to speak another sentence under that line of questioning, he would’ve probably said that earth ponies are an inferior, dirty race, and Equestria needs to be cleansed of them.

“Dean Sol,” said Due Process, “does the School for Gifted Unicorns employ earth ponies?”

“No. Unicorns need to be taught by unicorns.”

Due Process winced, as behind him boos and hisses came from the audience. He and Princess Celestia had known what the dean meant, but it was too late now to prevent the words from being twisted out of context.

“Really?” said Due Process. “There are absolutely no earth ponies on the payroll?”

“There are,” said the dean. “The janitors are all earth ponies. And so is my secretary.”

At that moment, Due Process wanted to run to a big, soft meadow somewhere with rolling prairies, find a nice spot where the grass didn’t grow, dig a cozy little burrow, curl up in it, and die.

“No professors? No counselors?”

“No.”

“Not one?”

“Well, there’s one—Schopenhoofer, the philosophy professor.”

“Aha!” cried Due Process, leaping six feet into the air and hovering there longer than he perhaps should have.

“Is he a good teacher?” he asked from the air.

The dean shrugged. “He’s all right, but he has a funny accent, and I can barely understand him most of the time.”

Due Process crashed headfirst into the ground.

“The complainant rests.”

These words shook the princess from her torpor. How long had these infernal proceedings been going on? Five days? A week? A fortnight? Whatever it was, it had been too long. But, unless her ears had deceived her, it—or, at least, half of it—had just ended.

“This tribunal will resume next week,” said Petty Nicety, “wherein the defense will make its case.”

The spectators, despite the police’s best efforts, exited in a proper stampede; the odiousness of the proceedings had overwhelmed their desire to be in the vicinity of a princess.

“Well, Your Majesty,” said Due Process, noticing that his client was eyeing the exit too, “best if we start right away. So, when we meet tomorrow, I’ve been thinking that—”

“Tomorrow?” she gasped. “Do we have another day of proceedings tomorrow?”

“Well . . . no, Your Majesty, but I’ve always found it best to start on things right away . . .”

She shook her head. “Tomorrow I cannot do. I have a meeting with the ambassador of the Crystal Empire, which I expect is going to take all day.”

“Okay, Your Majesty, how about the day after tomorrow?”

“Esquire Process,” she said, rising, in which movement Due Process thought he could detect the tremble of a mighty effort to keep a powerful anger in check, “right now, I cannot say when I can meet with you. For now, work on the case; write down any concerns you wish to address with me, and then when we meet next we’ll go over them and smooth out any avenues of our approach.”

“Your Majesty—”

“I’ll be in touch. Good luck!”

And with that, she spread her great wings, and her guards, understanding that to be the signal that their commander wished to be off, swiftly cut a path for her through the crush; and before Due Process could get another word in, she was gone.

“Hey, don’t get discouraged, kid,” said Res Judicata, sitting down next to him and throwing a hoof around his shoulder, “remember that you’re goin’ up against the best. But you did a real good job; and believe me, I’m not just sayin’ that. I don’t just say that t’anypony, only when I see a real effort, a real job well done. Say, why don’t I buy ya dinner? I know a great place not too far from ’ere. Don’tcha worry, when I drop ya at your place afta’, ya have my word that I won’t try anythin’ indiscrete nor improper—not ’less you want me ta.” She gave him a wink, and clicked her tongue.

Due Process, though perhaps earlier in the month would’ve had a heart attack at the sheer miracle it would’ve been to be invited to have dinner with Res Judicata, much less the chance to invite her home afterward for a passionate night of case studies, could only, on account of his tiredness, murmur a vague: “Okay.”

On the way out, Res Judicata whispered to him: “Wanna hear some advice, from the old generation ta the young?”

“Huh?” he replied, his ears perking up slightly.

“You’re clearly very smart and have done your research. The rigorousness with which ya follow the procedures is quite admirable—only problem is, you’re treatin’ it too much like a tort case.”

“Isn’t that what it is?”

Res Judicata laughed. “No, darlin’, because tort cases take place in a court. This’s a tribunal.”

Due Process ground his teeth.

“You’re concentratin’ way too much on facts, contexts, and circumstances,” she replied, “which is fine fa a court of law; but fa this tribunal, you’ll wanna concentrate more on feelings, emotions, and tone of voice. Use legal terms; it confuses the commissioners. Also, the more liberal jargon ya can use, the betta; the commissioners eat that stuff up.”

He shivered, stepping away from her. “I’m the attorney defending the party against your client,” he said. “Why are you helping me? Aren’t you worried I’ll take your advice and use it against you?”

Res Judicata tousled his main, and Due Process felt something in his teeth crack. “Not at all, my dear,” she said, “because ya and I both know that ya’re not gonna win. Therefore, the best thing you can get from these proceedins is a learnin’ experience. I wanna help ya!” Then, noticing how red his face was turning, she cooed: “Ah, come now! It’s okay. This place I’m gonna take you to is really the bee’s knees. I always go there to unwind after a stressful case—somethin’ ’bout the food and atmosphere that really greases the noggin. Come on!”

“Okay,” again murmured Due Process, following her. He very much doubted that any greasy food or bad music would in any way lift his spirits enough to give Res Judicata the conversation he had always imagined he might one day be able to have with her, when all he wanted to do right then was to go home, curl up in bed, and wait till the world looked a little more appealing; but, nevertheless, he accepted the free meal, as he was at that moment a little short on money.

Chapter V: The Most Adequate Night Ever

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“Invitation?”

Despite the smile he maintained for his classmates, professors, and clients, and the alacrity with which he threw himself into his work, Due Process was not, in general, a happy pony. In a certain sense, he preferred it that way. He remembered that the last time he was happy—he reckoned it was shortly before puberty—was a period in his life when he was showered with everything he could possibly want. As his wants had grown, so did his inability to satisfy them. General discontent was, so he thought, a state much more preferable than bliss, as it meant that the smallest pleasure or convenience the ordinarily merciless world would bestow upon him at rare intervals would bring a satisfaction that would have been taken for granted had he his every whim fulfilled.

This was why his heart had been aflutter, as if in the intoxication of passion, when he, earlier that evening, had dug out from the back of his closet the suit his father had bought him for his school prom: a beautiful hoofmade silk jacket, tailored exactly to his specifications, with an equally lovely variegated tie that was flashy, yet still understated, which his mother had chosen for him, everything fitting him now just as well as it did then. This was why he had unironically whistled a popular ditty, ironing his clothes till their folds were impeccable, just as they had been on prom night, the only other night he had worn them. This was why when he had retrieved from the box they had come in a set of dress shoes, which his father had told him to use for his first day in a real court (and though he had not been specific on what kind of “court” he meant, Due Process had his own interpretation, and he felt that it was not contrary to the spirit of his father’s desires), he had cradled them in his hooves against his breast as if he were carrying his newborn quadruplets back from the hospital. And this is why, despite the hour of arduous, manual work it required, his knees and face soaked with polish at the end, he had kept smiling at them, to confirm that, indeed, he could see the reflection of his teeth in the black leather which shone in brilliant silver under the lights of his apartment.

He had walked, all dressed up, sparkling and grinning like a dandy, to that grand hall, and the sight of all those beautiful ponies around had given him so much pleasure that he could barely restrain himself from running up to each one and giving him a kiss and a hug.

But that horrible, insolent, and importune word—invitation—spoken just now by that elderly, hideous unicorn with saggy eyes, and even saggier cheeks, who was now standing between him and the splendor that was supposed to be his by right, had been so discordant with the wonderful emotions he was feeling at that moment, that Due Process felt himself as if ripped from paradise and cast into the blackest depths of Tartarus. Falling, dying, suffocating, he tried, with the last of his breath, to say to the gatekeeper: “I’m an attorney in the employment of Her Majesty Princess Celestia; I have the right to be here just as much as if I were she herself; so move aside, you arrogant, officious little gargoyle; move aside and make way—in the name of the princess, of Equestria, in the name of the sun, the earth, the moon, the galaxy, the universe, make way and let me through!” but, his intestines churning within him as his glorious universe collapsed and burned, all he could choke out was:

“I’m . . . Princess Celestia!”

The doorpony squinted at him, and an amused sneer curled the corner of his mouth. “Well, well,” he scoffed, “I must say, that’s one I’ve never heard before. But nice try. Come back when you’re three feet taller, have grown a horn, and your voice has gotten a little deeper; maybe then that excuse will be plausible.”

“I need . . . to get in!” he yelled back.

“No can do, kid,” droned the doorpony. “Rules are rules: nopony is given admittance to the Grand Galloping Gala without an invitation.”

“Listen . . . listen to me,” he choked, making a supreme effort to avoid bursting into tears. “Princess Celestia . . . she’s my client. She has a very important hearing in a couple days, and she told me . . . she told me, you hear? She told me that the only time she could meet to work on her defense was now, at the Grand Galloping Gala, and that . . . to meet her here. Call her here and ask her if you don’t believe me! But it’s important—really important . . . so let me through!”

He tried to push past him; but the unicorn, grabbing him with his magical aura, shoved him right back.

“Like I told you,” said the unicorn, “no—ticket—no—admittance,” jabbing his hoof into Due Process’s chest with each word.

Due Process looked down and noticed that the violent strikes the unicorn had made against his coat had creased the lapel and displaced a button.

“Traitor!” screeched Due Process, flaring his wings. “Impeding the will of your princess—traitor! Wait till she finds out that you denied entrance to her attorney!”

He let fly a sudden punch right into the unicorn’s horn; the doorpony recoiled, disoriented.

Due Process leaped over his head, clear into the air—and struck headfirst into something unmovably solid. He fell to the ground, landing awkwardly on his wing. Through his dizziness and pain he could just dimly perceive the form of a massive stallion, bedecked in the colors and armor of a Royal Guard, lowering down on him.

The nauseous laugh of the doorpony resounded in Due Process’s ears. “Ah, I see you’ve made an acquaintance with Private Fluffy! His captain agreed to let him be my bouncer. We’ve become great friends over the evening, talking about hopes, dreams, life, and love. Haven’t we, Fluffy?” he said, playfully bumping his shoulder against that of the soldier.

“Don’t touch me,” said Private Fluffy.

Due Process, unable to fly, unable to walk, unable to effect his mission, his splendid suit irrevocably creased and bespeckled with gravel and dirt from his fall, his nice shoes irredeemably scuffed, feeling nothing but pain in the present, and seeing nothing but despair in the future, could withstand it no longer: he burst into tears, sobbing like a little boy who has lost his mommy.

“Dewey?”

At the sound of that soft, caressing, familiar feminine voice, he looked up. Though the pain in his wing and the tears in his eyes blurred his sight, he thought he could see the figure of a mare walking toward him.

“Due Process?” he heard the same voice say. It came from the mare; she had taken flight to get to him faster.

He wiped his eyes, and took a closer look; and when he recognized her face, instantly he was upon his feet, his wings strong again, his head firm, his smile so wide that it hurt his cheeks. He was still crying, but now from euphoria.

“Fine Print!” he sang, and he too took to the air toward her. He met her two feet above the head of the doorpony, and there, in midair, they embraced.

Laughing, still embracing him, she said: “Dewey, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, it is you! I haven’t seen you since graduation!”

“I wanted to talk to you, to congratulate you!” he sputtered as they landed, laughing till his tears flowed the greater. “But after you gave the valedictorian speech, you just flew off!”

Fine Print stepped back to look at him, and at once Due Process’s joy evaporated; into the vacuum it left flooded a hot sense of shame. He knew that all she could see was the gravel in his mane, the scratches on his shoes, the disorder of his tie, and the creases in his jacket.

“Dewey, what’s wrong?” she said. “Never mind, tell me when we get inside.”

“He won’t let me in!” whined Due Process, pointing at the doorpony.

“What!” ejaculated Fine Print in disbelief. “Tell him you’re here on official business.”

“I did!” Due Process responded. “I told him that I have to talk to my client, that it was really important, but he didn’t believe me.”

Her countenance suddenly becoming baleful, she turned to the doorpony. “What’s the meaning of this?” she snapped. “Why won’t you let him through?”

“He has no invitation,” said the doorpony, with the sententious inflection and smug grin of one taking pride in regurgitating the maxims handed down to him by his superiors.

“Why don’t you have an invitation?” said Fine Print, turning to Due Process.

“I didn’t know I needed one! The princess just told me we could talk at the Gala, and that was that!”

“Don’t you know who this stallion is?” she yelled at the doorpony. “This is Her Majesty Princess Celestia’s attorney and counsel, who is in the process of working on a case which is of the utmost importance to her. Let him through, you officious coot—let him through in the name of the princesses and Equestria!”

“Sure,” said the doorpony, “he just needs to show me an invitation.”

“An invitation . . .” muttered Fine Print.

And then her ears twitched as a thought passed rapidly through her brain.

Due Process recognized the tic. The doorpony had no idea what he had awakened.

With amazing rapidity and dexterity, she reached into her purse and pulled out a golden card. “Here you go, Dewey!” she said, extending it to him. “Here’s your invitation.”

“Invitations are nontransferable,” said the doorpony.

“Says who?” Fine Print shot back.

The doorpony took the invitation from her with a levitation spell and brought it close to his face.

“Here,” he said, levitating it back to her. “On the back, in the small text on the bottom. As you can see, it says: ‘This invitation is the sole use of the addressee and cannot be transferred.’”

Due Process winced. The doorpony could not have known he had just awaken a force that was to utterly annihilate him. Due Process couldn’t look away, morbidly fascinated and strangely aroused.

She grabbed the ticket between two feathers of her wing, her eyes moving rapidly over the text, her cheeks shaking with the effort of her complete concentration.

After three seconds, a huge, wily grin appeared on her face. “Let my date through, please,” she said.

“Excuse me?” said the doorpony.

“The conditions of entry clearly stipulate,” trumpeted Fine Print, “that the addressee of the ticket—i.e., I myself—is entitled to bring one guest. Due Process is my date, and therefore is clearly eligible for entry as per the conditions of the invitation.”

The doorpony screwed up his eyes. “What, him?” he sneered, chuckling. “He’s your date?”

“What,” shouted Due Process, growing red in the cheeks, “exactly, is so hard to believe about that?”

Fine Print enveloped Due Process’s body in her wing and pulled him close to her. “Oh yes,” she whispered sultrily into his ear, the humidity of her breath making Due Process shiver, “he is. You, sir, cannot begin to even conceive”—twitching against him at this word and shuddering with a slight moan—“of the burning passion that engulfs us. He is my champion, my stud, and I his mare, his prize. He craves me every waking hour and leaves me no choice but to submit till I’m crying for mercy. My date, you ask? Sir, I am his slave.”

She was now supporting the entire weight of his body with her wing, for Due Process’s legs had gone completely limp.

“But . . .” stammered the doorpony, “but you’d already entered with your invitation. You have to enter with your date; he can’t come in by himself after you’ve already entered!”

“Why not?” riposted Due Process, having regained his courage and strength. “Where does it say that?”

The unicorn took back the invitation and began to go over the text. Due Processed noticed that the doorpony’s collar was dark with sweat.

The attorneys waited, smiling, and holding each other tighter.

“It’s . . .” stammered the doorpony at length, “it’s implied?”

“Perhaps so, and perhaps you could even prove it,” said Due Process. “But any extrinsic evidence you could produce to support that claim would be inadmissible in our common law of contracts. Given that we have an ambiguity in the terms, I will assert the doctrine of contra proferentem: and, as you represent the party that drafted the terms of the invitation, the ultimate interpretation of said terms will favor me. What do you have to say to that, huh?”

“Uh . . .” he said, fumbling with the invitation, “but . . .”

“But what?” said the lawyers.

“How . . . how do I know she hasn’t already entered with a date?”

“How do you know that she has?” said Due Process. “If you want to accuse her of date fraud, the onus is on you to prove it.”

“But . . . I can’t—”

Fine Print smirked. “Do you really think you have any chance in successfully disputing a contract when your opponents are both lawyers who specialize in exactly this form of law?”

“Before . . . retirement,” stammered the doorpony in a desperate final attempt, “I was . . . a paralegal!”

To this, the lawyers’ sole response was to throw back their heads and laugh.

The unicorn, scowling, pouting, handed the invitation back to Fine Print, stepped aside, and reluctantly extended his hoof toward the path that led to the Gala.

“Thank you, my good sir!” chirped Due Process as they walked past. “Oh, and, by the way, when your ex-wife is done with her current stallion,” he added, licking his lips, “make sure you send her my way. I know how much she likes young studs!”

The unicorn made a sound that was both a moan of physical pain and a cry of surprise, as if he had just been punched in the stomach. “Why, you little!” he screeched. He leaped, his teeth bared, at Due Process—but now it was the doorpony’s turn to be stopped by the iron wall which was the muscles and sinews of Private Fluffy.

When they were out of sight and earshot of him, Fine Print turned and gave him another hug. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered.

“You told me we’d hang out after graduation,” said Due Process sadly. “I called you a million times, but you never answered or returned my messages, and then you changed your number . . .”

She pinned her ears. “Dewey, I’m so sorry. If I’d known how much it would’ve hurt you, I would have, really! Life got so busy when I started work. But hey”—bumping her flank against his—“will you accept me as your date to the Grand Galloping Gala by way of an apology?”

“Sure,” he said, touching her shoulder, “I’d like that very much. Thanks for saving me from that jerk of a doorpony.”

“You know him, then?”

“I’ve never met him before in my life.”

“Then how did you know that about his wife?”

“I didn’t. But I do know that about ninety percent of stallions his age are married or have been in the past. I also know that about sixty percent of marriages end in divorce, and infidelity is the reason cited for about ninety-five percent of them. It was an educated guess.”

Fine Print laughed, patting him on the back with her wing. “Wow, Dewey, look at you, using statistics to rub salt in a wound—you’re already ten times the lawyer I’ll ever be!”

“Oh, come on.”

“I’m serious. You know, I really envy you.”

Due Process stopped completely in his tracks. When Fine Print turned back to look, he was staring at her, jaw agape.

“What?” he gasped. “You . . . envy me?”

“Of course!” she said, in her excitement her wings flapping so fast that her hooves barely touched the ground. “What’s there not to envy? Out of school, and you’re already representing the princess in an actual court!”

“Well, it’s not exactly a court.”

“It might as well be! Do you realize, Dewey, that not only will you be able to work in any firm in the country—no, the world—after this but they’ll be studying this case, and the choices you make, for years to come? Undergrads will be writing papers on you! You’ll be able to give speeches, talks—anything you want for any price you might set. You can do anything!”

“You’re really making it out to be a bigger deal than it is,” said Due Process, shaking his head sadly. “You have a way better job than I do.”

“Ha!” ejaculated Fine Print. “You have no idea—”

“Oh, don’t give me that. I know that you’re a royal scrivener; that was why you turned down the princess’s case when it was offered you—that, and also, you know that my case is unwinnable.”

She scoffed. “Royal scrivener—yeah, it definitely sounds prestigious, doesn’t it? Dewey, do you know what I do all day? I copy out sections of laws into contracts. Sometimes I reword and move around paragraphs that have already been written. If I’m lucky, maybe I get to be a notary.”

“If it’s so terrible, then why didn’t you choose to defend the princess at the PRAT?”

“Because I’m an idiot, okay?” said she, slapping her forehead with a hoof. “In my excitement, I didn’t realize that scrivener is just a fancy word for scribe!”

“You’re not an idiot. You’re the valedictorian, remember? I’m only the second best.”

“That’s only because I took a lot of bird courses, and because I knew how to get along with professors. Don’t sell yourself short, Dewey. You’ve got a lot going for you. If it seems bad, and if it seems that everypony is doing better, just remember that we all have our demons.”

They’d always heard that Canterlot was the city of opulence and fortune, but they, in their middle class lives, having never experienced such wealth, could only dream of what such majesty could look like. But now, having entered the hall, they could safely say that their dreams had been ill-founded—nothing could have prepared them for the extent of the majesty that spread out before them.

The ends of the main hall stretched so far out of sight, and were so packed with ponies, that they could not see the ends, much less the divers branching corridors and hidden chambers. When they looked down, they saw that the marble beneath their feet was polished to the point that the colors of their fur were reflected in its sheen; when they looked up, they instantly shut their eyes, lest the ornate roof that spiraled upward and onward into infinity give them vertigo. To the left of them was a buffet table as long as the hall was wide, in the middle of which stood an incredibly detailed ice sculpture of the city of Canterlot; to their right was a stage upon which sat a string quartet which had just struck up one of Beethoofen’s massive fugues, balancing, with incredible skill and insight, the piece’s fire with its lyricism. A sparkling staircase, sculpted in the style of the old architecture of the city, unfolded right before them like the gradations of a great cumulus, leading to a mezzanine whose walls were adorned with luxurious, intricate tapestries that extended from the ceiling to the floor. And, encircling the great hall were stained glass windows each as tall as the building itself, adorned with daedal vistas and landscapes which, by some abstruse artistic mechanism employed by their master, did not distort the light that passed through, but rather amplified it, made it clearer; such that to the north, they could see the tops of Canterlot’s skyscrapers rising up to peek at them; to the south, from the height of the great mountain upon which the city was founded, they could see the lights of Ponyville twinkling far below. In short, a sensuous paradise unfolded in front of them, beckoning them to join and revel in its splendor, and to add their own happiness to the rest.

“There . . . there are no . . . I’m at a loss,” gasped Fine Print, her eyes wide with rapture.

“Ditto,” breathed Due Process. “And, to think, we have the whole night at our disposal. Fine Print, I . . .” He gently wrapped his wing around her and pulled her closer, staring deeply and tenderly into her eyes. “I can’t . . . imagine any other pony I’d rather have as my date to such a wondrous event such as the Grand Galloping Gala than you. The Gala is ours; the night is ours; and you are mine, mine till the sun rises on a day I hope never to come.”

Abruptly, she shrugged out of his embrace, blushing. “I’m . . . sorry, Dewey,” she stammered, “but I’m not really into balls—I mean galas—galas, dances, social get-togethers. I was kinda here for business, just to network, perhaps find a better employer . . .”

Due Process flattened his ears and took a step back, as he plummeted from cloud nine to eight. He blinked, as if waking from a dream after a sudden, unexpected fall. His heart pounded, a strange concoction of horror and disappointment churning within him—it was the horror of experiencing a nightmare but with none of the relief that accompanied waking up, simultaneous with the regret that a wonderful dream had irrevocably slipped away from him, all the more painful because it was something that could be but was not.

“Oh . . .” he said. “I see. . . but that’s okay!” He pricked his ears up. “Actually, I’m just here on business too. That’s the only reason I came.”

“Great!” Fine Print said. “I’m glad you understand. But, I’ll tell you what: at the end of the night, come and find me, and if I’m still around, we’ll hang out, okay?” She stepped toward him and embraced him. “It was really great to see you,” she whispered into his ear.

Then she was gone, trotting off toward the ponies in front of the string quartet.

Due Process stood where he was, thinking about something. Finally, shaking his head, and remembering why he had come, he looked around the room.

A long line of ponies stretched all along the staircase up to the mezzanine where the princesses were standing. At the moment, a wizened gray pegasus at the front of the line had their attention. Due Process could not hear what he was saying, but, whatever it was, it was enough to make Princess Luna, at her sister’s side, utter an audible “Ugh!” that drew the attention of every head in the room, whereupon she leaped down from the mezzanine, her wings spread to their greatest extent as she glided over to where the string quartet was scraping out an incredibly discordant piece of noise that could hardly be called music, more than it could be called pure despair in the form of screaming strings that was Shostakonik’s Eighth String Quartet. “What would make you think that that abominable allegro would in any capacity be suitable to a princess’s ball?” cried she. “Manedelssohn’s First—play, play! I want music, not the howling of Tartarus’s damned!”

The guests at the ball, half of them courtiers, the other half denizens of the upper echelons that frequently came into contact with the princesses, were used to the younger’s outbursts. It wasn’t too long till normal conversation resumed, mostly dominated by the aforementioned gray pegasus’s vehement, but unintelligible, vociferations, which did not in any way perturb the equanimity of the ponies who were standing in line behind him. Far from it: the old stallion had such a tasteful way of spitting his insults; they carried all of the shock of using naked profanity with none of the impropriety. “Isn’t he wonderful?” they whispered, keeping their voices low lest they disturb the fine music of his invective. “He must be a politician.” At the other end of the room, two stallions in front of the string quartet were yelling at the cellist, soliciting her opinion as to which one of them was taller and more muscular.

Due Process saw all this but thought nothing of it. He took to the air, above and past the line of ponies who were waiting for the princess’s attention. He did not mark the disdainful scoffs and gasps of those over whose heads he flew; instead, his eyes and ears were drawn to this old pegasus who had now taken to hovering in order to punctuate his words with gestures from both his forehooves. As Due Process got closer, he was able to discern the words, though not their meaning.

“Enfin, Céleste,” the old stallion was saying, “la séparation est presque sur nos têtes. Elle attendait patiemment ; maintenant elle vient, et elle n’attendra plus . . .”

Due Process was able to hear a rational meaning in these words as well as he would have been able to hear a sonnet in the gargling of hot soup. But from the old pegasus’s enraged tone, his desperate gesticulations, the hasty departure of Princess Luna, and the nervous nods of Princess Celestia, he could tell that it was some sort of screed on a topic that probably wasn’t that important. So he felt no scruples when he landed next to the princess and said: “I’m here, Your Majesty. Can we get to work now?”

“Excuse me,” said a pony stepping out from behind the princess. “If you require an audience with Her Majesty, you must wait like everypony else.”

“Excuse yourself!” cried Due Process. “But the princess gave me her express word that the matter I have to discuss with her would take place at the Grand Galloping Gala; and as it might take some time, and seeing that the night will end before long, I need her attention now.”

“No,” said Princess Celestia, turning a baleful glare upon him, “she’s right. I will talk to you once it’s your turn.”

“But . . . Your Majesty!” he stammered, pulling at his mane with a hoof. “You . . . said that we’d talk at the Gala!”

“And who are you to dare to presume how I should dispose of my time?”

At first, Due Process smirked at her, as he would have done at a facetious friend. When he realized, by the souring of her features, that she was asking the question in complete sincerity, he took to the air, both his hooves on his head as though in a nightmare, and screamed: “I’m . . . your attorney!”

The princess blinked. “Are you . . . the lawyer that’s handling my case with the PRAT?”

“Yes!”

He landed on his belly, coughing and choking on his disbelief.

Princess Celestia, her expression changing as understanding dawned on her, shook her head at two Royal Guards who were advancing toward them, their weapons drawn; they nodded silently, sheathed their swords, and resumed their posts. “My sincerest apologies, Esquire,” she said, offering a hoof to help him to his feet. “I sincerely didn’t recognize you.”

“Qui est cet enfant-ci ?” spat the gray pegasus, gesturing to the disheveled and distraught little lawyer. “Va t’en ! Personne ne pourra arrêter la séparation.”

Princess Celestia stepped between them before blood could be drawn. “M. le Premier,” she said to him, “permettez-moi d’introduire mon avocat, Esquire Due Process.” Then, turning to him: “Esquire, this is the premier of the province of Quebuck, M. Idée Fixe.”

“La séparation est l’avenir !” ejaculated he.

“How lovely,” snorted Due Process.

Simpering, Princess Celestia said: “M. Fixe was just telling me he believes very strongly that Quebuck will soon separate from Equestria.”

“Je ne be-lieve pas,” snarled he, scrunching up his face as he spat, one after the other, the two syllables of believe, as if he were ejecting from his mouth the moldy seeds of a particularly odious fruit. “Je know.”

“A cute, albeit ridiculously unconstitutional, thought,” said Due Process. “But, Mr. Fixe, the princess must ask your leave now; she has some actually serious matters to discuss.

“Princess!” he continued, turning his back on the premier who had just started choking on his dentures. “Good, we have some time alone. Now, I’ve given a lot of thought to the angle you should take. There are many different possibilities, but my opinion is—”

“I want to settle,” she interrupted.

“What!” At this remark, Due Process had reflexively flung out his wings, knocking Idée Fixe in the jaw and dislodging his dentures clean from his mouth. Ignoring the cries of mares as the premier dove under their dresses in search of his teeth, Due Process squawked: “Your Majesty, but I thought that we—”

“Yes, I know,” responded she. “But you must understand that I have other things on my mind, and this is a battle that is simply not worth fighting. I imagine that, for you, this case, and the work that you’ve put into it, is the entirety of your life—but, for me, it is only care number three thousand thirty-three. I have to make priorities, and this case isn’t one of them. I’m sorry, Esquire, but I can’t devote any more time to this than I already have. We can speak as soon as I’m done with . . . M. le Premier !” she suddenly said, turning to him who was now standing beside Due Process with a scowl that could liquefy a baby. “Quelle chance d’avoir retrouvé vos dents !”

Due Process flew down from the mezzanine before he had a chance to be bitten in the flank with a set of particularly dirty dentures.

Once again, the little lawyer found himself on the ground floor, looking up at the princess on the mezzanine, at the premier who had resumed his polemic, and at the backs of a long line of ponies who were waiting for Her Majesty’s attention. He stood there a few moments, waiting for some indication that Idée Fixe was about to run out of breath. He waited for what seemed to be an hour—yet the premier talked, yelled, screamed, and slobbered; Princess Celestia simpered and nodded; the line of ponies impatiently tapped their feet; and the night matured, the day to make a defense, which had yet to be prepared, approaching. At this rate, Due Process knew he would be lucky if he would be able to schedule an appointment with the princess next year.

His feet hurt; his head hurt; the heat of the room, rendered humid by thousands of exhalations, was making him perspire; and he was now conscious of a particularly uncomfortable bulge in the lining of his coat.

He shoved a hoof into his breast pocket and yanked out the nagging extrusion. He was surprised to find he was holding a small glass bottle containing a clear-colored spirit.

He recognized the label quite well. Every year on his birthday, ever since middle school, his uncle would invariably give him a small bottle such as this one of this precise spirit. It was a brand made and to be found only in Yakyakistan, where his uncle went every year on business. “It’s magic; I swear!” Due Process’s uncle would invariably tell his nephew. “Special yak magic, I tell ya. I dunno what they do, but they’re smart ones, the yaks, much smarter, much more powerful than the unicorns we have here in Equestria. One sip of this can win anypony over to you, no matter how opposed she was initially. Give it to a pretty girl you like; all her snooty defenses will fall, and she’ll be yours in a heartbeat!” Knowing what just one of these was able to do to his uncle, who was the stoutest and stockiest of earth ponies, Due Process had been always too scared of how it would fare on the body of a hollow-boned pegasus to ever try it, much less did he know of anypony he would dare subject to such an influence.

He opened the bottle, and the fumes alone were enough to make his head spin. But what was the alternative? Sit here sober and hope in vain for the princess’s time? At least with this, maybe he’d be able to temporarily forget his troubles and actually be able to enjoy the Gala.

He brought the odious beverage to his mouth and was just about to take a sip, when a loud “La séparation !” erupted from the mezzanine, and he turned to see the premier hovering in front of Princess Celestia, his wizened little wings beating as fast as a hummingbird’s in a strenuous effort to keep his fat little body a feet or so from the ground.

And, all of a sudden, he had an idea.

“Dans cette affaire, Céleste, tu n’as pas, et n’auras jamais, la parole !” screamed Idée Fixe up on the mezzanine, more fervidly than ever. “Car les Québuckois sont un peuple libre, et ne répondront jamais au mot d’une—”

“Hello!” interrupted a gay little voice.

The princess and the premier turned to see the little lawyer from earlier once more beside them, now smiling, hovering happily, and holding in each forehoof a glass.

“Quoi, encore toi, enfant ?” spat Idée Fixe. “Que veux-tu ?”

“I know that we got off on the wrong foot,” Due Process said. “But, as I am Her Majesty’s attorney, I represent her in all legal aspects; thus, it’s incumbent on me to make sure that all negotiations go smoothly.”

Princess Celestia looked at her lawyer, expecting him to turn and give her a wink; he did not. She scoured his countenance for any indication of his aim, any crack in the veneer of his politeness exposing his ulterior motives—but she could find none. Either he was a genuine diplomat, or he was the perfect liar; in either case, she found her respect for him augmenting the tiniest bit.

“I terribly regret that this conversation has escalated to such a point as to give you great ire,” continued the lawyer, “and for that, I suppose we partially can be to blame. It seems my client has forgotten the ancient and sacred custom of her court: that whenever she gives an audience with a foreign leader, she must do so over a drink. Because, indeed, you, Mr. Premier, are a foreign leader; for even if Quebuck is not yet—speaking from a strictly legal point of view, of course—a sovereign nation, the Québuckois are without question a sovereign people.”

The premier laughed, wholeheartedly and with unrestrained jollity—a startling, stark contrast to the unbridled rage he had shown not a minute before. “Voici une chose drôle,” he bellowed with pleasure. “Bien que l’enfant ne parle pas français, il parle mieux qu’une princesse et, de plus, sait ma langue mieux qu’elle !”

Sensing by his tone that he had won the premier slightly over to his side, Due Process, his confidence growing, continued. “My client has long known that when two leaders of two great nations come together in lengthy discourse,” he said, “they need drinks to soothe their throats and tempers.” He thrust the drink in his left hoof toward the premier. “For you, sir. Drink, so that we may have more productive conversations.”

Skeptically, Idée Fixe leaned over the drink and took a sniff. He puckered his face at the smell. “Qu’est-ce que c’est ?” he asked.

“Only punch,” responded Due Process. “It’s good!”

Idée Fixe shook his head. “Je ne bois que du vin.”

Due Process took a sip from the glass in his right hoof. “Ah!” he sighed. “I feel better already. And so would you, Mr. Premier. Go on. Just a sip!”

Idée Fixe fixed the little lawyer with a glare; he often used such a glare in debates to melt the pretenses of his opponent, which often succeeded, evinced by the fact that he was now on his fourth consecutive term as premier. But still Due Process smiled on, and held the cup out to him with a steady hoof.

He received the cup in a hoof, gave it one more sniff, and took a sip.

“What did I tell you?” said Due Process. “Tasty, isn’t it?”

Idée Fixe smacked his lips, shrugging. “Pas mal,” he murmured, “mais un trop . . .”

All at once, his eyes widened; he gasped, flushing profusely, as a quite contented, warm smile melted away the perennial tundra that was his countenance.

“C’est . . .” he stuttered. “C’est un bon . . .” His voice trailed off as he took another sip.

“See?” said Due Process. “What did I tell you?”

Idée Fixe downed the rest of the drink and smashed the glass on the floor, to the dismay of the spectators, the princess, and everypony else—save for Due Process. “J’en veux un autre !” he cried. “Où peut . . . on . . . en . . . trouver plus ?”

“There’s more where that came from if you follow me,” responded Due Process. “And we’ll be able to discuss everything. But let’s step down from this mezzanine and go into the crowd; there’ll be a bit more privacy there. No, no, Mr. Premier, let’s not fly, probably not a good idea. Careful . . . watch your step, this way . . . good!”

“Allons !” cried Idée Fixe when they were on the ground floor, waving his hoof in Due Process’s face as if to emphasize that there was no glass in it. “Allons trouver plus de . . . punch !”

“I’ll show you where to get more punch in a bit,” responded Due Process. “But now that we’ve both had a drink, I think it’s time to discuss the matter at hoof. I must say that I’m terribly interested in this issue. So, what is this, this . . . ‘sep-er-ass-yon’? Tell me everything!”

“Quoi !” bellowed Idée Fixe. “Tu ne sais pas la séparation ? Elle est l’esprit du peuple du Québuck, elle est la grand chose de notre époque . . . elle est . . . et est . . .”

“You want Quebuck to secede from Equestria?”

“Oui, oui . . . sur-le-champ . . .”

“Very interesting! May I ask why?”

Idée Fixe stumbled, as if slapped. “Quoi ! Tu demandes . . . les raisons . . . alors, il y en beaucoup . . . beaucoup, j’peux t’assurer de . . . ça !”

“Hmm, yes, I see; I see. Very good reasons you have there,” lied the little lawyer. “But let’s do a thought experiment. You know, we educated, intellectual ponies are not dogmatic, you understand? We can entertain contrary thoughts for the sake of argument.” He threw his wing across the premier’s back. “Would you like do that?”

“D’a . . . accord.”

Due Process could not tell whether that had been a word or a hiccup. Regardless, he took it as permission to continue. “Great! So imagine this: the Québuckois are a strong, intrepid people, and there are a lot of good reasons for sep-er-ass-yon. But—bear with me here . . . what if you didn’t separate?”

The premier gasped. “Eh bien ! Qu’est-ce . . . que tu . . . veux dire ?” He jabbed an angry, shaky hoof in the lawyer’s chest.

Due Process discretely wiped off his face the spittle the premier had just flung at him, maintaining with an effort his smile throughout. “No, just think about it,” he said. “Sure, you can separate, go your own way, and Equestria goes about its . . . but what if you didn’t?

“You remain a province of a country consistently ranked in the top five in the world when it comes to healthcare, political rights, economic rights, freedom, and standard of living.

“You’re guaranteed, by the Constitution, that at least three of the justices that sit on the Supreme Court will come from your province. No other province or minority group in this country gets such a right! If anything, that’s an overrepresentation.

“Your language and religion are treated with absolute equality throughout the land.

“I need hardly say that it’s much easier to trade for oil when your business partner is just another province.

“You have the reputation of Equestria and Equestrian corporations backing you for any foreign contracts you wish to make.

“You reap all the benefits of being part of a country with one of the largest economies in the world.

“You’re protected by a military that will always be bigger than any military you yourself could raise.

“You’d continue to receive equalization payments from the federal government, the amount of which is nearly double what every other province of Equestria receives combined, to say nothing of the standard federal funding for education, healthcare, and divers other concerns that the GDP of Equestria can help you fund no problem, but the GDP of a sovereign Quebuck would struggle with. Think, Mr. Premier, about your people: do you think turning off that money would result in no negative consequences?”

The premier nodded. “Oui, oui . . .” he sputtered, “mais . . . mais—”

“Whom do you think your sep-er-ass-yon would be hurting? Equestria? Believe me, however much you’d hurt us, you’d be hurting yourselves ten times over. A million things that you take for granted, which as a province you don’t need to concern yourself with, would suddenly fall on you. Things you can’t even imagine. For one thing, what currency would you use? A new country’s currency takes a while to be trusted, which may result in problems when you try to conduct international business. You could use the Equestrian Bit, but what does that say about the new country of Quebuck, that not even its citizens have enough confidence in its government to back its own currency?

“Do you even think you could raise enough taxes to fund your current needs? Without funding from the government of Equestria, you’d have to do a lot of cuts, or tax more; but doing the former will result in special interest groups complaining, to not speak of the possible harm that might happen from losing whatever you’re cutting; and doing the latter—well, I need hardly say what kind of unrest that will result in, unrest that could no longer be blamed on anypony but you yourself. Is that any way for a new country to begin? Unable to pay its debts?”

The premier tried to say something, but a spasm of hiccups silenced him.

“Look,” continued Due Process, rubbing the premier’s back with his wing, “I’m not saying you don’t have good reasons. I’m not saying that Equestria has never given you the short end of the stick. I’m just saying that, when you look at the big picture, it seems that this country has done you more good than ill. You’re a minority group, so naturally there will be times where perhaps you could’ve been treated better. But this country does everything in its power to sate each one of your needs, so much so that it invariably happens that you, as a group, receive better treatment than any other group in Equestria. For goodness sake, the minorities of the world would be downright jealous—compared to them, you’re treated like gentry!”

“Mais . . . tu,” Idée Fixe hiccupped, his chin trembling, “tu ne sais—”

“Equestria is the greatest country in the world. We’ve got oil, lumber, and pretty much every natural resource you can think of coming out of our flanks. We have a large, vibrant economy, yet do not suffer from crowding. We’re not too hot, yet not too cold. Compared to every single other country, political corruption is pretty much nonexistent. Did you also know, Mr. Premier, that we have six percent of the world’s fresh water—do you also realize that ponies in the world still suffer from drought, that wars have been fought, and are still being fought, over fresh water? Yet that’s a problem that we, as Equestrians, won’t ever have to consider. The issues that we don’t have to deal with but which most of the world does are innumerable, yet are irrelevant to us by virtue of the fact that we’re Equestrians in Equestria. Yes, of course we have problems, but all those problems exist in every other country to a much greater degree. It’s easy for you to notice what’s missing, but it’s even easier to not be appreciative of everything’s that whole, complete, perfect, good, like our country. I’m an Equestrian; I love my country, and I want to be an Equestrian for the rest of my life. What about you? Why would you not want to be an Equestrian?”

Idée Fixe burst into tears, throwing his hooves around Due Process’s neck.

“Oui !” he cried. “Tu . . . tu es un bon garçon. Tu es mon fils ! Je t’aime !” He gave the little lawyer a flurry of kisses on both cheeks.

“I’m glad you’ve seen the light,” said Due Process, wincing as he tried to pry the premier off him, painfully conscious as he was of how many gazes he was drawing. “But it’s been a long night, and you’ve spent most of it yelling at the princess. Why don’t you spend the rest of the time enjoying it? Look, I think those fillies over there are in estrus. Go try your luck!” Rearing up, he placed both hooves on the premier’s back and pushed him thither.

“J’suis equestrien !” yelled Idée Fixe, running among the crowd, “et j’suis fier d’être equestrien ! Vous êtes tous equestriens ! N’sommes tous equestriens !” Cries erupted here and there among the crowd as the premier went about haphazardly kissing his fellow countryponies.

Due Process landed on the mezzanine, next to the princess, strode up to her with his chest outstretched, and said: “Now, Your Majesty, that I’ve taken care of that problem, we have time to talk about your case.”

Next to his ear, a pony cleared her throat. He turned and saw a burly, stocky mare, whose comparatively plain dress seemed to be fighting a losing battle in order to contain her mass. She seemed to him less built for balls and foreign politics and more for pushing plow in field to feed family and glorious motherland.

“Кто этот мальчик?” she spat.

Due Process stood at the other end of the grand hall, bitterly sipping his virgin punch as he watched the line of ponies waiting for the princess’s time. A few minutes ago he had attempted to fly the length of the queue; but, after about half an hour of trying to find its origin, he was now convinced that it started in some alternate universe.

The princess had no time for him; that much was clear. He regretted that he had wasted so much time with that strange politician. The night pressed on; time was slipping away, and he could feel the inexorable advance of the next sitting of the PRAT. As the minutes flew by, they prodded him in the side on their way past, reminding him of how ill-prepared he was.

So much anticipation for this evening, so many things attempted and failed. How to salvage this night?

He suddenly noticed that even though there was no problem with the lighting anywhere in the building, nevertheless the other end of the hall was cast in a strange sort of shadow. In the epicenter of that eldritch abyss, Princess Luna stood at one of the windows, directly behind the string quartet, gazing into the night. A great semicircle of open space, with her at its focus, formed around her, in an uncanny accordance with the inverse square law, into which the crowd dared not encroach. She stood behind the small stage erected for the string quartet. The musicians played a cheery Moztrot divertimento; the guests orbited, chatted, and laughed—but their motions evinced an unconscious, uncomfortable avoidance of the imposing presence in their midst.

Due Process felt this repulsive force as much as anypony else, and he wished to stay where he was; but, his reason telling him that he had exhausted all his other options and, what’s more, telling him that there was something still yet within his power, he knew there was only one course of action proper to him now; and, in fidelity to logic, he resolved to undertake it—it was now just an issue of convincing his heart and body to carry out his will. He cursed the fact he had no more yak liquor.

He had once stepped on a frozen puddle in the dead of winter. The surface of the puddle had cracked, and he had then found himself torso deep in water. In the lecture hall, the professor had told him to go home, because the chattering of his teeth was distracting his fellow students and making it hard for them to follow the lecture. He had then spent the next four hours in the emergency room under a mountain of electric blankets. But as chilly as that puddle had been, it could on no level compete with the frigidity of the shadow that was Princess Luna’s personal space.

His first step into it froze him completely in place. A violent, palpable force had seized his nervous system; he could not even breathe. Princess Luna, who had sensed the encroachment from the outset, was now fixing him with the gimlet eye of a rattlesnake. He gulped, looked around, and noticed that the ponies in the room had stopped their conversations to stare at him. Even the string quartet was taking a particularly longer pause than was usual between movements. Time seemed to slow as he approached the singularity. He could not think about what he was going to say, much less what he was doing, for the entirety of his efforts was concentrated on taking those inching steps forward.

Before he knew it, he was right before her, standing under her chin, looking up at the cold features bearing down on him. He stumbled a step back and curtsied, praying that his knees would not give out from under him. He rose, and when he had caught his breath and recovered a modicum of his equanimity, he spoke.

“Permit . . . me, Princess,” he coughed, “to first extend my, uh . . . humblest—most humble gratitude to you, to . . . your sister, or, rather, family in general—or rather, administration—for this opulent Gala, at which, it seems . . . only the finest of tastes, such as yours, could—”

“Speak straight, stallion,” interrupted she. “I get enough circumlocution from my courtiers. I don’t need it from a commoner at the Gala.”

Due Process hiccupped. “Yes, Your Majesty, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t apologize. Just state your business. What is it? You’ve petitioned your princess, and she has graciously deigned to give you a moment. Talk, then!”

“Permit—permit me to . . . introduce . . . I’m—”

“Esquire Due Process, and you’re representing my sister before the PRAT. Aye, I know this already. Well, what have you? You undoubtedly saw that I was deliberately keeping to myself, yet you insisted on accosting me anyway. So speak then!”

He could not speak, nor did he have the strength left in him even to run away. He was certain that the only thing left to him was to keel over and cry—but, just when he felt the last of his strength giving way, the notes of a melody came wafting over from the direction of the string quartet. Its tender melancholy pierced straight through the morass of fatigue, bewilderment, fear, and disappointment that the hours of this night had been slowly accumulating in his heart, swept them all away, and left a feeling that could be described only as exultation, yet he felt as if he would weep. The sublime beauty of the piece was a physical pain in his chest, but it was the pleasurable pain one feels after having strained his body to its utmost and has finally been given a deserved respite; it was the pain of strengthening. He saw Princess Luna close her eyes and sigh with euphoria, and he knew that the music was making her feel the same thing he felt; he thought at that moment he had known her forever.

They stood together in silence for eight minutes, listening to the andante cantabile from Tchaitrotsky’s First String Quartet. Only once did Princess Luna dare to interrupt the music, whispering to him: “Politics is transient; ideas change; but Tchaitrotsky’s thoughts will forever be relevant.” Whatever coldness permeated the soul of Princess Luna, and whatever conception and terror Due Process had had of her as of a chimera—all of it melted away beneath the notes of that nocturne.

“Bravi!” shouted she, before the quartet had had time to begin the third movement, a cheer that was taken up round the room. There was a thunderous clamor of stamping hooves and whistles—the only applause the the musicians had gotten all night, at which they were pleased to stand up, smile, and receive with bows.

Only when the quartet had leaped into the scherzo did Princess Luna resume the discourse. “Forgive me for that outburst,” she said. “The Gala always puts me on edge.”

Even though this princess was much less warm and welcoming than her sister, even though her imperiousness, both in speech and countenance, struck in those she talked to an immediate desire to submit and beg for mercy, Due Process immediately took a liking to her. Whether it was because of her smooth, regal voice, now measured and tranquil, or the hint of a small, contrite smile, or perhaps because of the mere fact that she had addressed him as an adult, Due Process felt reassured talking to her, much more than he had ever felt with her sister.

“Absolutely no need to apologize, Your Majesty,” he responded. “Believe me, no one is strained more by this night than I.”

“I don’t believe that for an instant,” she replied. “Social engineering is your avocation. Don’t think I didn’t notice your exploit with Idée Fixe. My sincerest congratulations for that preternatural feat.” Here she gave him a slight curtsy, and Due Process could not forbear a blush. “What longanimity have you, sir, to be able to deal so patiently with such an execrable stallion? I cannot say, but I can assure you that it’s greater than mine and my sister’s.”

“I’m a lawyer,” said Due Process, with a grin. “It’s my job.”

“And I’m a princess,” riposted she. “Through my life, I’ve seen and borne enormities that no mortal, though he live to two hundred and occupy the most strenuous posts attainable to mundane creatures, would be able to support without the total loss of his sanity. And though I can withstand terrorists, wars, insurrections, and corruption, the one thing I cannot bear is the Québuckois.”

“Excuse me, Your Majesty?”

“My sister—always, says she, that Equestria, as a land of harmony and friendship, will do everything in its power to keep one and all, no matter what differences may separate them. But, were it my unilateral decision, I would, right this moment, sign a decree declaring all political ties between the Principality of Equestria and the province of Quebuck to be now and henceforth totally dissolved. Let them secede.”

Due Process could not help ruffling his feathers a bit. “Excuse me, Your Majesty?” he said again. “I’m not saying I disagree with you, but . . . just to be devil’s advocate, your attitude seems—if I may be permitted a remark—not very . . . how shall I say it? Not very . . . concordant . . . with this country’s values.”

“Neither is that of the Québuckois. Do you realize, sir, that it’s because of that confounded province that everything, everywhere, from Vanhoover to Newfoaland, is printed in two languages? Pick up a cereal box anywhere in the country; on the front it’ll say ‘Hay Flakes,’ and on the back, it will say, by law, ‘Flocons de foin.’ Go take a tour of the Canterlot Archives; you can visit the Starswirl the Bearded Wing, which a modest plaque on the left side of the wing’s threshold identifies as such, and which, on the other side, spanning the complete height of the wall, a billboard insists is called L’aile de Tourbillon des Étoiles de la Barbe.”

“Your Majesty, again, I’m not saying I disagree with you here, but do you not think that that law reflects the importance of the noble virtues of multiculturalism and diversity, which we pride ourselves on, as they’re the very foundation of our society?”

“Ha!” Princess Luna had a very pleasing laugh, Due Process thought; with such an august snort of derision, she was able to confute anything. “Everything, everywhere, ‘multiculturalism this,’ ‘diversity that.’ Indeed, that’s their argument isn’t it? From the way they talk, you’d think that’s the foremost thing on their mind, of paramount importance to the Québuckois. But, I urge you, sir; go to Quebuck City, walk into any bistro, and say: ‘One grilled cheese sandwich, please’; and, mark my words, the cashier will look at you with a scowl, and snort: ‘En Québuck, on parle français !’ Their values change to suit their self-interest. When they come into our space, they cry and moan for ‘diversity.’ But when we come into theirs, all of the sudden you’ll see how much they care about it.”

Noting his look of pain, the princess sighed. “Forgive me,” she said. “I often forget that among the vulgar population, politics as a topic of conversation is a taboo. Please understand that, as a princess, my life is politics. But, indeed, I’m still in the wrong. The Gala is, above all, a function with the purpose to divert. So let us divert ourselves. What did you want to ask me?”

For a second, Due Process couldn’t remember and had no desire to. His mission at last came back to him with a terrible shame.

Flattening his ears, he said: “Forgive me, Princess; believe me I wouldn’t ask you this if I felt I had somepony else to beseech. But your sister is neglecting a very important matter, one which, if not properly attended to, will not only reflect poorly on her image, but could jeopardize one of her most important institutions. You see, the School for Gifted Unicorns—”

“The complaint brought before the Pony Rights Administrative Tribunal,” interrupted the princess, “yes, I know about it. Celestia wants to settle. But what exactly would you like me to do?”

He gulped. “I think . . . it would be greatly beneficial to her and her school if she fought the complaint out. But she won’t listen to me. Could you, Princess, urge her? As her sister, your words will have more sway than mine.”

Princess Luna laughed, and Due Process at that moment knew he had lost. “If you genuinely believe,” she scoffed, “that my sister holds my opinion in that high of an esteem such that it could change her mind, you clearly have no idea as to what exactly constitutes the nature of our relationship.”

“But, Princess, it’s certainly worth a shot, isn’t it?”

“And you, sir,” she said, as if his previous sentence had not even registered in her mind as something colorable, “should know that, though other world leaders might be induced to a decision by a word from a malicious minister, my sister cannot be convinced by words. Only actions and precedents will she heed; when you have lived as long as we have, it’s impossible to be ignorant of the fact that there’s a huge difference between what ponies say is the correct thing to do and what actually works.”

“But, Your Majesty, at least could you try—”

“My sister already knows my thoughts on the matter. To be clear, sir, I agree with you completely. The PRAT is a disgrace to our great nation. The only proper way to deal with it, the only way suitable to a princess, is to abolish it, totally and completely. This is the only thing I will advocate to my sister, and this is what I have advocated. Though she is absolutely adamant on its staying, I have let her know that should she change her mind and wish to abolish it, on the royal decree my signature of assent will appear right next to hers. Alas, were it that I could sign such a decree myself, without her consent or knowledge, but perhaps it is best that thus is our government structured.”

“Your Majesty!—” gasped Due Process.

“Enough. I have heard your piece. Bravi!” she said, for the quartet had just finished the Tchaitrotsky and was receiving its applause. “Bravi!” Turning to Due Process, she said: “Now, please excuse me. As we have gathered for the purposes of diversion, I must pay my respects to those whose lives and efforts are committed to diverting us. Farewell!”

She spread her wings and leaped onto the stage next to the bowing performers; and, ordering them, one by one, to rise, she gave each a curtsy and a kiss, with a personal bravo whispered into his ear.

He had planned to talk to his client; when he had failed at that, he had tried to divert those monopolizing her; when that had failed, he had tried to leverage her sister. And now he had failed at that too.

His shirt was ironed, his shoes shined, his mane brushed; in short, the best that Due Process had to offer he had brought to the Gala. All of it had been for naught.

Feeling as if the eyes of the entire world were giving him mocking stares, he bowed his head, not noticing, or caring, that his tie had fallen out of his jacket and was dragging along the floor as he walked toward the exit. Somewhere in his mind were some concerns tied to a conceptual leviathan he did not dare cast light on lest he see a monster too big to deal with; he could not ignore it, but he could compartmentalize and quarantine it, just long enough to give himself a small respite, and the fortitude to make it home without crying or killing himself.

On his way out, a sound made him prick up his ears. It was a voice from a time in his life not too long ago, a happier time which felt like ages long gone: a pure, unaffected, childlike laugh, replete with an absolute gaiety which one can feel only when uncorrupted by the ugliness of the world.

He knew whom that laugh belong to before he looked up and saw her: a small, lovely, ladylike mare, who blushed and giggled at her interlocutor’s wild words.

The laugh was hers. She was Fine Print.

Once more, there again was the thought to which he was hesitant to give a name, passing rapidly through his mind, checking his exit from the Gala; it was the same thought he had had when she had shrugged out of his grasp at the beginning of the night, and he had watched her graceful form skip off into the crowd.

An uncomfortably familiar feeling that had been demanding satisfaction for the past four years.

He bowed his head, his instinct telling him that patience was a virtue; that, as important as it seemed, nothing good was ever achieved by rushing into action without a plan; that the pursuit of whatever velleity he might have could end only in shame, disgrace, and disappointment; that, truly, the best course of action was to go home, that there and then he could find peace from this feeling—but he knew, from long, frustrating experience, that these reservations, especially the last, were not true, that the only thing that would be accomplished by his going home right now would be another night spent in solitude, regret, and ruminations which would spiral out of control till they drove him into a troubled, fitful sleep.

Yet even so, he could not bring himself to do anything but avert his eyes and drag his feet onward toward the exit. As he walked, the laugh filled his ears; he ground his teeth, the sound seeming to him to acquire mocking tones.

And then, breaking through and rising above that laugh, like an impudently expelled flatus, was a guttural, nasal snort, not unlike the sound of one trying to breathe with a mass of jelly in the throat. “Très drôle, mam’zelle !”

Only now did Due Process notice that the pony she was talking to was Idée Fixe, whose red face, stained coat, tangled tie, disheveled mane, and extravagant gesticulations did not seem in any way to be putting off Fine Print.

Due Process was surprised to find himself walking, at a not sluggish pace, toward them.

When he was by Fine Print’s side, he grabbed her hoof, and before she had had the time to turn around and see who it was, he whispered, his mouth pressed to her ear: “Come with me.”

“Mon fils !” sputtered Idée Fixe. The premier threw a heavy leg over the lawyer’s neck and, hovering, used his other leg to tousle his mane. “Quelle bonté de ta part de vouloir être près de moi !’

Due Process simpered as he tried to shrug out of the premier’s inordinately powerful chokehold. “Come with me,” he whispered once more into Fine Print’s ear, once he was free.

“In a minute, Dewey,” she said, in her turn also simpering to Idée Fixe.

“No, right now.” He pulled at her hoof. “We’re going—far, far away from here.”

“Eh bien, que veux-tu dire, mon garçon ?” The spittle the premier ejaculated on the word garçon was the primary impetus for Fine Print’s decision to take her leave of him rather than any exhortations on Due Process’s side.

“Dewey,” said she, running after him, “what on earth is going on? Don’t you know who that was? That was the premier of Quebuck! He was telling me about an opportunity in—”

“There’s nothing for you in Quebuck,” said Due Process flatly, without the dignity of a glance back at her. “There’s nothing for anypony in Quebuck, nothing but lifeless tundra as far as the eye can see.”

When Fine Print had gotten over her bewilderment, she saw that she was in a dark room, lit only by the wan glow of the moon filtering through a skylight, such that the center of the chamber, where she was standing, was dimly illuminated, whereas everywhere else was cast into a murky shadow. The room was decorated in the same style as the rest of the palace; but without the usual blazing chandeliers to breathe life into everything, the plush carpets, the furniture, the tapestry, the upholstery, took on a sort of mysterious, intangible aspect, as if they were the mere reflections of another world leaking through some anomalous tear in the universe. And the figure that lurked there, three feet away from her, whose only signs of life were the two pinpricks of light that resembled eyes that were watching her intently, greedily even, seemed to her to be just another chimera of that impossible world.

“Um . . . Dewey . . .” she stuttered, not sure that it was even he whom she was addressing. “What . . . what are we doing?”

The figure stepped forward into the moonlight, and she saw Due Process. . . at least, he looked like him. But there was an unmistakable, eldritch difference in the stallion she saw before her, which she could find no precedent for in the memories of her old friend from university: this stallion appeared taller, stronger; he held his head straight, towering above her, so it seemed to Fine Print, with an audacious look in his eyes, a slight, knowing sneer on his lips, as if seeing a challenge he knew he could, and would, conquer, and craving the satisfaction of beating it.

“What are we doing?” The voice was Dewey’s; the words were not. “I’m going to make this the best night ever.”

“No . . .” she whispered, but only reflexively. Before she had the time to think, she felt a strong body moving her, pinning her against the wall, and warm, thirsty lips pressed greedily against hers. For a brief moment, the intoxicating feeling of those muscles subduing her taking hold, she submitted instinctively, not knowing herself why, engulfed as if in a trance.

Only when a particularly indiscrete hoof touched her in an unexpected place was she shocked back to reality. She opened her eyes, and shuddered in disgust. “No,” she murmured beneath the kiss. “I said no!” she said, pulling away, rearing up, and giving him a kick with both forehooves.

The blow nearly knocked him off his feet. He cried out, gasping for breath. When he stumbled back into the moonlight, Fine Print saw Dewey reappear once more—she could tell it was indeed he from those large, hurt, supplicating eyes that looked back at her, which she knew him to affect at times.

“Why?” he choked, when he had regained his composure and was able to stand again.

“What on earth are . . . were you thinking?” she gasped.

“I don’t understand . . .” Due Process responded, his wind being very reluctant to return to his chest. “What’s the problem? Why not?”

“It’s not . . .” Fine Print paused as she struggled for the reason. “It’s not . . . right! It’s not appropriate!”

“Not appropriate?” repeated Due Process, his indignation giving him fortitude. “Well, if that’s so, if it’s not appropriate for a stallion to kiss his date, then I submit to you, Fine Print, that it is never appropriate for a stallion to kiss a mare under any circumstances whatsoever.”

“But you’re not my date!”

“Of course I am!” Due Process responded. “If you will recall, at the beginning of the night, I gained admittance to the Grand Galloping Gala despite my not having a personal invitation. But, as Grand Galloping Gala invitations admit one plus a date, I was able to enter under the date clause—therefore, I am here as your date. If you doubt the veracity of my testimony, I believe there’s a doorpony whom I can call as a witness. He will corroborate what I’ve said.”

There was a pause as Fine Print looked at Due Process expectantly, waiting for the punchline of his joke. She stared at him seriously and soberly, expecting him to cave and say his apologies. But he did not; he was as serious now as he had been during their classes’ mock trials.

“Dewey,” stammered Fine Print, “you can’t . . . expect to create . . . and enforce the terms of a romantic relationship . . . by contract!”

“Sure you can! What do you think a marriage is?”

Another pause, as Fine Print went over the entire history of their relationship, desperately searching for any indication that he might not be completely serious. But, as long as she had known him, Due Process had always stuck, with a religious zealotry, to agreements, both written and verbal, and to his merciless interpretations thereof. She remembered a time when she had forgotten a date with him, and he ceased speaking to her for nearly half a year, until she agreed to sit down with him and explicitly renegotiate the terms of their friendship. Due Process had always been a lawyer first and a friend second.

“All right, Dewey,” she said, her patience with him coming to its end, allowing her to drop all pretenses of amicability, “let me put this to you in terms you can actually understand. Yes, de jure, I am your date; we engaged in that contract, solely for the purpose of getting you into the gala. But de facto, we are just friends. Didn’t you pay attention in our history of law class? De facto, not de jure, is what matters. It is the only thing that has ever mattered. Law exists to support the way things are done, not the other way around. Do you understand?”

Dewey bowed his head, his ears splayed. Fine Print sighed. “With the way you are,” said she, “you’re going to run into trouble with a lot of ponies who don’t think the same way you do. I’m only trying to help you because I’m your friend.”

“I see; I understand,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “But . . . maybe . . . seeing that you are, indeed, well, my date . . . at least in the de jure sense, I don’t suppose that there’s a reasonable expectation . . . for at least a kiss? A de jure kiss for your de jure date?”

He looked up at her expectantly, from under his brow, like a repentant puppy—which worked on Fine Print as an emetic. For his words proposed a romantic endeavor—but his tone, bearing, and countenance suggested one of supplication.

“A de jure kiss? You want a de jure kiss?”

“If you would do me the honor . . .”

With a contemptuous flick of her wing, she opened her purse. Due Process watched in shame, confusion, and curiosity as she withdrew a tissue, along with a pen and her lipstick applicator. She uncapped the applicator and flicked it across the tissue; she did the same with the pen. When she was done, she returned her tools with a similar grace and efficiency, and extended the tissue to him on an outstretched hoof, as if presenting him with a summons.

Due Process took the napkin: he saw at the bottom a scribble next to some barely legible numbers, and at the top a big red smear in the shape of the letter X.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s your kiss,” she responded. “Signed and dated. We can get it notarized if you want. I ran into some of my colleagues here a while ago; they’ll be happy to help. I can probably even get them to do it for free.”

“No . . . that’s okay.” He carefully folded up his prize and put it in his breast pocket.

Fine Print sighed. “Dewey, I have to go.” She turned to leave, leaving him sulking in the middle of the room. Just before she shut the door on him, she turned and said: “I’ll see you soon,” which made Due Process prick up his ears. He thought he had heard some ulterior message in those four words, and he eyed Fine Print, searching for it. She held his glance for a brief, yet significant, moment, then sighed, chuckling, before leaving him alone in that dark chamber.

When he at last left the room, he was drawn into the current of guests filing out of the hall.

A conversation; a drink; a quartet; an awkward, inconclusive fumbling in the dark; an indefinite time spent in solitary self-reflection—and the supposed best night of his life was over, leaving him confused, unsatisfied, and unhappy. At once he was sad and relieved that it had passed so quickly.

He felt overwhelmingly tired, as if it were not the onset of the night but minutes before an approaching dawn. He did not know how long he had spent alone in that lonely room; it could have been hours for all he knew.

Involuntarily, he found himself away from the crowds, away from the lighted path, and leaning against a fence. The barrier blocked a drop of thousands of feet to the earth below. The entire desolate expanse of Equestria opened up before him, with the only signs of life the lights of Ponyville far off. And while he watched, even those progressively died away, as the inhabitants shut their doors and settled down for the night.

For Due Process, the only light left to him was the niggardly glare of the moon, and the only warmth in his chest was the kiss folded and tucked snugly in his breast pocket.

He took it out, unfolded it, and held it up to the moon, trying to find some mark of affection in it. But the white light was unable to even bring out the rosy red of the lipstick.

He was about to fold it up and put it away, when he noticed that the light piercing the thin translucent napkin brought out some faint marks on the reverse side.

He turned it over. He stared and stared, half in ecstasy, half in bewilderment. His heart knew exactly what it was, but his mind spent five minutes trying to convince him that it was illegible, meaningless, a phantasmagoria of shadow and somnolence, before finally accepting the evidence of his eyes.

Ten faint numbers, separated by dashes. The first three he recognized: they were the area code of Canterlot.

It was a phone number.

A new, yet familiar, heady hope filled his breast. He looked up, his heart racing with adrenaline, his mind through half-connected thoughts of the glorious future that was undoubtedly soon to be his, replete with love, prosperity, consummation, and fulfillment. All he had to do was to go home, wait a day or two, and . . .

What exactly?

To find the appropriate course of action, the appropriate response and avenue of attack, a lawyer looks at precedents; he examines cases similar to the one he currently encounters, and plans accordingly.

So Due Process remembered the countless promises made, but not kept; the missed dates he was begged to forgive, to reschedule, and begged to forgive again when missed a second time; the long, cold, sterile nights spent in the company of one who looked at him with a snide skepticism whenever he hinted at making them warmer; the fleetingly enjoyable times, always leaving him eager for more; the long, long periods of complete silence that followed directly afterward; the hints that made him giddy; the bemusement received when giving his own; the group study sessions he was profusely thanked for giving, yet from which he never derived any benefit; the messages left, but never returned; the reminders he gave in class, but never acknowledged; the countless assertions of misplaced cell phones; the apologies; the excuses; the professions of great affection; the underhanded denials of anything greater; the mixed messages; the pushing and pulling; the duplicity.

And, having gone through the entirety of four years’ worth of cases, having distilled them down to their essential principles, applying the entirety of his educated acumen to the task, letting his merciless logic lead him right to the proper end, in a minute the just course of action was clear to him, and once he realized what it was he did not hesitate.

He sank his teeth into the kiss, tore it in half with a twist of his neck, chewed, and spat the bolus over the fence. He watched with pleasure as the thin napkin twirled once, twice, and then dropped, disappeared from sight, its flimsy white blinking out of existence, destroyed by the blackness of midnight.

He turned and walked homeward with a stately trot, a slight smile on his face, feeling that, in some way, this night had been slightly productive.

Chapter VI: The Worst Possible Thing

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He had no idea how it had happened to him, who was usually so organized, who had never missed a test, assignment, engagement, commitment, who had never failed to fulfill a promise of any kind—but now he had no time to think. He had only the energy, and just barely, to run, the slamming of his hoofs against the concrete rattling his spine, and seeming to punch straight into a sore spot of his mind, which in its agonizing pain screamed one word at him with every step in his frantic gallop: LATE-LATE . . . LATE-LATE . . . LATE-LATE . . .

Had he forgotten to set his alarm? If so, how was that possible? He always checked his clock before drifting off, his obsessiveness in so doing increasing proportionally with the importance of the event for which he had to rise. Had he forgotten the event entirely? Even less likely.

If only he could fly, he would make it on time; but when he tried to flap his wings, he felt them thin, weak, useless, sticky as if soaked in tar. Briefly, he turned his head to see what was the matter, and the sight had horrified him so much that he immediately shut his eyes, continuing to run, feeling that he was to trip at any moment in his blindness, but still not daring to look: instead of wings, he thought he had seen two scrawny sticks of skin and bone, the feathers having all molted away.

Whatever horror he may have felt at that sight and feeling was drowned by the horror of his lateness.

It did not feel like a long time, but when he reached the school, he knew, deep within him, that however long his sprint had been—five minutes, ten, sixty, a thousand—he might has well have been late by a century. Three times he tried to open the door to the auditorium; three times he failed, on the third collapsing to the ground in exhaustion, sweat, and fear. The fourth time, crying, sobbing, he heaved the door open and just managed to slide through the aperture on his belly to the roar of a jeering crowd.

He inched forward, wormlike, to his place, his muzzle dragging on the ground.

“Mr. Process,” he heard Chief Commissioner Petty Nicety say from the stage, “care to explain to the Tribunal why you’ve kept us waiting so long?”

“I don’t . . . know . . .” His own voice seemed to him distant and weak compared to the laughs of the spectators and the mumbling of the commissioners. “I tried to fly . . . but something’s wrong!” He dared one more look at his wings, and sobbed: there could be no more mistake—every feather had fallen off, and he stood in front of the Tribunal, sobbing, looking at the two scrawny twigs where his wings used to be.

“Ill-prepared!” screeched Commissioner Affirmative Action. Due Process had not heard her speak till now. He was a skeptical pony by nature, but after hearing her, he immediately believed that banshees existed. “Stupid, insolent child! And you dare to pretend to the title of Attorney at Law?” The sound of her voice was so abrasive and shrill that Due Process felt a physical pain in his chest, as if each syllable were a spear skewering him through. He could not stifle his cries of pain, which resulted only in the augmentation of the crowd’s snickers.

“I have . . . a degree . . . the bar examination . . . I did that too . . .” was all he could wheeze.

“I’m disappointed,” said Res Judicata, in her accentless lawyer’s drawl. And, turning, to the commissioners, she added: “Is this really the best you can throw at me?”

“His client’s not even here,” said Commissioner Radical Reformer, with the obnoxious rising inflection of a sorority sister. “Like, why do you even exist?”

“My client?” He wasn’t even surprised. “I thought she was—”

“Of course ‘he thought.’ He’s very presumptuous,” said Fine Print, who was sitting next to Radical Reformer on the stage. “You know that he actually thought that he had a chance with me. He tried to kiss me.”

“What,” gasped Radical Reformer, “him? You can’t be serious!”

The commissioners laughed. The crowd laughed. Res Judicata scoffed, shaking her head. And Fine Print said: “We’re just friends, Dewey; I’ll never think of you that way! Why can’t you take a hint?”

Due Process covered his eyes with his hooves, and ground his teeth till they all broke, falling from his mouth and clattering like broken glass to the floor, as he tried to will away the scene with his mind. He did this till, so it seemed, the sounds gradually died away and he was left with silence.

When he dared to peek once more, the world had melted. He could still distinguish the stage, the crowd, and the commissioners’ bench, but there forms were shady, indistinct, and colorless, as if he were looking at them through a haze.

“Where’d you go?” he called out. “Where is everypony?”

“Waiting for you,” said a voice from everywhere, and nowhere.

He turned. Through the mist, he thought he could perceive a tall figure walking down the aisle toward him. As it approached, it coalesced into a familiar, regal alicorn, who stared at him knowingly, mercilessly.

“Princess Luna!” he cried. “But where is your sister? If she doesn’t show up, the Tribunal will award everything the complainant asks for! Get her, Princess, for the sake of your kingdom; bring her here!”

“She will not come,” responded the princess. “She made that clear to you already. This task is yours and yours alone, Due Process.”

“That’s not how the PRAT works, Princess! Without her, the proceedings can’t take place. Without her, they’ll consider the complaint without a response, and without a response they’ll consider all the complainant’s points conceded. Without her, they’ll see. And . . . they see everything! I know nothing, can do nothing. My arguments are hollow. I don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s too late! The fraud that is Due Process, Esquire has been exposed to the world!”

Princess Luna nodded. “Indeed. A nightmare is merely the manifestation of our worst fears. But it’s usually the primal ones that are the most powerful. Most ponies dream about being buried alive or drowned or abandoned by their friends and family. But you, Due Process, dream about legal proceedings. Take heart at this, if at nothing else: you are a lawyer to the core, and the proof thereof is that your most basic, animalistic fear is that of a case going awry.”

“Dream?” said Due Process. “You mean this a dream?” When he realized its truth, he collapsed onto the floor. “Oh . . . .” he moaned, “thank . . . goodness! Bless the earth, the heavens—the universe! Only a dream!”

“Aye, a dream,” responded the princess. “But, take heed, Due Process; you’d be wise to be more judicious when using the word only. For, in dreams, our deepest, most repressed thoughts—”

“Yes, yes, Princess,” said Due Process, rising to his feet. “Subconscious fears and hangups, have to face them—all that good stuff. But Princess!” He straightened his tie. “I might as well ask you, while you’re here: have you given any thought to what I said last night . . . er, I mean, just a little while ago, at the Gala?”

Princess Luna blinked. “What are you talking about?”

Due Process straightened himself up, slightly raising his head as he always thought a lawyer should do when addressing a judge. “At the Gala I asked you if you would, in your graciousness, ask Her Majesty, Princess Celestia, that she, for her sake, as well as for mine, might reconsider her decision to settle.”

“What?”

“The PRAT, what I’m dreaming about. Your sister, as you may remember, Your Majesty . . . I represent her, yet she wants to give up, and this, in my opinion, will inevitably result in—”

“I . . .” stammered Princess Luna. “I . . . no!” In the dream world, her voice was a lot less pleasant, a lot more shrieky than he remembered.

“No!” cried she, as if at the sight of a particularly odious, encroaching insect unexpectedly encountered in a place to which it had neither business nor right. “No, that’s not how this works! It is I who am the sentinel of the slumbering, I who issue warnings in the realm of dreams. It is I who am privy to the signs of the subconscious, I who have the insight, and it is for me, me alone, to interpret them and give my premonitions. Attempt to usurp neither my office nor my domain!”

“I understand . . . I understand. This is your world,” said Due Process. His words spoke of deference, but his countenance suggested a challenge. He took a step closer. She recoiled. “But, given the most unusual circumstances, Your Majesty, surely even you can understand that my approach, as unorthodox as it might be—”

“I said no!”

Due Process watched, tapping a foot impatiently, as the princess all at once grew ten feet above him, through the roof of the building, the structure melting away.

They stood upon the summit of Mount Everhoof. A great cumulonimbus, the wind churning it into a gaping funnel leading directly into a celestial abyss, threw down spears of lightning behind her. Her eyes blazed red with the fire of the inferno. A snowstorm swallowed up the world around him, freezing and boiling him at once, leaving visible only the creature, a pony no longer, towering above him.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

“Submit! Submit!” roared the sky. “Submit to me!”

“Hmm.” Due Process scratched his chin. “You know what?” he said at length. “No, I don’t think so.”

The princess had shrunk. Now it was she who was looking up at him. He looked down and saw the mountain she was standing on, more like a molehill now from his perspective.

He saw a saddle on the little pony beneath him, and, without a second thought, he leaped onto her back, straddling her.

“Degenerate wretch!” she squeaked, as she tried in vain to buck him off. “How . . . how dare . . . you will be hanged by your entrails, eviscerated, drawn and quartered, your mutilated corpse paraded around the city as an example—an example to those who would dare even think to treat a princess with anything but the utmost deference!”

“It’s a dream,” said the lawyer. “I can do whatever I want.” He slapped her right haunch. “Gee up, Princess!”

Another shriek and she was off. Due Process threw both his hooves around her neck as she galloped off through space and time, shrieking all the way. To any broken word of protest she tried to offer, all she heard, drowning it out, was: “Will you think about it? Please, Princess, just one word is all I ask!”

Her strength failing her, she fell. He, holding onto her, fell too. She did nothing to check their descent, and she plunged with the certainty, conviction, and satisfaction that her death, pain, and suffering would mean his too.

They crashed into the earth.

In Canterlot, two ponies awoke in the middle of the night, one in a cold sweat, the other feeling oddly satisfied. This latter pony threw off the covers, and rose, whistling as he trotted off to the kitchen to make himself a nice mug of hot chocolate.

Chapter VII: Pretty Pony Princesses Parley over Porcelain

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Princess Celestia’s reaction to the depiction of royalty in the vulgar population’s media was invariably a quiet, albeit sardonic, sigh. It seemed that every commoner had a conception of the life of the gentry as one of extreme opulence, decadence, leisure, and power. To be sure, in her ignorant youth, she’d wondered why so rarely did emperors pay attention to the will and opinions of their people; but, a thousand and some hundred years later, she knew now that there was no easy answer to that question. Listen too little to your people, and you risk incurring their ire, being labeled a despot and overrun by your sententious neighbors; listen too much, and your country will then be guided by people whose perception of things is, more often than not, completely contrary to their reality.

Opulence? Every country was in debt; every government was just barely making ends meet. Decadence? She could see how one could think that from the palaces and from the balls she threw, but, like all things political, they were not only a facade, but an expense she worried about every day. Leisure? Since the sun was never up for less than nine and a half hours a day (she considered the winter solstice the closest thing she ever had to a holiday), she could hardly describe her life as “leisurely”—and that was to say nothing about her mundane concerns. Power? Despite what the Constitution said, she had no choice over the representatives in parliament, over what laws they decided to pass, and any influence she could exert over the gentry could always be passive-aggressively resisted. Some days she felt that she was nothing but a very expensive tourist attraction.

Would she want to be a commoner? Perhaps a thousand years ago, she would’ve said yes, but nowadays she couldn’t imagine being anything other than a princess. Sure, it was a job whose difficulties absolutely nopony could understand, much less sympathize with, but she had her pleasures. Sleeping was one of them. The other was tea, which, for maybe fifteen minutes a day, she had the luxury of being able to take alone in her chamber. This was what she was doing now, in the late afternoon on the day after the Gala.

Everypony in the palace was well-informed of these daily fifteen minutes of hers, sanctified and given force by a decree, the text to which tourists to the palace could see framed in a drawing room. “It is not unreasonable,” she had said, “that I should have time to myself to take tea. I’m a pony too.” Maybe once a month was that order actually followed; any time an advisor came running to her chamber door in a sweat, insisting that the matter couldn’t wait, the two guards who flanked the entrance always let him in—they didn’t want to take the chance of going down in history as the blind zealots who would’ve rather let a city be razed to the ground in a sudden surprise attack than disobey an order to not disturb their sovereign’s teatime.

It had been a rather quiet day, she thought, taking her second sip. Perhaps today will be the day that I’ll get through my tea without being disturbed—and she immediately wanted to slap herself in the face. Invariably, infallibly, whenever that thought occurred to her, somepony barged in. It was a jinx.

But maybe not, she thought. Maybe everything’s fine . . . everything’s fine . . . please, please . . . please let everything be fine . . .

Right on cue, there was a rap at her door. At that moment, Princess Celestia was sure that she could hear the laugh of some supernal composer as he watched her from his lofty dais, his hoof following the lines on the score of her life.

“I am not to be disturbed,” she tried.

The door flew open as if by its own volition. A pony thrust her head in: her face was covered by a disheveled mane, through which peeped an eye fixed in bitter anger, softened only by the rings of fatigue that circled it. Princess Celestia almost didn’t recognize her sister.

“Would it not be wonderful,” groaned Princess Luna, “were we able to order peace for ourselves.”

Even without the scowl, and her most unregal appearance, Princess Celestia had known that her sister had experienced some inconvenience in her duties; only in those times did she presume to barge in on her, in order to assuage her misery by making her sister share it.

“I’m glad to see you’ve woken up early, for once,” responded Princess Celestia, in the same tone she would probably pronounce the praise of the King of Saddle Arabia were he to issue a decree that would result in slightly fewer executions of his minority population for heresy. “Maybe we’ll actually be able to have supper together.”

“I think my problem,” Princess Luna went on, ignoring the comment, “was that I tried to stop the day by just not letting the sun rise. But, as much as I hate to admit it, the sun is necessary. Perhaps it would’ve been better if I’d outlawed the day by royal decree. That’s what I’d do, were something terrible to happen to you and I were to become the sole ruler.”

“Do you need me to summon the Elements of Harmony again?” said Princess Celestia, taking a sip of her tea. “It sounds as if the Nightmare were talking again, rather than my sister.”

“The fact that you could make such a comment,” said Princess Luna, sitting at the table across from her sister and snatching the tea kettle away with a levitation spell, “tells me that you still insist on being willfully ignorant as to the nature of the Nightmare.” Having lifted the lid off the kettle, she brought the gaping orifice to her mouth and took a loud, gargling sip. “The Nightmare does not turn a pony into something she is not; it is much more insidious than that.” She chewed and spat out some leaves onto the cloth table covering. “The Nightmare takes a pony’s deepest, darkest, most repressed proclivities, which she has spent her whole life struggling to keep locked away in her heart, and releases them to run rampant through her mind and soul. What you love, but which you know to be depraved, the Nightmare gives you permission to consider as virtuous. It has no power to make a good pony do evil, no ability to make her do that which she truly considers as abhorrent and disgraceful. The reason it can exist is that every pony, by virtue of nature, is fundamentally corrupt. The Nightmare should not be feared—it is merely an inert catalyst for a terrible reaction. If you wish to fear, to contemn, direct your condemnation at the true culprit: the depraved nature of ponykind. Were it that the Nightmare should merely use a pony’s body as a puppet for its malevolent designs! Then I would have nothing to repent or apologize for.”

Noticing that her sister’s teeth and lips were stained brown with tea, Princess Celestia said: “I know that we’re alone, but you really ought to comport yourself as a princess. If you get too comfortable letting your guard down, one of these days, you’re going to act unbecomingly—more unbecomingly than usual—in public.”

“How many times must we have this conversation?” growled she. “I say: if a pony who affixes the title of doctor to his name and insists that he be addressed as such—if he is allowed not to wash his hooves every ten seconds when outside of his office, then I should be permitted, when alone with my family, to behave in a familiar, familial manner. I’ve had a stressful night of work, and I would appreciate it if my sister would extend me a little bit of sympathy.”

A princess had to be regal, noble, but modest, Princess Celestia knew, though it had taken decades to wrap her mind around that contradiction. She knew, as well as one can know something by studying it out of a book, that it is impossible to truly empathize with another’s lot, and that every misery, every inconvenience ought to be sympathized with, even if on its face it seemed trivial. She knew this—yet, despite years of efforts, she was completely incapable of empathizing with her sister’s troubles and duties; she could not conceive of how it would be possible to be discontent with one’s work when it involved being asleep for most of the day and night. So she asked, more out of form than anything else: “I take it you had a rough night.”

“Aye . . . a particularly perseverative, pertinacious little pegasus . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Then, sighing, her imperious tone relenting for an instant, she added: “Well, if I’m going to be up early, I might as well get acquainted with vulgar matters. What’s new in the land?”

Princess Celestia winced. “You know, perhaps you shouldn’t use the word vulgar like that. In common parlance, it’s come to mean something different over the years. Your subjects might take it the wrong way.”

“It is neither my fault nor my problem if the vulgar population is ignorant and uneducated in the use of our language.”

“I see. So you’re taking a qu’ils mangent de la brioche approach to governing.”

“If they want to guillotine me because I refuse to use language incorrectly, then I’ll help erect the scaffold myself, for I would neither want to be princess of such a people, or alive in such a world. But enough with such trivial talk! I asked you what the people have been up to since I slept.”

“You were just telling me you didn’t care what the people think.”

“I don’t care what they think; I care about what they do. I have to live in this country too.”

Princess Celestia unfurled a document which contained a compendious summary of all events her advisors thought it necessary she know, which they compiled daily and delivered to her after the text had been rendered in a princess-readable format.

“Not much,” Princess Celestia said. “Only thing of any interest is that the government of Quebuck announced that next month, a referendum will be held on separation.”

Princess Luna groaned. “Is it that time of year again?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“This issue is coming up so much that it seems to me that separation is the will of the people of Quebuck. I’ll order a proclamation declaring Quebuck a free and sovereign—”

“I’ve spoken to a few of the Supreme Court justices,” interrupted Princess Celestia, “and they inform me, in their opinion, that Quebuck could separate if they went through the proper legal channels, but there is some disagreement among them as to the exact procedure that needs to be followed.” She added, the tone of her voice changing to one of reproach: “There is a procedure, and we must follow it. The only way to figure out what that correct procedure is is to tackle it, one legal step at a time.”

“What did the prime minister say?” The inflection of Princess Luna’s voice had less the quality of a question and was more like the obligatory “Who’s there?” in a trite knock-knock joke.

Princess Celestia rolled the pages of the scroll back and forth till, placing her hoof on the lines to mark her place, she found the quote. “His Excellency,” she read, “the prime minister was quoted as saying: ‘Diversity and harmony are the two virtues that define our great nation. Together, as a country, as a people, in all our intranational affairs we must strive to ensure that all transitions be peaceful and that all institutions be stable. Nothing is more important to this government than that every race, every creed, ethnicity, sex, and species, no matter the dynamic, growing nature of our country, should find its own place where they will be welcomed, cherished, and accepted. It may occur, at times, that certain races, creeds, ethnicities, sexes, and species may have cause to believe that it is longer in their interest to strive toward harmony and unity; if, should such a case, which tries the very fabric of our country arise, it is incumbent upon this government, as a representative of the people, to uphold, to the extent it is necessary, the people’s core values, and to preserve, dissolve, or maintain any ties, whether they be social, economic, or political, in order to effect the lasting happiness of all.’”

“I see,” said Princess Luna. “So he said nothing.”

“More or less,” replied Princess Celestia, taking a sip of her tea. “But I thought much more interesting what the premier of Quebuck said. Listen to this: ‘I promised in my campaign that, before my term should expire, this government would have a referendum on separation, with which the people of Quebuck will decide the fate of their land; and today, pursuant to my word, I have ordered that it should be held a month today. It is no secret that, before my premiership, when I expressed my intentions to have such a referendum, I did so with the express hope that the people of Quebuck should vote in favor of separation. I do not intend to depart from my word, but I do intend to depart from my previously held convictions. Experience in office has changed my mind, and has made me see things differently. I would urgently beseech you, the people of Quebuck, when it’s your turn to vote, to consider the option that would permit us to remain an integral, indispensable part of the great nation of Equestria. While I, more than anypony else, empathize with the separatist cause, I am now that it would be absolutely detrimental to us, as a people, to separate. When you go to the voting booth next month, I would urge my fellow countryponies to weigh everything that this nation has given to them, both the good and the bad. I do believe that, should you take everything into account and give everything its proper time and place in your consideration, you’ll come to the same conclusion I did: that this country, despite its flaws, has been overwhelmingly good to us.”

Princess Luna perked up her ears. “What?” she said. “Idée Fixe said that?”

“It does appear that way.”

“Just to be clear, we are talking about Idée Fixe here?”

“I was shocked too,” said Princess Celestia. “At first, I thought there was something wrong with the translation, some perversion the media made. But I tracked down the original quote and read it for myself: no perversion—the translation is pretty accurate.”

Princess Luna brushed her mane out of her face, as if to study something more clearly.

“It is strange, isn’t it?” said Princess Celestia. “I seem to recall that Idée Fixe ran his campaign for the premiership on the issue of separation. It was the only thing he ever spoke about, both in private and in public. Why, you remember just yesterday, at the Gala, how he was berating us for nearly an hour.”

Princess Luna nodded. After a silence, she said: “Perhaps you should consider fighting out that case you have with the PRAT.”

Princess Celestia groaned. “Now, where in the world did that come from? Have we not already discussed this? I’ve given you my answer.”

“Aye . . . but, I’m just thinking . . . did you know that it was your lawyer, Due Process, who changed that insufferable premier’s mind?”

Princess Celestia laughed between her sips of tea. “I know that he was trying to help, and I am indebted to him for freeing up my time at the Gala, but believe me: his persuasive powers are much more limited than you think.”

“I’m serious. Believe me: I saw him deal with Idée Fixe when they walked off together. He convinced him to change his mind on that issue. I witnessed the whole conversation. And I do submit to you: if a pony is capable of changing the mind of a pony named Idée Fixe, he could probably convince the earth to spin in the opposite direction. You should let him make your case if for no other reason than it would be a spectacle to watch him in action.”

Princess Celestia shook her head. “It has nothing to do with whether I think he can win or not. Time is finite resource, but the demands placed on me are unlimited.”

“And you think there are no demands placed on me?”

“The day is a bit more demanding than the night; that’s when ponies actually do things.”

“Nice try,” said Princess Luna with a smirk, “at using my anger with you as an impetus to change the subject. But I see what you’re trying to do here, and it’s not going to work.”

Princess Celestia chuckled. “It worked the last hundred times. I guess it’s time to change my approach.”

“Listen,” responded Princess Luna, “if Saddle Arabia demanded that we turn over all our oil fields to them, would you just hand them over, because you ‘couldn’t be bothered’? So why let the PRAT—an entity whose power is derived only from our consent—threaten you? Why would you defend your rights from foreign threats, but allow them to be besmirched by the domestic?”

“Domestic politics is completely different from international politics.”

Princess Luna paused, noting the slight sneer that scrunched her sister’s face. She knew it too well. “If for once,” she said, “you could actually believe, for a moment, that there’s something you can learn from your younger sister, perhaps you wouldn’t have so many problems and wouldn’t be so busy. But what do I know? After all, I just sleep all day.”

Princess Celestia sighed. “What is it? Can it wait till after tea? I have only a few sips left.”

On the table, the teacup, as if by its own volition, suddenly flew off the saucer away from her: Princess Luna had grabbed it with her own magical aura; the impetuousness of the teacup’s flight knocked over the teapot that lay close by. As Princess Celestia righted the teapot, Princess Luna, with the air of a pub rat, downed what remained in her sister’s cup. Before her sister had the time to reproach her, Princess Luna seized the hoofbell and rang it with a violence that was reserved only for tocsins. At the sound, the servants rushed in—the looks on their faces suggested that they felt that the bombs were about to start falling any minute. “Take this away!” snapped Princess Luna. “Quickly, quickly!” The servants asked no questions; with the swiftness of professionals, they gathered up the tea set, changed the tablecloth, and were gone more quickly than they had come. Within the span of one minute, all distractions had been taken away, and Princess Celestia was left staring only at the smug countenance of her sister.

“All right,” said Princess Luna, “now that you’re finished with your tea—”

“I hate you.”

“—we can discuss this issue soberly.”

“I think I’m going to settle with the PRAT twice as hard just to spite you.”

“Given your lawyer was able to get Idée Fixe to change his opinion, and especially given that said opinion was what had gotten him elected in the first place, don’t you think he would be capable of turning the opinion of the PRAT, no matter how dogmatic it might seem?”

“One thing you need to learn, baby sister, is that, while it’s acceptable, and even expected, to be intimate with your favorites, you can’t let them influence your ruling, lest you endanger not only yourself but them as well.”

“What exactly are you insinuating?”

“You two spoke for a long while at the Gala—oh yes, I saw you. Did you think that I would not notice the first time you spoke to anypony ever by yourself at the Gala for more than five minutes without yelling at him? And that’s okay—even a princess has the needs of a mare—but you can’t let your feelings for him sway your judgement.”

“How dare you!” she roared, leaping onto the table, her wings flared. Princess Celestia’s affected regal pose dissolved at once, and she fell backward out of her chair. “How dare you insinuate . . . that . . . that I . . . how dare you!”

“Please get off the table. Your shoes are dirty.”

When Princess Luna saw that her sister was grinning at her from her place on the floor, she folded her wings, and leaped off the table, trying to affect the leap of a ballet dancero in a desperate effort to maintain her regal poise.

“Not that your comment has any merit worth the energy to refute,” said Princess Luna, not herself knowing why she was affecting a regal equanimity when she knew her sister knew very well that she was fuming inside, “but, if you must know, as a matter of fact I detest your lawyer.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“I have firsthoof knowledge that he is a scoundrel and a blackguard.”

“It’s a phase you’re going through. You’ll grow out of it.”

“I’ve seen his thoughts, the deepest, darkest, twisted machinations of his inner subconscious. I fear for the safety of anypony who’s around him. He ought to be locked away. In fact, as soon as he’s done with your case, I’ll have him executed at my pleasure.”

“We’ve had this conversation before, Luna. You can’t go around beheading ponies for what they do in their dreams.”

“And even so, I’ll still tell you that he can beat the PRAT. Not only that, I know that he can cast into doubt its entire legitimacy, legally and properly, such that the people will be the ones to abolish it all of themselves. You wouldn’t have to do anything.”

For the first time in this conversation, Princess Luna thought that she could see the twitch of consideration flickering across her sister’s features.

“I don’t know . . .” responded she. “Even if I were to agree with you, those hours could be much better spent doing something more productive.”

“I read the newspapers,” said Princess Luna. “They say that throughout the proceedings you did and said nothing. They said you stared, your eyes fixed on a single point in space. They said it looked as if a million thoughts, each with the power, if manifested in reality, to destroy the world. What were you thinking about?”

Princess Celestia snorted incredulously. “In truth, I was thinking about nothing.”

“Really? At every single moment during those proceedings, your mind was blank the entire time?”

“Mostly.”

“So not all the time. When you were not thinking of nothing, what were you thinking of?”

“Stupid things.”

“Like what?”

“Just thinking about . . . the novel I’ve spent the last five years reading—I haven’t had time to finish it . . . constructing theories about relationships between the characters. Sometimes I thought about taking up the piano again; I was pretty good as a filly, but just never had time to practice . . .”

“Anything else?”

Princess Celestia paused. “I remember . . . thinking that Prince Kabarda and I got along capitally during the Gala last year, and I figured . . . and that, I guess, if ever I were to marry . . . well, there are certainly worst stallions a princess could take as her consort . . .”

“That’s it?”

“For the most part, aside from trivia.”

“What kind of trivia?”

“Nothing important, just thinking about things like . . . what I would I do if I were a commoner . . . oh, also, last year’s pumpkin pie was pretty good; we should make it a regular item in our kitchen.”

“Then why do you complain about going to the PRAT?” said Princess Luna. “It sounds as if what you do there is what you do in your free time.”

Princess Celestia scoffed. “Oh, and I suppose you’re occupied with so much more important hobbies than I?”

“My point is that you spend your life running back and forth between events that require your utmost focus and concentration—no wonder you’re exhausted! So why not pursue this case? All it requires for you is to sit and daydream while your lawyer does all the talking and thinking for you. Absolutely nopony would be able to blame you; after all, you’re just attending yet one more event in your royal agenda.”

Princess Celestia lifted her tea cup to stare into it. There was still a bit of murky brown sludge left, but it was too packed with waterlogged leaves to permit any more sips.

“Can I drink tea?” she said wistfully.

“I’m sure they’d let you bring a pot or two into the auditorium.”

She paused, staring at Princess Luna, hoping to see in her some ulterior motive. But when she saw in the face of her sister nothing but a reflection of her own helplessness, all she could do was sigh. “All right,” she said. “Though my experience and judgement still tell me that this is the wrong way to proceed . . .”

“Would it kill you—literally kill you—to say: ‘My dear sister, on this issue, you were right and I was wrong’?”

“ . . . though my experience and judgement still tell me that this is the wrong way to proceed, the guiding principle of the government of this country is that we have not one mind ruling but two; and it is my opinion that, even though I cannot foresee how this option will effect the common good for us and for the country as a whole, I should defer to your opinion: I will fight the case to the end . . .”

“Splendid!” Princess Luna leaped from her seat and trotted toward the door. “I knew—”

“. . . on one condition.”

Princess Luna groaned, making a mental note to refrain, in the future, from acknowledging the few concessions her sister granted her and to depart as graciously and gracefully as possible, to prevent the birth of a bastard qualifier, such as the slimy one she now saw dripping before her. “And what . . .” responded she, taking up the spawn with the obligatory diligence of a reluctant father, “might that be, pray tell?”

“That you attend every single hearing from now till the closing as the case.”

Princess Luna snarled, stamping a hoof; out of all the things Princess Celestia could have suggested, this was the last thing she would have imagined; for, though she knew her sister was many things, she did not ever once think that she was a sadist. “This has nothing to do with me!” she shrieked. “This is your affair. This is your problem. Don’t rope me into your issues—I have enough of my own!”

“Oh, I see,” said Princess Celestia, stretching her legs. “It’s quite all right for you to insist that I must endure the odious, but the second I want you to provide me with moral support, suddenly I’m being unreasonable? No, this condition is not negotiable. You’re the one who thinks I should fight this case to the end, right? Then you’re going to be there with me.”

For a moment, Princess Luna questioned the entire point of the preceding conversation, and the entire point of being a princess. She shook her head. Attacks such as this were common, but, like a rash in an uncomfortable place where propriety forbids itching in public, they came and went, and she tried not to let them affect her too much.

“I’ll warn you,” said Princess Celestia. “You’ll have to get up early.”

Princess Luna’s cheek twitched. “How early?”

“Well, my next proceedings start at three p.m. . . .”

Princess Luna bared her teeth. “What an absurd hour! I do not understand how we, as a civilized people, can allow such things to take place at such times!”

“You will be there,” said Princess Celestia. “You will be awake, and you will be princessly.”

“You can set the example,” said Princess Luna, with a contemptuous pivot on her heels toward the door, “by not making up words. And fear not; I am never anything but princely.” At her sister’s sardonic snort, she added: “All experience hath shewn that you disagree with me on everything. Many thanks for your disapproval, Celestia; that’s how I know I’m doing everything right.”

No sooner had Princess Luna left than there was a knock at the door; and, before Princess Celestia could respond, in rushed a short, small-framed stallion, his limbs trembling as if he had just glimpsed the depths of Tartarus, his eyes red as if some substance had been responsible for this obvious overreaction. Princess Celestia sighed; he was peculiar among her advisors: in times of peace and assurance, his bearing was that of a sage; in times of problems, of that of a child. She had forgotten how he had obtained the post in the first place.

“Your . . . Your Majesty!” he sputtered. “I . . . oh, how horrible! We need . . . I need . . . you must at once . . . at once . . .”

Dismounting from her seat, Princess Celestia yawned and strolled over to him. “Good afternoon,” she said, putting a hoof on his back as she led him out of the chamber. “Please be so kind as to tell me the news. Let’s discuss this in the tulip garden; it’s a nice day, and I want to see if the new grass has been sown, as I have ordered.”

“But that’s just it, Your Majesty—they haven’t! What are we going to do? What will become of us? Oh, it’s so horrible, I can’t take it! Save us, Your Majesty—oh, please save us!”

Chapter VIII: Defenseless

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Her first thought was that her leg had been afflicted by a sudden paralysis and the high school’s roof was leaking onto it. But when she turned and looked, it was just her little lawyer, who had grabbed her hoof with both of his fore ones, and was now showering it in a passionate flurry of kisses.

“Princess!” he said between gasps. “Princess . . . Princess . . . how kind of you to come!”

“Well, how sweet,” said she, a pleasant tingle, the pleasure of sincere adulation, running from her hoof, up her leg, and through her spine. “You see, sister,”—turning to her—“lawyers, contrary to what you believe, are not just verbosity and slime. Sometimes they can feel real, genuine emotion.”

“Aye,” responded she. “Have you ever considered marrying a changeling, Esquire? I have no doubt it would be a very satisfying relationship.”

“Don’t mind Princess Luna,” said the elder. “She’s usually groggy this time of day. But, believe it or not, I’m here now only because of her. I wasn’t planning on coming, but she convinced me to see the case to the end.”

“Is that so!” chirped Due Process, rising with a grin that made Princess Luna’s stomach churn. He made a few gallant strides toward her. “Therefore, I can have nothing but affection and tenderness toward her.”

“Don’t touch me!” shrieked she, slapping away his hoof. A quick flick of Princess Celestia’s eyelids was the only thing that prevented Due Process from getting impaled by a score of spears a millisecond later, hurled at him from a bevy of Royal Guards.

“Well, I say!” said Due Process, leaping back, but his stupid grin never wavering for a second.

“Sister!” Princess Celestia said with a tone of the most regal reproach, that was neither quite a yell nor completely congenial to the atmosphere of a drawing room—a one-word rebuke, a princess’s rebuke. “Ignore her. She’s not a morning pony. But she promised to be on her best behavior. Isn’t that right, dear sister?”

“Only under the condition,” hissed she under her breath, “that he would be on his.”

“I swear, Princess,” cooed the little lawyer, “I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what I’ve done to incur your mistrust.”

The defendant and her lawyer took their seats in front of the stage. Princess Luna stood pressed against the wall on the other side of the room, fixing a glare upon the lawyer. He collected his papers, whispered something to Princess Celestia, and turned, for an instant, to meet Princess Luna’s glare, to which he responded with a wink, adding in a quick lick of his lips for good measure. He chuckled to himself when, from across the room, he could see her shuddering in revulsion.

“What exactly did your sister say to get you to come?”

“She mentioned your dexterity at handling the premier of Quebuck. I was too glad to be rid of him that I didn’t notice what you did with him afterward. Without her pointing out that you changed his mind on the separation issue—something we all thought to be impossible—I wouldn’t have come, since the outcome of this Tribunal is a foregone conclusion.”

“Your Majesty, in law, nothing is a foregone conclusion. We will demonstrate why the discrimination your School showed was not illegal discrimination. To this end, we will prove—"

“So the law makes provisions for one to legally discriminate?”

“That’s correct. There are many grounds on which a legal person is legally allowed to discriminate, but race isn’t one of them. But even if a discrimination is on the basis of a protected attribute, you can defend with the assertion that it’s a bona fide occupational requirement, which is an attribute that is necessary to perform the job. For example, the weather factory in Cloudsdale can legally refuse employment to earth ponies and unicorns, since those races are not physically capable of performing the tasks that need to be done. But the claim of a bona fide occupational requirement is a defense, not a right; therefore, the onus is on you to prove it applies to you.”

“The onus is on me, the accused, to prove that my organization and its practices are legitimate?”

“That’s correct.”

“That seems quite contrary to all the legal principles of a civilized society.”

“I know! It’s awful!” Due Process pursed his lips and looked away. The room was particularly conducive to echoes; his shrill outburst bounced back to him, and he could hear the tones of a pain he had long endeavored to keep hidden. He flattened his ears and said, almost in a whisper: “Your Majesty, I got into law, because . . . well, you see, I always wanted to go into some STEM field, but I always struggled in the maths and sciences. I tried—I studied my flank off—but I was always mediocre at best. While my schoolmates were angsting over whether or not he or she even noticed him or her, I was angsting over the fact that I was terrible at what I knew what supposed to be my calling. But then I was taught in my civics class about the legal process: about how laws are made, how they’re interpreted, how they’re enforced—and I was overjoyed, because not only had we managed to turn the passing of judgement and the condemnation of our fellow creatures into a science, it was a science that I understood. And what a solemn science! The objectivity, the formal language, the adherence to standards and precedents, the solemnity of it all—the solemnity of justice. But it was around the time of my third year at UCan when I finally realized: if law had ever been about the administration of justice, it is no longer; it has been turned into a tool to serve whatever political ideas happen to be popular at the time. By the time I realized it was all politics, it was too late to go into engineering.”

Princess Celestia laughed; there was the sound of patronization in it, of an adult amused at the reasoning of a child—it literally ruffled Due Process’s feathers.

“My dear,” said she, “I’ve lived a lot longer than you have, and have been through all the phases of life a pony can go through—a thousand times over. May I guess how you’re feeling? You’ve spent your whole life growing, enduring struggles you never wanted or asked for, yet you’ve conquered them one after the other, thinking that one day you’d reach a point when you could define your own life and seize one, or a million, of the routes that this world promised were possible. But reaching the age of majority, having attained full autonomy over your life and future, you’ve found that all those paths have coalesced into one. You feel that all your choices, which should have been yours by right, have all been taken away, and there’s now this crushing sense of permanence about your life. Does that sound about right?”

Due Process pretended not to have heard her. He shuffled the papers on the table in front of him in an attempt to conceal the sound of the grinding of his teeth. The princess’s description of his feelings had been a little too accurate. He blushed, feeling that he was standing naked before her.

“It’s not too late to choose a different path,” she said. “You’re still young; you still have the ability to learn and do anything you want. All you have to do is make a choice.”

Due Process scoffed. He had heard the bromide a million times before; he was able to see past the sugary coating of a princess’s sweet voice.

“You continually complain, Your Majesty,” said he, “about how you have no time for yourself. Have you ever considered not being a princess? It’s not too late for you to find something new. Everything you said about me is true for you too—more so, in fact, since you have many more years on this earth than I.”

She sighed and shook her head, chuckling softly to herself. Due Process knew exactly what she was going to say next, and he knew exactly why she was wrong. Yet he could not stand the patronizing laugh, the haughty way she smiled at him, the way she always carried herself with a supercilious air, as perhaps an omnipotent being would were it to take the form of a mortal for a period of time; for he saw now that, in this particular issue, her certainty was completely unfounded, that her bearing was, and had always been, just a princess’s veneer, seemingly substantial but really just a varnish. In that moment, he fully resented her with that pleasurable hate one feels in one’s certainty that the object of his damnation deserves it.

“It’s different for me,” she said. “I have to be princess.”

“No, you don’t,” he shot back. “If you really hated it, you would abdicate. You wouldn’t be the first sovereign to do that, and you wouldn’t be the last.”

“The Constitution has no provision for me to abdicate.”

“Make one.”

“Constitutional amendments can be effected only by and with the advice and consent of Parliament.”

“Just leave, then. They can’t force you to be princess.”

“Then Parliament is left without any power and our government collapses.”

“If history is any indication, Parliament and the courts would just create a legal fiction in order to operate without you.” He smirked. “Really, Your Majesty, with all the powers your title vests you with, with all the influence in the various spheres you’ve dealt with in your long reign, are you really going to try to tell me that you seriously believe you could not find a way to retire if you really wanted to?”

Princess Celestia looked away. At that moment, spectators and the press were entering the auditorium, talking loudly with each other. Due Process thought that she listened to the din of their rough voices’ exchanging idle observations with something approaching wistfulness.

“I’ve thought about it before,” she said at length. “I still think about it sometimes. But no matter from what angle I’ve considered it, I keep arriving at the same conclusion: my first conscious memory is a voice telling me that I was a princess. Everything in my childhood was so structured to be conducive to my becoming a princess. All the rest of my long, long years I’ve spent being nothing but a princess, thinking only the thoughts of a princess, breathing as only a princess is permitted to breathe. If I stopped being a princess . . . what would I do? What value could I provide to anypony, to myself? What new skill could I pick up? I’m so old, my fluid intelligence is basically zero at this point. Even supposing I could learn something else, it would take a lot of time of study before I would even be able to know if it was something worth pursuing further. And if it wasn’t, what would I study next? The skills of a princess are not exactly easily transferable.”

Due Process picked up his papers and slapped them on the table to align them with each other; Princess Celestia knew that he was using the sound of the sheets against the wood in lieu of a snort. “Well, Your Majesty,” he said, “now you know why I’m still a lawyer.”

The commissioners appeared onstage without any announcement, and the crowd went silent. Due Process noted with not a small amount of satisfaction that they no longer tried to preempt their entrance with a shout of “all rise.”

The commissioners took their seats. They did not speak immediately, but made the motions of busy ponies who had been hastily called away from some very important business for some impertinent matter: Affirmative Action sipped at her water; Radical Reformer was scribbling some notes, but looked down every so often to glance at her toes, for she had had to cut an expensive hooficure short to make the hearing on time, and her mind was occupied with the fear that the aborted procedure was horribly salient on her person; Petty Nicety did nothing but glare at Due Process, as if in indignation of his impertinence to show up.

“Where were we?” said Petty Nicety with a sigh that was taken up and repeated by her two colleagues. She had not even bothered to read the case number for the record.

“I wish to make an opening statement for the defense,” said he.

The three commissioners groaned. “All right,” said Petty Nicety, waving a hoof at him as at a particularly sycophantic butler. “Go ahead.”

Due Process rose. “As I stated a few weeks ago,” he said, in the flat monotone of performing a duty one has once loved but now loathes. He paused, did a double take, and went on. Nopony noticed the pause except Princess Celestia; the look he had shot her was a glare. “As I stated a few weeks ago,” he repeated, “my client does not dispute the facts as described by the complainant. But what will now be demonstrated that the requirement of being a unicorn, as a prerequisite for a student’s matriculation into the School for Gifted Unicorns, is, and could have been nothing other than, a bona fide occupational requirement. But, before I adduce the evidence, I’d like to begin with a demonstration. May I ask Mr. Hearty Bucks to come up here, please?”

“What for?” said Petty Nicety.

“I’d like to see him perform a levitation spell.”

The audience murmured.

“What for?” repeated Petty Nicety.

Due Process plucked a feather from his wing and held it up. “At the School for Gifted Unicorns, levitation, especially on a light object, is less than a prerequisite for the admission interview:; levitating multiple things is just one of the many steps required to perform just one of the spells. The defense asserts that Mr. Hearty Bucks was refused an interview not because of any illegal discrimination, but because it would’ve simply been a waste of time to schedule an interview that would’ve gone nowhere. But right here, right now, in the presence of the world and the Tribunal, Mr. Hearty Bucks has the opportunity to prove the Princess of Equestria wrong. All he has to do is levitate a feather.”

“What Mr. Due Process is requesting is illegal,” said Res Judicata. “Hearty Bucks is a minor and is therefore unable to represent himself in any capacity.”

“All I want is for him to levitate a feather.”

“Modern jurisprudence dictates that any action he would or wouldn’t be perform would be inadmissible,” said Res Judicata.

Due Process was too taken aback by Res Judicata’s implication that, even after everything they’d seen from the Tribunal, modern jurisprudence would have any relevance here to formulate a response. Ignoring her, he said: “Commissioners, will you please ask Hearty Bucks to cooperate? He wouldn’t even have to get out of his seat.”

“This proves nothing.” said Res Judicata. “Regardless of whether he did or did not have the knowledge to do so, he would be unable at this present moment. Interviews, as I’m sure you know, require a nontrivial amount of preparation.”

Even before the commissioners broke from their huddle, Due Process knew their answer. “Hearty Bucks has both his lawyer and his mother representing him,” said Petty Nicety. “They, and they alone, can speak for him. Any questions you have can be directed to them, but anything Hearty Bucks himself says or does is not admissible in this Tribunal.”

Due Process sat back down and pursued that line of argumentation no further. Nopony seemed to mind that that specific question was dropped. The commissioners were silent with a particular kind of smugness, which seemed to him to be that of those who relish in setting the terms to a game and swiftly defeating any of those who try their hooves at it.

No wonder, thought Princess Luna, that so many politicians were former lawyers: the art of extending an argument so that its very length, the abstruse, esoteric terminology, and its impossibility to follow hide its hollowness was a very transferable skill. Due Process’s prolixity and volubility hid the fact that he was saying nothing.

He cited laws, precedents, documents from the School, and spoke at great length, and incomprehensibly, about each one. At times, Princess Luna thought that Res Judicata, the commissioners, or even the audience, would object, calling him out on his circumlocution and obfuscation. But, to her great surprise, not only did they not offer any interruption to the somnolent drawl of his incomprehensible words, but the commissioners even nodded thoughtfully, Res Judicata made notes and watched his speech without any of the condescension in her bearing as she had shown during her presentation of the facts, and even the audience had stopped their jeers at his arguments. She knew what he was doing; it was a tactic which had been used by demagogues and dictators throughout history when they were unable to appeal to their listeners’ reason: make your speech so long, make your arguments so convoluted, avoid defining too clearly the subject, such that not one among your listeners will have the courage to speak up lest he reveal his supposed lack of erudition. Throughout the proceedings she fought the urge to cry that the emperor had no clothes.

Her sister had always called her paranoid, and so had a psychiatrist or two throughout the years. Through experience, aided by countless social encounters, many hours spent in meditative repose, many reprimands, and a very long sabbatical on another celestial body, she had eventually learned to, if not completely suppress the voice, at least recognize it for what it was and choose not to heed it. But the spectacle of the brilliant mind of Schopenhoofer forced to contemplate the irrational and the arbitrary was an enormity so monstrous that Princess Luna could not explain its existence in any other way but a cruel, deliberate attempt to test her resolve.

Age had distended Schopenhoofer’s abdomen. He had walked to the stand with a slight limp. Only the confidence of his movement gave the hint of a suggestion that once the body had been athletic. He was unremarkable in appearance, almost slovenly. But his stern, gaunt features, the eyes that fixed every object they landed on with the intensity of a raptor, the wrinkles that contracted and smoothed with the undulations of his thoughts, gave the unmistakable indication of the fact that whatever wear age had wreaked on his body, there had been an equal and opposite strengthening of his mind. Throughout the questioning, Schopenhoofer, from his place, peered over his spectacles, his brow furrowed as if in contemplation, his nostrils curled as if in understanding of the abhorrent nature of what was taking place before him.

“Dr. Schopenhoofer, could you briefly state your occupation?” said Due Process.

“I am ze professor of ze pheelozophy class fur Princess Ceelestia’s School fur Geefted Unicorns,” he said flatly, turning his glare on the little lawyer.

Due Process gulped. Though Schopenhoofer was half his size and three times his age, Due Process could not shake the belief that he could easily leap up from the stand and snap him two, and only an enormous effort of the professor’s will was what was holding him back. He had refused to meet the lawyer to go over the his answers to the questions that would be put, saying: “I vill speek ze truth. Ze truth eez alvays ze same.”

“Dr. Schopenhoofer,” said Due Process, and then paused, turning away. In Schopenhoofer’s face, he had seen that Schopenhoofer knew for what purpose he had been dragged away from his research and teachings, knew why exactly it was shameful, and was openly damning him for it. A few months ago, Due Process would have thought it unthinkable to drag such a mind as Schopenhoofer’s into such insolent proceedings and to subject it with the impertinent line of questioning he had planned.

He took a breath. Somewhere, lurking beneath the stress, anxiety, and self-consciousness, he heard the echo of a painful memory:

Didn’t you pay attention in our history of law class? De facto, not de jure, is what matters. It is the only thing that has ever mattered. Law exists to support the way things are done, not the other way around. Do you understand?

He shook his head, trying to unravel the knot that was building up in his chest. As he pulled at it, to his dismay he found that it grew only tighter. He tried to chase it away with another memory:

Do what effects results, not what is factually correct.

He didn’t remember who had told him that; he remembered only that, as a colt, when he was given this piece of wisdom, he remembered experiencing an anger he had not the mind or vocabulary to define. Now, in that moment, in the eyes of the princesses, the PRAT, Res Judicata, and Dr. Schopenhoofer, he was beginning to see. He sensed that the Due Process of today was not the Due Process of a few months ago. He knew that a pony must change; he had never expected to remain the same, but he didn’t like the direction that change was headed.

“Dr. Schopenhoofer,” he said, pushing away all doubts and operating more or less automatically according to the plan he had, beforehand, decided was the best course of action. “How long have you been employed by the defendant’s school?”

“Ten yearz now.”

“Could you describe, for the benefit of this tribunal, a general overview of your duties as an employee?”

“I teach ze small unicorns.”

Due Process paused, as if waiting for Schopenhoofer to continue, but the earth pony just glared back at him. Schopenhoofer was completely convinced the answer had been sufficient.

“Which classes?” he prodded.

“Ze pheelozophy and natural zience ones, so zat includes Eentroduction to Eepistomology, Lawjeek fur Majeecal Uzers, Fundamental Metaphyeesics fur Mages, Phyeesiks, and . . .” He wrinkled his nose. “You know, ze entire curreeculum eez publicly available knowledge, veech includes who teeches vhat.”

Due Process smirked, half-expecting the stodgy old professor to be shot down from above with an “answer the questions as asked, please!” bellowed with officious glee from the commissioners. But all he heard in the ensuing silence was a scoff, and, from way in the back, what seemed to be a princessly snort. As angry as he was, he couldn’t help admiring Princess Luna’s ability to communicate her displeasure from across the room with nothing more than respiration.

“What’s your relationship like with your employer?”

“I teech material that I specialize een to ze brighteest of ze nation’s cheeldren. Ze pay eez gud; I get lots of vacation time; and, I zink, most eemportant, I don’t have to deal weet unions. Her Majesty doesn’t deal wit zose Schweine.”

A warm, subdued laugh rippled through the audience. Princess Celestia watched her teacher with the satisfied look of one who has chosen whom to trust well. To the laypony, it looked as if the questioning were going well; only Due Process and Res Judicata knew how detrimental that comment was to the image of the School. Schopenhoofer, for all his penetration, had apparently forgotten—or, perhaps, deliberately remembered—that the Labor Party had won a majority government in the most recent federal election.

“I meant . . . well, you see, Dr. Schopenhoofer,” stammered Due Process, “I meant more along the lines of . . . how is the atmosphere of the workplace environment?”

Dr. Schopenhoofer rolled his eyes. “Ze leetel pony makes ze sounds of language witzout understanding meaning. He eez more parrot than pony.”

“Please speak up, Dr. Schopenhoofer,” said Petty Nicety.

“Oh, I am zorry.” And straightening up, he folded his hooves on the podium in front of him, and grinned like an eager schoolboy. “Please repeat and rephraze, zir. I am afraid I deed not understand.”

Due Process gulped. “I mean to ask . . . well, you see, Dr. Schopenhoofer . . . can you speak as to the . . . hospitality—or, rather, the effort—the School makes at accommodating its employees.”

“Accommodate?” said Schopenhoofer. “Vell, let me see . . . zhere are vheelchair ramps, elevators . . .”

“Are there accommodations for earth ponies, like yourself?”

“I, and all ze other earth ponies that hires the school, need no accommodations. Ve are not exactly disabled.”

“You teach philosophy and the natural sciences, as you’ve said. Why don’t you teach any of the magic classes?”

Schopenhoofer puckered his brow at him, as if unable to believe that language could be used to convey a concept so utterly self-refuting that it could hardly be called a thought. “I am not . . . phyeesically able to.”

“And why is that?”

Just when Schopenhoofer was about to deliver the logical, exculpating result, a voice, coming from a single source at the back of the crowd, yet so loud and solemn that it seemed to issue from every single point of the auditorium at once, shaking the walls of the school and the entrails of the spectators, bellowed:

“Insolence!”

Everypony turned to see whence had come the voice, and were shocked—but hardly surprised—to see that it was Princess Luna, who had risen from her seat from the back and now stood with the expression of fury and rage they all knew very well from the divers statues erected in her likeness to be found here and there in the country.

“How dare you, all of you, give the sanction of your attention to the mockery of a great mind in these ersatz legal proceedings! Fear not, dear Dr. Schopenhoofer—I will avenge thee!”

A great swelling of navy blue energy, streaks of miniature lightning erupting from its heart, complete with an apparent dimming of the ambient light, began to grow from the tip of her horn, as the irises and pupils of her eyes disappeared into a sheer, stormy black. The hairs of everypony stood up on end, as if vigorously rubbed by a balloon. But just when the darkness reached its peak, and it seemed to everypony that a discharge was imminent, Princess Luna roared again—yet this time, it was not a battle cry, but the scream of a lady taken by surprise by a spider.

The atmosphere returned to normal, the lighting returned, and where once stood the princess and her regal rage, now there was only an undulating cluster of royal guards. The crowd parted, and the spectators saw that they had the princess utterly subdued and were carrying her suspended from the floor, one guard with a hoof firmly around each one of her limbs, and another who held her neck in a very interesting headlock which permitted him to walk at the same time. High pitched cries of “Unhand me! To the gallows and galleys with you! I am your princess; I am your princess!” were punctuated with the flat, deferential, military drawls of the Royal Guards about her, saying, in between their slight grunts of exertion: “Right this way, Your Majesty.” “If you would just follow us, Princess.” “Mind the step, Princess.”

In their confusion at seeing a princess so roughly handled by her guards, all the shocked spectators could do was whisper nervously to one another. The police, held back by a worry of the legal ramifications of intervening and by the apprehension of taking a Royal Guard in a fight, pretended not to notice what was happening.

Due Process remained silent. Though his lawyer’s instincts told him to object to this cruel and unusual treatment, he wasn’t sure how to proceed when no bailiff stood between him and the behavior he wanted to object to and there was a very realistic possibility that acting would get him stabbed in the face. He was about to say something to his client, but he stopped short when he saw that she, far from taken aback, was absentmindedly glancing about the room, almost as if she were looking for a clock.

“Your Majesty!” said Due Process, his teeth grinding, frustrated that modesty would not allow him to raise his voice above of a whisper and that a whisper didn’t allow him to express said frustration. “Your guards . . . what are they doing?”

“Hm?” she said, looking back at the shuffling crush of body armor, as if just now noticing the uproar. “Oh, don’t mind them. They’re just doing their duty.”

“Their duty?” gasped Due Process. “Your Majesty, they’re assaulting your sister!”

“Of course they are. That’s their duty.”

Due Process blinked.

Princess Celestia chuckled and patted him on the head with a hoof, which caused one of Due Process’s feathers to pop out from being ruffled too hard.

“My dear,” she said, “nothing could be more simple. Every member of the Royal Guard swears, under pain of dishonor, to protect me and my sister from all threats, even if—rather, I should say, especially if—that threat is to each other or to ourselves.” She chuckled when, for a brief second, the sky outside went dark and a thunderhead blocked out the sun, a torrent of raining and a spasm of lightning erupting—and then vanishing at once with what sounded like a high, princessly scream of pain.

“May I go?” said Schopenhoofer.

“If Ms. Res Judicata has no questions to ask you,” said Petty Nicety.

“Just one,” said she, rising with a smug look that made Due Process shiver. “Dr. Schopenhoofer, have you, in your opinion, ever personally experienced discrimination by your current employer?”

“That’s not a fair question!” shrieked Due Process, leaping onto his desk. “Unless the professor has filed a complaint with the PRAT against my client in the past, and unless that complaint was heard, accepted, and subsequently remedies were ordered—and I can tell you for sure that neither is the case, for, as part of my preparation, I searched the database of cases and could find none that Dr. Schopenhoofer participated in—the answer is decidedly no!”

“Mr. Process—” said Petty Nicety, but then stopped herself short. Due Process could not define what constituted the nature of the expression on her face, but he prayed, convincing himself that, for once, some shred of rigor and justice had gotten through.

“Mr. Process,” repeated Petty Nicety, “we will permit the question.”

“But—”

“The fact that Dr. Schopenhoofer has never filed a complaint that was ruled in his favor cannot in any way be construed to mean that he has never experienced discrimination; only that he has never lodged a complaint. Whether or not Dr. Schopenhoofer has actually experienced discrimination, as an objective, demonstrable legal fact, does not, at the present moment concern the Tribunal. What we are more interested in is whether Dr. Shopenhoofer has ever felt discrimination. In the current context, that is enough to constitute, on a balance of probabilities, evidence of discrimination.”

It was all Due Process could do to keep the molecular bonds in his body from severing.

“Have you ever experienced any discrimination from the school?” repeated Res Judicata.

“Vell, yes,” said Schopenhoofer, with as casual a manner as if someone were to ask him did he have a well-funded RRSP. “Ze school vould not be able to operate ozhervise.”

“Dr. Schopenhoofer . . .” mumbled Due Process, “you really ought to elaborate on what—”

“No more questions!” shrieked Petty Nicety. “You had your chance. You may go now, Dr. Schopenhoofer.”

Schopenhoofer nodded, grinned for the benefit of a press photographer, and exited at a trot more sprightly than the lumbering shuffle he had used for his entrance.

Due Process laid his forehead on the desk. He was too mentally drained to estimate the impact of that testimony on the case as a whole. Through the fog of contradictions the world was demanding he grasp and hold—which he was, with time, becoming more able to accept and integrate with the rest, albeit not without a cost to his dignity and sanity—he could vaguely sense that what had just occurred had caused more harm than good.

He felt a gentle nudge on his shoulder. He ignored it, knowing that the world was judging him, and was now demanding he look upon and recognize that judgement. But when he felt the nudge again, he turned and saw Princess Celestia looking down on him—and, far from the scowl he had expected, she looked at him with tenderness, with even, so he thought, a hint of maternal affection.

“Dr. Schopenhoofer is a smart stallion,” she said.

“Too smart,” said Due Process. “He uses words precisely—too precisely. Res Judicata got him to use the precise meaning of words to obfuscate, confuse, suggest, and equivocate. Sure, Schopenhoofer is a genius, but Res Judicata is another kind of genius, and this is her home turf.”

“You can see why I chose him to educate my students.”

“If he had just been allowed to explain what he had meant . . .”

“Would that have helped?”

“Absolute—” Due Process began, but stopped. Then, laughing, he shook his head. “No, Your Majesty . . . had he been allowed to explain to the Tribunal that the literal meaning of discrimination—indeed, the real meaning of discrimination, before special interest groups usurped the definition for their own agenda—is the act of applying judgement to differentiate between what one ought to do and what one ought not to do. To Dr. Schopenhoofer, the meaning of the word is obvious and needed no elaboration. He’s right; it is obvious, but not in the way he thought—at least not here. Res Judicata knew that; I didn’t.” He sighed.

“It’s too bad that he wasn’t a unicorn,” said Princess Celestia with a chuckle. “Then that line of questioning wouldn’t have worked.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. They would have just drawn the conclusion that he was blinded by his white unicorn privilege. But maybe . . .” Due Process raised his head from the desk, and sat up, suddenly awake, his wings perked. “Maybe had he been a pegasus . . . oh, better yet! Maybe had he been a pegasus gender studies teacher—”

“Careful now, Esquire,” said Princess Celestia with a smirk. “You’re starting to sound like a PRAT commissioner.”

And all at once, the modicum of vitality that had invigorated him for a brief moment, bestowed upon him by the opportunity to construct an argument, vanished, and Due Process collapsed again upon his desk, only this time with a shudder.

Chapter IX: Res Judicata's Closing Statement

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“The complaint has been heard, and the defense has had its opportunity to present a rebuttal,” said Petty Nicety. “Now is the time for closing statements to be presented. The complainant has the floor. Go ahead, Judy.”

“Thank you, Commissioner,” replied she, exchanging a certain glance with the commissioner that made Due Progress, despite his progressive sensibilities, gag.

“I noticed that the newspapers have been saying that this case has little to do with Princess Celestia, her School, or Hearty Bucks,” began Res Judicata, “and, rather, the Tribunal is putting on a spectacle to display its legitimacy to the public. And, in a sense, they’re right. The Tribunal, not the School, is in question here—the question being whether the Tribunal will revert to the Dark Ages, where those who make the laws are considered above them.

“I must first congratulate Mr. Due Process on the work he has put into his client’s case. I’m told that this is the first time he has ever represented anypony in the capacity of a bar-certified attorney at law. I would be wrong if I didn’t say that he hasn’t done his job to the letter; and what’s more, I do believe that nopony could have made a better defense, given the circumstances, than he.

“They say that no matter how flat the pancake, there are two sides. And, certainly, if we hear the defense speak, one would think that the issue is a lot more complicated than it actually is. Mr. Due Process has certainly adduced much evidence that has kept us discussing for days, has engaged in the most admirably lawyerly circumlocution, obfuscation, and diversion, all tending—to his credit, quite convincingly—to prolong and tire its observers, to cloud their judgement, to make them unable to see the obvious perpetrator, as salient, as bright, as blinding as the sun, in front of their eyes.”

“I have to hand it to her,” whispered Princess Celestia to Due Process. “That was quite clever.”

“Hire her as a speechwriter once this is over, Your Majesty,” snarled Due Process.

“‘Section Four, Clause One, of the Pony Rights Code, I quote: ‘No Pony, of any Age, Sex, or Race, shall be compelled to suffer a Refusal of any Good, Service, Occupation, Employment, or Contract on the Basis of said Pony’s Age, Sex, or Race.’ I’ll repeat: No Pony, any Service.

“It is a fact, undisputed by the defense, that Hearty Bucks was denied the service of studentship to the defendant’s School; therefore, it is a fact, undisputed by the defense, that the defense is in violation of the Code.

“And what, in the face of this incontrovertible truth, do they offer in their defense? That their requirement is a bona fide occupational one.

“Let us, for a second, leave aside the fact that the Code is very explicit with its terminology here, that the letter clearly specifies, and the spirit obviously tending to the same result, that the bona fide occupational requirement defense is applicable to employers—the Code uses this exact word. Let’s leave aside the fact that in Road Runner v. Cloudsdale Weather Factory, the chief commissioner, in delivering the opinion of the Tribunal, stated, I quote: ‘The bona fide occupational requirement defense protects the operations of such persons to whom no other avenue but the discriminatory is available to achieve a purpose which, if not achieved, would result in society suffering as a whole. The existence of the defense is a balance between the dignity of an oppressed individual and the general welfare of society, which may often be mutually exclusive. It is not intended to be used as a shelter under which the privileged may continue to pursue aims tending to the general marginalization of the downtrodden, all the while continuing to benefit from the society created and maintained by individuals of all races, sexes, and mental capabilities.’ Let’s leave this aside, as there is a more important question, one that, when answered, will provide an inestimable benefit for society, and will no doubt require the full power of the commissioners’ deliberative capabilities to answer: is being a unicorn a requirement of being a student at Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns?

“The defense would have us believe the answer is yes, and to this end it has adduced a myriad of curricula and expert testimony. But what, if anything, does this prove? Surely, no doubt, the unicorns of old would have said that it was absolutely necessary to forbid earth ponies to any positions of intellectual responsibility, citing their own studies apparently proving the lower IQ of the hornless. Similarly, such has the defense brought in its own professors, its own procedures, apparently proving the inherent incapability of earth ponies. But, in fact, does this prove anything, other than that there is systematic and institutionalized discrimination toward them?

“Observe that it is not rare in our history that in proportion as the impediments of institutionalized discrimination are lifted from a marginalized group, slowly but surely we see individuals of that group go on to make significant contributions in divers fields. Yet were you to go back in time and assert, in the presence of the intellectuals that age held in the greatest esteem, they would you declare you at best, mentally ill—or, at worst, a novelist. In the light of this, how can the defendant say, with certainty, that the complainant is unable to perform the spells required, if they’ve never even given him the opportunity to prove himself?

“The defense has also claimed, citing the analyses made by their accountants—ninety percent of whom are unicorns, I might add—that such a restructuring would involve undue hardship. But, to quote the opinion of the PRAT in the case of Broomrape v. Rich’s Reserves: ‘It is an insufficient proof of undue hardship to demonstrate that the proposed accommodation would cost “a large amount of money,” whatever that may mean. It must be demonstrated that the particular service being provided is indispensable—meaning a total societal dearth of said service would fundamentally alter the nature and fabric of society for the worse—and that such an accommodation would render the organization fundamentally unable to effect its aims. The defense is to protect society, not organizations.’

“Is the School for Gifted Unicorns is a necessary institution? Of course, institutionalized discrimination, being a social given for the entirety of ponykind’s history, and being an unadmitted reality in our society of the present day, it is impossible to analyze, in isolation, whether or not such institutions established, under the auspices of prejudice, contribute or are a parasitic influence on society; unfortunately, the exact nature of science precludes us from drawing any rigorous conclusion. But hundreds of thousands of regular public schools across the country would seem to cast doubt on any attempts to prove the necessity of any segregated school such as that for Gifted Unicorns.

“But even were it possible to prove, unequivocally, that the School is an institution necessary for the continuing function of society, has the defense demonstrated that accommodation for earth pony students would cause undue hardship? Personally, I find it hard to believe that anything could be an undue hardship on a business whose MEO literally raises the sun every day.”

“What’s an MEO?” whispered Princess Celestia to her lawyer, as Res Judicata momentarily paused to sip her glass of water.

“Master Executive Officer,” replied he.

“What’s that?”

“It’s the highest position in a corporation.”

The princess blinked. Res Judicata waited for the laughter from her previous joke to die, which wouldn’t have lasted as long as it had had the principal appreciators of the joke been the commissioners themselves.

“Don’t you mean ‘Chief Executive Officer’?” said the princess.

“That’s an archaic, offensive term,” said the lawyer, “apparently.”

“How in the world could that possibly by offensive?” Princess Celestia had raised her voice perhaps a bit too much: at once the crowd went silent, and stared at them blank-faced as if to collectively demonstrate to their sovereign their impressions of guppies.

“Because,” said Due Process, “‘chief’ is a religious title for the buffalo.”

“In an attempt to show, I suppose,” said Res Judicata, “its racial tolerance, the defense has adduced Dr. Schopenhoofer to show that earth ponies are not refused positions within their school if they can perform the requirements of the position. But the glaringly obvious question which the defense has done its best to divert your attention from is: if the School could accommodate an earth pony as a teacher—a position that requires specialized training, education, and knowledge—why couldn’t it find the power to accomodate a student, who is supposed to be a blank slate when it comes to knowledge and ability?

“It may be then asked of the Tribunal how it would be possible to accommodate an earth pony in a school where unicorn magic is a requisite part of the curriculum. But creating plans for accommodation is not, and has never been, the purpose of the Tribunal. The defense has not submitted any evidence that accommodation would put an undue hardship on it; if anything, it has only shown that accommodations could be easily made.

“It is unfortunate that the particular eminence and power of the defendant has served only to prolong an issue that would have been solved weeks ago, while the counsel for the defense has diverted attention from the fact that it’s just this precise power that makes the proper decision so obvious. Her Royal Majesty Princess Celestia has singlehoofedly defeated emperors and kings. She keeps the heavenly bodies from falling out of kilter. Are we then really supposed to believe that such a being is incapable of a little corporate restructuring? Were the defendant anypony besides a princess of Equestria, this case wouldn’t have taken as long as it have, nor would it have gotten as much publicity, or commentary and analysis—all serving to cloud the fact that the issue is really that an earth pony was denied a service because he was an earth pony, when accommodation was obviously possible.

“Certain commentators in the media have criticized the formation and decisions of the Tribunal, claiming that it serves not to promote justice but rather to promote an aggressive political agenda being forced upon the populace. Commissioners, I can assure you of this: if you rule in favor of the defendant, you will, and can only, prove their opinion. It is incumbent upon you, as dispensers of justice, to blind yourselves to the eminence of the defendant. Imagine that it were not the princess, but a number that stood before you now. What would you think if you were told that this number took it upon itself to conduct its business that discriminated on a prohibited ground? The choice is obvious. Thank you.”

Res Judicata sat down. There was a small burst of applause from one or two ponies; but, failing to gather momentum, it evaporated as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only the awkward silence of whispers and the occasional cough.

Chapter X: Due Process's Closing Statement

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“My turn, my turn!” he cried, leaping from his chair, his wings flapping.

“Hm?” said Petty Nicety, who had taken off her glasses and was making as if to go. “Oh, all right,” she continued, sitting back down with a grunt. She waved a hoof at him. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you, Commissioner!”

There was an eerie silence, much unlike that of any preceding interlude: the room was dead to the ear, save for the rustle of shuffling papers, but alive to the eye: a quiet, but intensely animated pegasus hovered on the stage in front of them. Never before had they seen the little lawyer so lively: they could almost see the roots of his eyes, so wide were they; the commissioners had to hold onto their papers lest they be blown away, so brisk was the flapping of his wings; and so wide was his grin, that the spectators could not be certain that the papers he was shuffling were not cutouts from some lewd magazine.

But, all of a sudden, he was silent. He turned, his head lifted, looking straight at the audience. At first, they thought that, by some sleight of hoof he had made his papers vanish; but, upon closer inspection, they saw them crumpled in a giant ball and stuffed in his coat’s breast pocket. Whatever internal agitation had been stirring his features was now gone; his solemnity seemed to demand of all listening to him the same, and those who saw him found it impossible to refuse: even the babies had stopped their crying; even the tubercular had stopped their coughing. But Princess Celestia sighed; she could not but see the gaudy yellow walls of a high school auditorium with their peeling paper around him, and she could not but see the commissioners with their raised eyebrows behind him.

“Sir Ignis Fatuus,” he said. “Princess Fair Day. Dr. Green Flash. Names that hardly need any elaboration. Before Ignis Fatuus, pegasi had to, through hours of wing-breaking, laborious effort, bring about the weather each day with their bare hooves; Ignis Fatuus developed the spell that powers Cloudsdale’s weather factory, and forever improved the efficiency of weather generation—it’s estimated that because of his invention one pegasus is able to do the work of twenty. Princess Fair Day designed the Los Pegasus experiment, which showed that hexes are a subset of charms, thus resolving a bevy of paradoxes that had plagued magical theory for centuries. And Green Flash . . . now here’s a stallion whose discovery in the field of magic had wide-ranging philosophical and social implications: he showed that the magic of unicorns comes from the same source as that of pegasi, and of that of earth ponies—indeed, if there was ever a pony who has done the most to the reconciliation and harmony of the races, it is he, Dr. Flash, by showing that, though we differ in body, we are exactly the same in spirit.

“Why do I mention the names of these unicorns who differ in time and fields of study? Because each was an alumnus of Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns.

“A lot of irreverent and irrelevant things have been said in the past few weeks, both on my part and by that of the complainant: It has been stated that the complainant was refused matriculation into the School because of his race; we have confirmed that that is indeed the case. It has been said that discrimination is self-evident, both from the dean’s letter and from the interviewer’s comments; we have confirmed that this is the case. We have brought Dr. Schopenhoofer to give his opinion of the school; the complainant has used the fact that he doesn’t teach any of the magic courses as proof of institutionalized discrimination in the school. But none of this matters, in the slightest, because earth ponies cannot perform unicorn magic.”

Due Process paused, taken aback by a slight ripple of laughter through the crowd. He couldn’t tell whether it had been laughter at the state of a world in which it was necessary for an attorney to utter such an obvious statement in a legal tribunal, or whether the laugh had been disbelief that such a pony would dare to go against the prevailing cultural narrative. He had to keep speaking: the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced it was the latter.

“Not once, anywhere in recorded history, has an earth pony demonstrated his capacity for unicorn magic. But I can assure you, the second there is one, my client’s school will bring him in at its own expense in order to give him every honor and degree imaginable. That hasn’t happened, and it will never happened. That’s because being a unicorn is a bona fide occupational requirement of study at Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. And this has been easily shown.

“It has been shown that the discrimination was adopted rationally, for there is no reasonable, colorable account of an earth pony performing any of the spells required in the curriculum. It has been shown that the discrimination was adopted in good faith, as the purpose of the School is to produce the thinkers that our society needs, thinkers in a very specific field of study: unicorn magic. It has also been shown that the requirement of being a unicorn is rationally connected to the job, for accommodating an earth pony student would require an entirely new curriculum, new teachers, and new equipment—an undue hardship that would fundamentally alter the nature and purpose of the organization. And I never remember the complainant’s once showing how the School’s discrimination negatively affected him.

“I’ll keep my statement short, as everything that I can possibly say on the matter has been said. But let’s be very clear about what this case really concerns. The present case has very little to do with Her Majesty, with Mr. Hearty Bucks, or any of us. Rather, this case concerns the legitimacy of the School for Gifted Unicorns per se, not only legally but morally.

“By ruling in favor of the defendant or the complainant, the Tribunal will now decide whether the School for Gifted Unicorns is legitimate or not, and I urge you, Commissioners, to not weigh lightly the implications your decision will render. If you rule in favor of the School, you will give a sanction to not only all the advancements that its alumni have made in the past—which have benefited unicorns, pegasi, and earth ponies alike—but to all the ones that they may make in the future, of whose nature and utility we, in the present, can only but speculate. But should you rule in favor of the complainant, you damn not only the School but everything it has and will produce—and in so doing you damn the past, for the gifts it has given us; the present, for the resulting ease and luxury those who live in it enjoy; and the future, for its fulsome potential.

“It is the explicit policy of this Tribunal to not resolve every possible case of discrimination, but rather to resolve the ones that would go the furthest to remedying immediate harm and rectifying systematic discrimination. I ask the Tribunal: what immediate harm does the School pose to society? What systematic discrimination is the School guilty of perpetuating? It can’t possibly be the mere fact that one of the conditions its students must be is that of being a unicorn, for this would not be the first case of discrimination to receive not only the blessing of society but that of the Tribunal itself: I cite the case of Rapeseed v. Wallflower, where the Tribunal ruled that a self-defense course for mares only was not a breach of the Act, as mares, per the Tribunal’s opinion: ‘face a unique risk to violent crime, from which unique protection needs be supplied.’ So, clearly, the mere fact that the School discriminates is not enough to rule against it, and the fact that it educates the thinkers and inventors of the future proves the necessity of its existence—if it’s not unreasonable to suggest that mares, and society as a result, would benefit from training specifically tailored for them, why, then, would it be so unreasonable to suggest the same for unicorns given their unique abilities?

In conclusion, the Tribunal will now proceed to do one of two things: either it will decide to capitulate to the notions that happen to be socially and politically in vogue right now—that is, society is divided between the exploiters and the exploited—or it will faithfully and consistently uphold the principle that institutions that promote the growth of select individuals, such that we as a society may reap the benefits of the future, are just and good: faithfully, because such is the value upon which our society was founded; consistently, because it has done so in the past.

“Thank you.”

Due Process stumbled and was nearly knocked off his feet: so unexpected, so ferocious, and so deafening was the applause that followed. No amount of protest from the commissioners was able to mitigate it; forward, upward, and across the room leaped the cheers of the crowd.

Due Process grabbed the pitcher of water from the table, downed it, and wiped the residue from his lips with a triumphant flick of his hoof, in the same manner as a runner who, having completed a marathon, is heedless of his place, and considers himself the winner.

Chapter XI: Well, That's Just Your Opinion!

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Due Process leaped out of bed and looked at the clock: it read 1:00 a.m. What, thought he, outraged, only one in the morning? What was taking the day so long to come?

He skipped to his kitchen to make some warm milk. Having shotgunned the beverage and chewed on some ice to assuage the resulting burns on his tongue, he climbed back into bed. A long while later, or so it seemed to him, he looked at the clock again: it read 1:10 a.m. What, thought he, only one in the morning? What was taking the day so long to come?

He repeated this process till dawn. Twice he had to fly down to the convenience store to replenish his store of milk.

“It looks as if you had a rough night,” said Princess Celestia, a few hours later, in the auditorium of Canterlot High.

“Hm?” said Due Process. “I . . . no!” He fell to his knees to pick up a piece of paper that the fluttering of his wings had knocked from the desk. “No, not at all, Your Majesty! On the contrary: I’m hopeful.”

“Hopeful?”

“Yes, hopeful. I think we have a chance.”

Princess Celestia laughed in her gentle, maternal way. She was surprised to note that Due Process features unusually contained no traces of a rancorous reaction.

“I thought you said we had no chance of winning.”

“That’s what I thought too, but . . . well, Your Majesty, call me crazy, but I could’ve sworn that when I was delivering the closing statement yesterday . . . I could feel something close to comprehension in the room. I think that not only did the commissioners understand, but they know the people understand too. You remember how they applauded when I finished yesterday? The PRAT is first and foremost a political entity, motivated by politics, and even they, I think, should find it hard to go against what is the obvious desire of the people.”

“We shall see,” said Princess Celestia, for the commissioners were now entering the room.

For the first time in the proceedings, it was not necessary to enjoin the crowd to order. The commissioners entered in silence; they exchanged a few brief whispers among themselves in silence; they scribbled in silence; Petty Nicety cleared her throat in silence.

“Hearty Bucks v. Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns,” she said, “decision: Having heard the oral arguments of both the applicant and defendant, the Tribunal has reached an opinion. My comments now shall be only a brief summary: a full case document, with summaries and references shall be made available to the public, in the atrium after the proceedings or at the Tribunal’s headquarters, in either case for the low, low price of one hundred bits.

“The complainant alleges that he faced discrimination in services on the basis of race from the defendant. In response, the counsel for the defense has alleged that the discrimination was made lawfully, claiming that the requirement that resulted in discrimination based on the Code-protected ground of race was of a bona fide nature.

“The complainant has alleged that his interview for studentship at the School was abruptly cut short after the interviewer said he could not be considered on account of his being an earth pony. The complainant has produced a letter that he alleges was written by the dean of the school, confirming the sentiment expressed by the interviewer. As the defense has not rebutted this allegation, and as the dean himself admits to have written this letter, we accept it. In our opinion, this is enough to establish a prima facie case against the defendant.

“The counsel for the defense alleges that such a discrimination was made properly, the requirement of being a unicorn being, in the defense’s opinion, bona fide. The question that seizes the Tribunal is whether or not this is the case.

“The Supreme Court of Equestria, in Special Snowflake v. Furniture & Sundry Ltd., established the test for a bona fide occupational requirement. For a bona fide occupational requirement defense to be successful, the defense must show that the requirement:

“1. was adopted in good faith, in the belief that it is necessary to fulfill a legitimate work-related purpose,

“2. was adopted for a purpose or goal that is rationally connected to performing the job,

“3. and is reasonably necessary to accomplish the work-related purpose.

“There was no disagreement among us regarding point one: We do not doubt the sincerity of the defendant. At no point in the complainant’s case was any sign of maliciousness of heart evident. We found the wording of the curriculum, and the quotes of the designers of the curriculum, compelling in this regard. It may, of course, be, and was, argued, that the curriculum and its designers have its origins in a time where gross injustices were commonplace and accepted without a second thought; however, whether that’s the case in the present circumstances does not concern point one—that question is the one asked by points 2 and 3.”

Petty Nicety paused. Everypony in the room could have sworn they heard a faint knocking sound somewhere; but so quiet, so distant, it seemed, that it was impossible to say whether it was in the room, somewhere in the depths of the building, or whether it existed at all. They didn’t know it was one of Due Process’s feet, tapping nervously against the floor; he looked as if something was on the verge of ripping him apart from the inside.

“Points 2 is not so easily resolved. That question hinges purely on what is meant by the word rational. Unfortunately, in this particular instant, no established test can give us guidance in this matter. Therefore, it seems prudent that the Tribunal, in determining what constitutes rational, should default to the reasonable pony test: we ask ourselves what a reasonable pony would consider rational.

“We agree with the complainant that a belief, by virtue of its being common and widespread among the intelligentsia, does not necessarily make it rational; indeed, throughout history, many thinkers, widely lauded for their intellect, have held beliefs we know today to be irrational. The state of rationality is not subject to consensus, and a generally rational pony can hold several irrational beliefs. The relevance to the case at hoof is: given the evidence, is being a unicorn a rational connection to performing the tasks required of a student at Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns?

“The defense has asserted that it is a rational connection; since nopony has been able to present any colorable evidence of an earth pony’s performing magic, it is therefore reasonable, in the defense’s view, to conclude that being a unicorn is rationally connected to the tasks of the School’s syllabus. Here, it seems to us, the defense is asserting that the absence of evidence is evidence of absence; the defense is predicated on this supposition. Despite there being generations of philosophers who have asserted the contrary, it is not in the nature, scope, or authority of the Tribunal to decide such complex metaphysical matters. But until the philosophers have settled that question, the Tribunal must give the benefit of the doubt—that there is indeed a rational connection between being a unicorn and performing unicorn magic—until such time as it is determined that such a line of induction is faulty.

“I can’t take it!” yelled a mare somewhere in the back of the room; she got up from her pew and bolted to the exit. Petty Nicety waited for the door of the auditorium to come to before resuming:

“It was hardest for us to come to a consensus regarding Point 3. It should be noted that in this matter, a true, objective evaluation is impossible. Scientific philosophy has definitely established that, to establish necessity, an overwhelming body of evidence, collected across a range of diverse experiments establishing cause and effect, constitutes necessity—but it can easily be seen that applying this methodology to determine whether a certain case of discrimination on a protected ground is impossible, for it is impossible for anypony to step outside the realm of his prejudices and experiment in a realm completely devoid of racism; therefore, as usual, we most limit ourselves to the reasonableness test.

“To resolve this issue, we were satisfied that a sufficient disproof of the defendant’s claim that the requirement of being a unicorn is bona fide would be a single, independently verifiable case of an earth pony performing unicorn magic; indeed, this would demonstrate that only prejudice and social conditioning are what has discouraged and prohibited earth ponies from this art. Though, in our examination of history, there have been a few reports of earth pony magic that, in our opinion, would warrant a closer examination, we were unable to find a single case whose veracity would hold under the rigor of a legal tribunal. Therefore, we consider it ‘reasonable’ to conclude, given the absolute dearth of evidence that an earth pony can, or has, performed unicorn magic, the defense holds under Point 3.

“Therefore, the Tribunal, being satisfied on all three points as per the test, considers the claim of a bona fide occupational requirement put forward by the defense to be valid.”

“Yes!” cried Due Process, soaring into the air as if propelled by a spring whose tension had suddenly been released. His access was taken up by the spectators, and they too roared: it was a mixture of laughs, screams, jeers, and cries, but there was an undoubtable tone of jubilation under it all.

“We did it, Your Majesty!” said he; and forgetting all his propriety, he hugged her, and went even so far as to kiss her. “We did it! I knew we could! See? Your faith wasn’t misplaced!”

Somewhere in Due Process’s mind was the question as to why the princess wasn’t as enthusiastic as he—some nagging doubt, easily drowned out by the flood of ecstasy. But if he had pursued that line of questioning, he would’ve have noticed that Princess Celestia was not looking at him or at the crowd: she was looking at the commissioners, who were shouting something that could not be heard for the clamor of the crush, and at Res Judicata, who seemed more assured of herself than ever.

“Mr. Due Process!” Petty Nicety screamed, during a slight attenuation of the noise level. “Would you let the Tribunal finish?”

“I’m sorry!” said Due Process, sitting back down. “I’m sorry! Please forgive me.” He went quiet, but he was unable to hide his grin.

When the volume of the room subsided enough to allow Petty Nicety to be heard—it was quite obvious at this point that they would never again be able to achieve a silence—she continued:

“However, the Tribunal has not forgotten that the bona fide occupational requirement defense is just that—a defense, not a right. That the defendant’s claim passes all the tests prescribed by precedent does not mean that the defense did not engage in any illegal discriminatory behaviors—only that we take the defense into consideration.

“Though, in the Tribunal’s opinion, no direct evidence can be found of illegal discrimination manifesting in any of the defendant’s actions, one must not be wilfully ignorant of historical context: one must remember that not too long ago, it was common, even expected, that every attempt an earth pony made to improve his or her living conditions, by pursuing employment and education, would be stymied by an unconscious, deep-seated prejudice which, though alleviated by the great efforts of the earth pony community over the last century, still insidiously persists to this day. Having the facts of the case laid out before us, it is obvious to the Tribunal that, in rejecting Mr. Hearty Bucks, the School found itself content in an expectation of docility and compliance from him as an earth pony. This attitude undoubtedly stems from the long history of regarding earth ponies as inferior. The number of complaints we’ve been receiving has been only increasing; this is evidence of those in power’s evident refusal to accept the progressive advancements that have been achieved in such a short span of time. If they cannot resist overtly, they do so covertly by plausibly deniable affronts. The Tribunal considers the facts before it to evince such an affront on a balance of probabilities, and the Tribunal would be derelict in its duty if it let this injustice go without further comment.

“Consequently, the complaint is accepted. The Tribunal orders—”

“What?!” The screech was Due Process’s. He hovered high, high above the rest of the crowd, so high that the top of his skull beat against the roof. As he was looking forward, he couldn’t see that several pegasi in the crowd had taken up his reaction; added to the cacophony of laughs and jeers was now the sound of skulls hitting wood.

“The Tribunal orders,” shouted Petty Nicety, “that the defendant pay the complainant a sum of ten thousand bits, for injury to dignity, feelings, and self-respect!”

“This is outrageous!” shrieked Due Process, landing on the floor, his wings failing him.

“We are no longer seized of this matter,” said Petty Nicety.

“But you said!” gasped Due Process. “You said the defense was valid! The defense is valid!”

“I said we are no longer seized of this matter!”

“I’ll give you a matter to be seized of!” cried Due Process, leaping onto the desk and reaching for the zipper to his trousers.

He was on the verge of producing the deciding piece of evidence when he heard somepony clear her throat. He turned and saw Princess Celestia looking up at him. The dignity of her bearing and the placidity of her features struck him—but it was the fact that he saw absolutely no reproach or rancor that melted him. She looked at him in a fammilial, almost maternal, assurance, such that he could not but climb down from the desk, bow his head, and pin his ears.

“What does ‘not seized’ mean?” piped up Hearty Bucks. “Does that mean we can get ice cream now?”

“Of course, sweetie,” cooed his mother.

“Yay!” he chirped. “I love you, Mommy!” Then, breaking out of his mother’s embrace, before she or Res Judicata could stop him, he galloped over to the defendant’s table.

“Princess,” he said, beaming with the unadulterated bliss only an uncorrupted child can effect, “my mommy is taking us out for ice cream. Do you come with us?”

“She can’t!” shrieked his mother, running over to him and grabbing him by a hoof. “She’s busy.”

“Aw, come on!” said Hearty Bucks.

“I’m afraid your mother is right,” responded Princess Celestia, laughing. “Please forgive me, my dear, but I have business to attend to. Perhaps some other time.”

“Come on; why not?” complained the little complainant as his mom and lawyer dragged him away. “Is there not enough money again, Mommy? I can share some of my ice cream with the princess if there’s not enough.”

“No, that’s not it, sweetie” said Res Judicata. Her words addressed Hearty Bucks; but she turned back with a smirk and the volume of her voice was much too loud for the ear of her client right beside her to listen comfortably, such that Due Process knew that the comment was meant for him. “It’s just that this res has been judicataed.”

Due Process’s ears twitched at the laughs to which Res Judicata and Hearty Bucks’s mother gave cackle to, which seemed to linger in the air long after they had left.

“Res judicata,” he mumbled to himself between clenched teeth. “That makes no sense! It’s already past tense. You wouldn’t say: ‘The matter has been decideded’!”

Princess Celestia beside him chuckled. And suddenly, at the sound of her appreciation of a comment made only for himself, a raw, burning sense of self-consciousness and shame enveloped Due Process: he thought of how he had addressed himself to her when they’d first met; how he had pontificated, as if he were an authority, during the carriage ride to Canterlot High for the first time; how he had behaved during the Gala, when he had held himself to be one of the gentry at one point in the evening, and some stud, at another; how, during the Tribunal’s proceedings, he had talked and talked and talked, unaware of how ridiculous he had appeared, not caring that he had been in fact saying nothing, not knowing that they were all aware of it.

“I . . .” he stammered briefly; and, without another word, he took off, unable to withstand, for a microsecond longer, the insupportable burden of having to stand before the world.

Chapter XII: Iron Gall

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He wasn’t aware of how long he stood there, with his head pressed to the mirror, with his hoof under the stream of the open tap, with the harsh fluorescent light revealing the pulsing red of the blood in his closed eyelids. He was aware only that nopony had seen him retreat here and that he had the bathroom all to himself. He was also aware that at some point a janitor had come in and, without a word, started going through her perfunctory motions, running the mop on the floor between his legs as if he were another bathroom fixture.

He wasn’t aware of how long he stood there—but he did care.

If watching media coverages of trials had given him any indication, he knew that when he stepped outside there would inevitably be a host of horseflies, with their cameras and microphones, asking him to comment on what happened and his interpretation. Yet he had no comment, no interpretation, and he had not the energy to try to formulate them. His duty compelled him to answer; yet even declining to answer would in itself be an answer, and one that would be unflattering. The first job of my career, thought he—and already, my career is over. Perhaps some greater scholar of the law would be able to rebound from this defeat, would know and would gleefully produce the relevant passages to the sight of the world, statutes that had been so obviously disregarded, making the ruling so obviously wrong—but he couldn’t.

With a bitter laugh, he remembered that the bathroom in which he was now lingering, the mirror against which he was pressing his head, was the same bathroom, was the same mirror, from the time when, as a student of this very school, he had had to give a presentation and, having a panic attack in front of the class, had retreated here and had spent some considerable time in the attitude in which he now found himself in. The wound that memory had cut into him had mostly healed with the salve of graduation, when all that that he had thought constituted the world—what grades he got, what his teachers and classmates thought, who said what about whom, who engaged in clandestine rendezvous in the backseat of wagons with whom—had all at once disappeared, and before him emerged a new, enormous world where he could start afresh, a universe whose immensity would swallow any error he would inevitably make; now, with his injury that undoubtedly all of Equestria would see and remember (“They’ll be studying this case, and the choices you make, for years to come”—ah, Fine Print! painful memories form an infinite chain, to unearth one is to pull the whole ugly sequence before you), here he was exposed and shamed to the world, and to him there was no vessel to aid in the interplanetary escape he desperately needed.

He eventually did leave the bathroom, when hunger drove him out like some scurrying quarry. He was forced to stop at the horrible sight of his client who stood at the entrance of the bathroom, obviously waiting for him.

She towered above him, the loss notwithstanding; on the contrary, she seemed more animated and proud than before, more so than a princess ought to be, or so it seemed to him. He didn’t look too hard—the thought of looking at her directly made him nauseated with shame.

“I thought I might find you here,” she said with a grin.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Your Majesty,” he mumbled.

“Don’t worry about that; I completely understand. I’m sure you’re exhausted. But if you have a modicum of energy left, might you permit me to ask you a few questions?”

He didn’t, but he would; he was pretty sure that the last pony working for a princess who refused a “request” had had his head cut off. “Mmhm,” was all he said.

“What are our options from here?” she said. “Is there a court of appeal?”

“No,” he droned. “You can apply to have a decision reviewed, but those are almost never accepted. Even if it is, it will be the Tribunal who does the reviewing.”

“The same commissioners do the reviewing?”

“No. Different ones.”

“Well, don’t despair!”

“Your Majesty, do you honestly believe that the new ones will be any more reasonable than the old ones?”

Something about her nonchalance irked Due Process. Perhaps it was that she was taking the losing of ten thousand bits with as much seriousness as if she had lost a nickel. Or maybe it was that she was refusing to regard a blow to her integrity, which was necessarily a blow to the institution of the monarchy, with the gravity he thought it deserved.

“I suppose not,” she said with a smirk. “But I wish to retain your services a bit longer. We have to—”

“Thank you, Your Majesty, but I’m not interested.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she pressed. “Of course, I’ll pay you this time.” And leaning closer to him, dropping her voice to a whisper, all the while fixing him with a glare whose intimacy unnerved him, she added: “I can assure you that the Crown gives handsome salaries to its employees.”

“Well, in that case—” Due Process reflexively began, but stopped. He had always told himself that if somepony were to offer him money for his time and advice, he would do it, no matter how odious the person or task; after all, that was what justified the existence of lawyers. And hearing about the money that was being offered him now, knowing how hard up he was at the moment, knowing hard it was for new graduates to find meaningful employment at reasonable hours, his brain screamed to his body to take up the offer—but after that disgrace of an affair into which he had thrown the entirety of his forces, all manifesting in an otiose end, his exhausted heart couldn’t muster up the will.

“I’m . . . sorry, Your Majesty, but I can’t . . . not after that horrible defeat, I couldn’t . . .”

“Defeat?” gasped Princess Celestia. “Truly, I ask you, Esquire, had we been attending the same proceedings?”

“Your Majesty?”

“After such a stellar victory, how could you ever come to the conclusion that we lost?”

“Because—”

“Because why? Because I was ordered to pay money? But why should that matter? So what if I must pay for somepony’s hurt feelings? It’s just money and, really, all things considered, an insignificant amount in the long run. No, Esquire, whether they cared to admit it or not, the Tribunal ruled in favor of us. You know, I briefly skimmed some of the judgments of the Tribunal, and I found that they usually order a restructuring of the discriminating institution and absurd, expensive training programs of dubious utility, along with an award of damages to the complainant for the actual discrimination suffered. But they explicitly recognized your defense as valid and awarded no damages due to the School’s discrimination per se. They ordered no corrective measures the School is to take. Whether they were aware of it or not, they sanctioned the existence of the School. Oh, sure, perhaps the ruling might encourage some ne’er-do-wells to file frivolous complaints against us, but that can be easily prevented: just a few instructions to my dean and the interviewers about the selection process. I doubt the Tribunal, as corrupt as it is, can politically outmaneuver a princess! So, you see, Esquire, you won.”

“No, Your Majesty,” said Due Process, “I lost. Though you’re right about the outcome, I lost because . . . well, you remember what I said to you on the first day: it’s my job as your attorney to remain emotionally impartial. I got emotional, made a fool of myself, and by extension made a fool out of you. It is a game of politics; that’s what matters, at the end of the day: who’s the biggest fool.”

“Objectivity is a myth. Any professional worth anything cannot but be emotionally attached to his work.”

“Nevertheless, lawyers are not permitted that luxury.” He gave a bitter snort. “Maybe that’s why people hate us: they expect something that’s impossible.”

“I still want you for something though..”

“You don’t want me. I’m unfit to represent anypony.”

“Wait till you—”

“No, Your Majesty, I’ve made up my mind. I’m retiring. This is not the profession for me. Regardless of how you feel about my work, my nerves aren’t, and will never will be, up for it. I need to choose something different. After all,” he said, with a sad smile, “it was you who said it wasn’t too late for me to choose something different. I guess you were right all along.

“Farewell, Your Majesty.” He bent down on his knees to kiss her hoof and was just about clobbered in the head as she raised it rapidly to him—in a much different manner than he had expected. He looked up at her; and seeing in her eyes her meaning, he felt a joy radiating from within him, not powerful enough to manifest on his features, but enough to invigorate him long enough to make this final gesture. He grabbed her shoe with both his forehooves and, in the manner of friend, kissed it, kissed it passionately, in the manner of a worshiper.

He heard Princess Celestia draw breath, as if she were about to say something, but he didn’t leave her time; words spoken by a princess required consideration, and he didn’t want to consider. At once, he took off toward the entrance of the school.

Only when he threw open the door to the main entrance did it occur to him that there would be reporters waiting for his emergence. Nauseated at his neuroticism, he cursed himself and his incompetence for not having taken the two seconds to think about finding an alternate exit from the building. Blind to the world, willfully blind to the consequences, he fell to the ground, and the terrible curse that had been brewing within him since he had heard the opinion of the Tribunal finally erupted from his throat in the most profane, the most egregious of utterances, which he projected to the sky, to the world, and to the filthy earth.

He got up, ready to face the mockery—but, to his surprise, the courtyard in front of the school, save for the gaudy plumes of the Royal Guards posted at intervals down the sidewalks, was completely vacant.

He was now aware that what he thought was sweat clinging to his clothes was actually the result of a heavy downpour. Drenched with rain, he looked up at the heavy drops falling from the heavens and laughed, laughed bitterly at the realization that the public’s desire for drama was not strong enough to overpower their even baser need for shelter.

The rain felt good on his neck, its coolness bringing him much needed relief—then the coolness at once turned to clamminess, and he realized that his clothes and his feathers were too drenched in order to fly home. He’d have to take the bus, and he did not relish the idea of having to spend the next hour of his life dripping wet while squished between two fat animals as they masticated chips by the hooffull, daring, by their audacity, their fellow commuters to cross the social barrier that enjoined them from calling the disgusting pieces of lard the vile sack of chips they were (and not the kind of chips whose bolus they would ejaculate from their gullets with such glee), confident in their knowledge that Equestrians were much too polite to say the obvious. With a heavy shrug of his shoulders, he started off.

The bus stop stood on the other side of courtyard; a straight line from Due Process to it cut across a dilapidated school lawn. A member of the Royal Guard was pacing back and forth on the pavement in front of the lawn; his slight frame, which his mountains of armor were not able to conceal, the irregular spacing of his steps, and the way he slouched, betrayed his status as an officer.

Due Process thought nothing of him and tried to walk past. But the second he put a foot onto the lawn, the officer accosted him.

“That area is blocked off,” said he. “You’ll have to go around.”

“My bus stop is just over there,” replied Due Process, pointing.

The officer shook his head. “We’ve cordoned it off for the princess’s and her entourage’s safety. You’ll have to go around.”

Due Process shrugged and took a step in the other direction—but then stopped. He turned back and sized up the officer, noticing that he was wearing glasses. From this, and from the officer’s officious words, spoken in a thin, matter-of-fact voice, Due Process knew that he was an academic intellectual—and, given that he was in the Royal Guard instead of working a better-paying job, likely a second-rate one at that. And Due Process, remembering the history of his mansuetude, his diffidence at the Gala, with Fine Print, Princess Luna, with Res Judicata, Petty Nicety, with all that awful lot, felt an immediate revulsion for this pony, for he reminded him too much of the path down which had been leading his recent choices: the pompous masquerading as somepony more important than he, knowing all the while deep down, but pretending otherwise, that he was in substance nothing.

As a body heats up to destroy a virus, his revulsion heated to destroy his cowardice; it boiled over and turned to rage. He took a step toward the guard, puffed up his chest, and flared out his waterlogged wings.

“By what right,” he spat, “by whose authority, do you, an officer of the Royal Guard, presume to order me, a civilian? Where exactly does the Constitution give you that power?”

There was a marked lack of shock in the officer’s reaction. “Not a constitutional right,” said the officer simply, as if he had expected the question and had known what the correct response was, “but a contractual one. I know you; you’re Her Majesty’s attorney. When you agreed to provide services to Her Majesty, your contract included a clause wherein you agreed to accept the protection of the Royal Guard and follow its orders that pertained to your and her safety.”

Due Process stumbled. Since when did ponies actually read contracts, let alone Royal Guards? The last conception of the world he thought he knew was obliterated.

Due Process scoffed. “You were a lawyer before; only a lawyer could say something so inane.”

“Nope,” said the officer with a grin, “paralegal.”

“Go to Tartarus.”

“Already there. Nevertheless, as long as you’re providing services to Her Majesty, I can’t let you past. Go around.”

“Well, in case you haven’t heard, tin-head”—and, overflowing with emotion that left no room for reason, he did something unthinkable: he flew up and, on pronouncing the word tin-head, he contemptuously flicked the officer’s helmet. Immediately, he had known that he had made a terrible mistake, and he knew that within a second every single bone in his body would be crushed by a bevy of enlisted muscle who undoubtedly saw what happened and who would fly to the help of their superior—he knew full well what would happen. He accepted it, cringed, and waited for the blow.

A second went by . . . then two . . . then ten. Nothing happened. Due Process looked around; save for some statue-still Royal Guards posted at intervals down the courtyard’s walkway, there was nopony there; nopony was coming.

Twice now had he been absolutely sure of a horrible outcome—first with the reporters, and now with the Guards—that ended up not being the case. In the face of this incontrovertible evidence of his flawed thinking, a new feeling invigorated him: all of his biases, all of his predictions, were probably more wrong than were right, no matter how certain he felt of their veracity. This knowledge of his ignorance empowered him: no matter how bad, or good, the world and his future may seem, there was almost certainly something he could do to make it better, or worse. In every possible path the future laid open to him, he saw only the vast unknown and the unpredictable—and he couldn’t help feeling elated.

“In case you haven’t heard,” repeated Due Process, hovering the best he could despite his waterlogged wings, and unable to suppress his smile despite the rain and cold. He didn’t try the insult or its gesture again; that would’ve been greedy. “In case you haven’t heard, the proceedings are over. We lost, and I made a fool of myself. I’m no longer in the services of the princess.”

“Are you sure about that?” said a female voice, at the sound of which, in a second, the officer snapped to attention, trembling under the effort of trying to hold his sixty kilograms of armor steady.

Princess Celestia stood behind Due Process. Her horn glowed pink, and surrounding her was a rosy bubble off which the rain bounced.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” said she; and the officer immediately slouched, letting out a heavy sigh. “I’ll escort him from here.”

“Princess,” said Due Process, “I’m flattered, really, but I’m not—”

“I know, I know,” replied she, “but I feel too passionately about this issue and am too impressed by your courage and dexterity to let you have the final word. If I offer you a ride home in my carriage, will you allow me to try to convince you on the way over?”

At first, Due Process felt only a tingling on his skin; then, gradually, he felt as if his bones were being pulled and compressed. He felt his muscles twisting uncomfortably; his suit wrinkled and began to grow dark; involuntarily, he trembled, and he noticed that the gyrations of his body coincided with the flickering of the colors of the princess’s horn.

A snap, and he felt as if his organs had torn free from his body; when he looked, he saw a blob of water suspended in the air next to him, glowing with magical energy. Then the energy disappeared; the bubble fell and smashed against the pavement with an audible thump, spreading out in a tiny puddle. He noticed that he was no longer looking at the outside of the pink aura that had been keeping the princess dry; it surrounded both him and her. His mane and suit no longer clung to him with moisture; he was now completely dry.

“A royal carriage beats the bus,” said Princess Celestia with a wily smirk. “Don’t you think so?”

When they had moved ten or so meters away from the lieutenant, Due Process said: “Your Majesty, even if you disagree, if I lack the confidence to perform, then, ipso facto, I can’t. I don’t believe I’m fit for courtroom dynamics.”

“You’re right,” responded the princess, “you’re not.”

“Then what do you want me for?”

They had reached the carriage. “Magic Muzhik!” the princess called out.

A figure leaped down from the pilot seat of the carriage, completely enveloped in rain-deterrent clothing so as to cover all of his skin; he seemed more poncho than pony. He threw back his hood and smiling from underneath his umbrella-shaped golf hat was the coachpony.

“You asked, your Worsheep?” said he.

“Yes, I did,” responded she. “Magic Muzhik, you’ve served me loyally for a decade. Your performance has been impeccable, and I’m fain to offer you a promotion.”

Magic Muzhik blushed. “I flatter you, My Majeesty.”

“Yes, I’m promoting you to the position of Royal Crier.” She levitated out to him a laminated scroll. “Please cry this.”

Magic Muzhik took the scroll in his own levitation aura and squinted through the rain. “Be eet here-bee prononc-ed,” he read, “and procleyemed zhat Her Majeesty here-bee extends to Due-y Process, Ees-queer, zhe Po-see-teeon of Adveesor to zhe Crohn for Unee-lateral Leegal Affayers, for wheech zerveeses she offers—”

“You’ll need some training, of course,” said Princess Celestia, taking the scroll back from the coachpony.

“I don’t understand,” said Due Process. “What do you want me for?”

She didn’t respond till they had both gotten into the carriage and had started off. “Do you think me irrelevant?” she asked, as if she had forgotten about their previous conversation.

“Irrelevant?” said Due Process. “I don’t know what you mean . . . do you mean in some philosophical sense? I don’t know; I haven’t thought about the meaning of life as such.”

“Esquire,” she said, and there was a bite to her voice. “If I keep you around for any purpose, it’s because of your ability and education, not your personality. If I ask a question, it’s because I want a legal opinion.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, Your Majesty, of course . . . well, if you’re asking if you’re irrelevant legally, then the answer is an unequivocal no. You’re the head of state, or, at least, one of. Every single law of our land is because you’ve proclaimed it so. No princess, no law.”

“I’ve not been involved in the conception of any laws in a long, long time. They come to me in the form of papers to sign, and I’m told that Parliament wishes, after much debate, to give my assent. If I’m just a rubber stamp, then what’s the point of me? How can I justify using tax money for my stipend if I’m really not necessary?” She paused and then turned to face him. “Well, no longer. I remember what you said to me when we first rode together to the Tribunal. The point of having a sovereign is to overrule the people when they’re clearly being insane. That’s why I need you. You drive yourself mad trying to resolve the contradictions in the common law. You can help me decide which laws to repeal and help me with the wording of new ones—not just wording, but their logical and legal consistency. You wouldn’t have to be in the public eye; the public wouldn’t even have to know your name. You’d work in the palace and have all the benefits of my entourage, and your salary would be—”

“Yes!” cried Due Process. He picked up the princess’s hoof and showered it with kisses. “Yes, yes, yes, Your Majesty! I accept!”

“Splendid,” said Princess Celestia, wiping Due Process’s excess loyalty from her hoof on the leather seating of the carriage. “I’m beginning a project that shall span many millennia, should it prove successful: the project is to rewrite the laws. I was looking at the Pony Rights Act, and I couldn’t help but notice that they’re extremely poorly written; liberally interpreted, what they describe as prohibited acts could describe any and every act between ponies. Laws should not be poorly written, because a law that is poorly written means it’s been poorly thought out.”

“On the contrary, Your Majesty,” reflexively interjected Due Process. “Laws that are poorly written have been very well thought out. You see, the meaning of a poorly written law is not obvious to the layperson, so it serves two purposes: One, by having a law that means everything and nothing, it serves as a way to keep a population in check with fear; you can’t control innocent people, so make everything a crime, make everyone guilty, and thus a government can retain its power. Two, if the law is not able to be understood, naturally lawyers will have to retained to interpret it; it’s a form of job security for us.”

“If this goes well,” said Princess Celestia with a glare, “I shall be continuing this unilateral amending of the laws. Of course, the body of law is too vast for me to get through in any reasonable time span. No, should something come to my attention, and should it be plain and obvious to me that something needs to be amended, I shall do it, but only on the advice of my advisor. This shall take a very long time, if not forever, and you shall be the first to fill a new position by my side. The Advisor to the Crown for Unilateral Legal Affairs shall come to be an esteemed position in society—therefore, if you are to be the first in the line of holders of this prestigious office, you cannot have such views as the one you just spoke. After all, it’s your youth, your purity free from the cynicism of experience, that has attracted me to you. Looks like I got you just in time. I hope it’s not too late.”

Due Process blushed, pinning his ears. “Yes, of course, Your Majesty. Forgive me . . . I swear to you, I shall never grow cynical.”

“First item,” she said, “for which you will help me work out the precise wording: be it denounced that Her Majesty Princess Celestia, the light of the world, etc., etc., hereby decrees—” She stopped short.

“What’s wrong, Your Majesty?”

“It’s just that . . .” she sighed. “I remember learning about the rise and fall of kingdoms. It’s always the same: a novel, rational ruling paradigm emerges to replace the old, superstitious one, usually after a bloody revolution. With the new paradigm, things begin capitally—so it seems, at any rate. But then some ‘intellectual’ identifies a failing and takes it upon himself to ‘correct’ it with a small, shall we say ‘addendum,’ to the theory that looks just like an exception to a special case but which, at its root, runs contrary to the idea that gave rise to the society in the first place. At first, the damages caused by this contradiction are too small to notice in this otherwise prosperous society. But they show soon enough; society becomes more divided until a civil war. Then out of the ruins emerges a novel, rational ruling paradigm and . . . how can a ruler be sure she’s doing the right thing?”

“Your Majesty?”

“If I do nothing, then I’m useless and am to blame; if I get involved, then I’m a tyrant. Every leader in history has thought himself the exception and unilaterally created rules he thought to be fit; every leader who has done that is considered a tyrant. If I do this . . . then what am I?”

For a while, Due Process said nothing; then, as if the gears in his mind caught a motor that was beginning to churn, he droned: “Pony Rights Tribunal Rules of Procedure, Section 1.6: ‘The Tribunal holds the supreme Power over the Conduct of Proceedings and may, at its sole Discretion, use, or enforce, Measures other than the Ones normally prescribed by traditional jurisprudential Thought.’” He paused, allowing his words to be fully absorbed. “Or, to put it in an actual pony language, Your Majesty, the Tribunal has, de jure, the authority to dispense with the standards that have made up the backbone of our legal system for centuries—standards such as the presumption of innocence, the adversarial system, and the right to a trial by jury.”

The rain beat down on the carriage roof; the speed of their flight amplified the frequency and sound of the splashes.

“Your Majesty, our current legal structure was founded, primarily, to prevent the tyranny of the majority. History has shown that there is absolutely no reason to believe that tyranny of the majority is any less pernicious than tyranny of the dictator. If it is an inevitability that society should swing between these two extremes, then it is my opinion, as your Advisor for Unilateral Affairs, that right now we have swung too much to one side. The Constitution describes your office, and it is obvious from its wording that your office exists to provide the sober opinion that an emotional people are unable to provide. This much is self-evident from even a cursory analysis of our body of law: we have Parliament to protect us from you—but we also have you to protect us from Parliament.”

“That explanation may satisfy the philosophers of law,” responded the princess, “but I have other aspects to consider. If I take any action against the PRAT, regardless of any reason I may give, the people will undoubtedly say that it was only because I personally was involved.”

Due Process blinked. “Well . . . of course, Your Majesty. That is precisely the reason.”

She frowned. “My office is supposed to be for the public good; to use it for selfish reasons is corrupt.”

“But, Your Majesty, you weren’t aware of the PRAT’s corruption, couldn’t possibly have been aware of it, till you experienced it firsthoof. The body of law is too big; you can’t possibly have a complete knowledge of its letter and enforcement. Time is a finite resource.”

“Then, of course, the people will say why didn’t I abolish this or that other law, that there are other things more important.”

“And they are free to think that. And this is why Parliament exists: so the people can bring to the attention of the sovereign certain laws that need abolishing or enacting—and on the advice of Parliament, you will do so, as you’ve always done. Do not think for a moment, Your Majesty, that what you now want to do is historically unprecedented.”

“Tyranny is also not historically unprecedented.”

“Your Majesty, we must not allow ourselves to succumb to prejudice. Just as a law enacted democratically is not automatically fit for a free and democratic society, so a law enacted unilaterally is not automatically unfit.”

Princess Celestia trembled. The words sounded so innocent, so just and sober. But she was used to hearing innocent-sounding words being used to convey malignant aims so often that at first she suspected something evil and dark lurking within the little lawyer was now peeking its tentative head out of its burrow to see how it would be received; she thought that beneath his suit and tie was not skin but the scales of a dragon. But when she looked into the little lawyer’s eyes, she saw staring back at her the innocence of a child, a consciousness untouched by anything corrupt. In the glance they exchanged, he communicated his fallibility, but a fallibility shown plain, with no attempts to hide it, as if to say: “This is all I am; this is all you are; let’s make the most of it.”

Princess Celestia sat up straight, as if terminating their personal conversation to address a much larger group. “Be it denounced,” she declared, “that Her Majesty Princess Celestia does hereby dissolve the Pony Rights Administrative Tribunal and all its constituents, whose power shall henceforth be reserved to the Crown for its pleasure.”

“Wait just a moment, Your Majesty.” Due Process opened his briefcase and from it withdrew a parchment, one of his feathers—he stored one, for he hated plucking his own every time he wished to write—and two inkwells. Placing the inkwells before her, he said: “Iron gall or carbon black?”

And then he laughed—it was the pure, innocent laugh of a child. “What a silly question,” he chortled. “For this new beginning, the choice is obvious.”