There was, Rarity considered as she sat locked within the nearly-featureless, overly-chill back room at Barneigh's Exclusive Garments And Saddlebags, trying not to think too much about her aching hip, the question of who to blame.
At no point did Rarity consider herself as the answer. She had, after all, done nothing wrong: an innocent act had been taken the wrong way -- completely the wrong way, as wrongly as it was possible to see it, if perception had ever figured into the reaction at all. For the same reason, she failed to blame her own eyes, much less the reflexes which had automatically acted on that sight. No, there was not a single part of the fault which was hers -- not that fault existed at all, at least not in reality. Dispelling the illusion would have to wait until somepony was brought in to speak with her.
Some portion would naturally have to be attached to the pony who'd sounded the false alarm, but Rarity wasn't quite sure who that was. Careful inspection of the memories from just before the event seemed to find what could have been a small gasp of shock when she'd committed the completely innocent act, but that had come from behind her and that meant she wasn't entirely sure who had created the sound of Great Personal Offense Now Being Taken Here. There had been a clerk in that direction, and that clerk hadn't been overly fond of Rarity, not after the polite dismissal the designer had offered when approached with the typical query about how many thousands of bits she'd be spending today -- but there had also been shoppers. Along with browsers, although none who would have admitted to such. Anypony there could have made the sound and triggered the event. Anypony at all.
She had already decided that the store's security personnel were not to blame in any way. They had simply been doing their jobs. And up until the moment she'd been on the receiving end of their occupation, Rarity hadn't been aware their job included gang tackles. Perhaps they were amateur hoofball players filling in the hours between practices. If so, it was easy to see why they had retained that status because in the view of the mare who had recently been on the receiving end of their so-called best efforts, their collective technique needed serious work. She was a mare with a pleasant build and, frankly, not exactly a lot in the way of muscle mass. Therefore, using ten ponies to bring her down struck Rarity as being somewhat in the way of serious overkill. And they hadn't even known how to distribute their impacts. There had certainly been no need for three of them to go for her right hip...
So... the clerk, or a random shopper, or somepony pretending to that status... was she missing anypony from the list?
Rarity sighed and began to review again, as it was another means of not wondering just how it could possibly be so cold in here, not to mention who had been responsible for the total lack of visual distractions available. Most of her time in the bleak back room had been spent in reviewing the event while figuring out exactly how she would educate the pony who finally came in to see her, because surely all that was needed here was a simple lesson in basic reality and then she would be on her way. Whatever the misunderstanding was, it would be corrected. And that pony would apologize. Perhaps offer her a token from the store's many shelves as compensation for her lost time -- something Rarity normally would have turned down and given that it was Barneigh's, still just might... but then, there was probably a pony somewhere out there who would appreciate such a thing, at least once the colors had been tinkered with, and she'd need to pull out some of the stitching first to make sure the dye went in evenly plus that stitching just deserved to be pulled out, perhaps a little recutting of the sides -- no, actually, make that a mandatory cut: this would be emergency surgery on a desperation triage level and the only way to save the patient would be through transplanting just about everything, which naturally meant taking all the offending extant pieces out...
...her right hip hurt.
Rather a lot, actually.
Rarity twisted her tail, lightly ran the hairs over the area. Her eyes squeezed shut.
But the event wasn't the fault of the security personnel. She had to remember that.
How long had it been? Well over an hour, she was sure: there was no clock in the back room as it would have only added something to look at, but there was a tiny window -- a surprisingly dirty one, given that it was Barneigh's and she would have expected at least a higher pretension towards quality -- towards the ceiling and the slant of filth-encrusted sunlight through it had visibly changed. Clearly the pony who was supposed to speak with patrons during circumstances like these (whatever these circumstances were) was in no hurry to be educated. How much longer could she be here before she started to risk missing her appointment? There was a chance she might have already crossed that temporal line. There would be worry on the other end, and where there was worry...
Surely it wouldn't be anywhere near that long.
Surely.
She slipped off her saddlebags. A little less weight on her body would do her hip a brief favor. Hopefully a very brief one.
Review again --
-- there were hoofsteps approaching: Rarity's ears perked at the noise as her eyes opened again. There had been sounds of movement from outside before, of course, but those had been working through the surprisingly disheveled reserve stock area. These seemed to be heading directly towards her. Perhaps the first moment of her approach to understanding was about to arrive at last...
She heard the outer lock being operated -- and then the voice said "Stand back from the door. Put yourself on the other side of the room. Now."
The voice had been that of a stallion. There had been a gruff element to it, and quite a lot of demand, plus something Rarity truly hoped wasn't the stomp of anger she had perceived within, she wanted that to simply be the frustration and pain speaking... but no matter how she tried to see it, that voice had been giving a blatant order.
"Did you hear me?" the voice shot into the room, well before any pony ever could have moved. "I said to stand back! And I know you're a unicorn, so the first sign of magic -- any degree of corona at all around your horn which I don't authorize first -- gets you the hardest backlash of your life." Was that a small note of pleasure in the last few words? No, that was just her ache getting another word in...
Rarity blinked. "I am moving, I assure you..." she managed, keeping the wince from her tones as she backed across the little room, her right hip protesting all the way.
"Right," the voice said, and it was pleased. "Tail against the wall."
Another blink. Rarity glanced back at her tail. No, being pressed against a wall wasn't going to do it any favors: she settled for tilting it off to the left. "Very well..."
"Stomach against the ground."
Blinks were now underqualified and were thus dismissed from the expressive position. "I wish to have a conversation with you. I fail to see how --"
"Stomach against the ground!"
A rising tide of nausea applied for the job and was asked for references. "Very well." Clearly this stallion had simply been given bad information. He was treating her as a criminal and to that extent, there was a chance that he was also simply doing his job. Cooperation would not hurt her in any way, beyond the renewed aches from the careful slow drop. Surely everything would work out once they spoke. "I am ready."
The stallion did not come into the room: he invaded with intent to overthrow.
A Canterlot police officer: Rarity saw the badge against the broad chest, the strap set to place it just a little away from the left shoulder. But it was the shape of the badge which told her that: the metal itself was oddly dirty, with the only remaining tiny portions of shine rather waxy ones -- odd, especially since the strap itself seemed so new. She couldn't make out a number or name on the thing and a quick inspection found a series of dents around those areas of familiar shape, as if the thing had been repeatedly stomped on by determined hooves. The faint outlines of a few vestigial letters and a near-obliterated single digit remained: nothing more.
The officer himself was a young earth pony (with that last detail unusual to see among Canterlot law enforcement) who was exceptionally burly in build, almost half Snowflake's bulk. If his coat had been one of the very rare metallics, it would have had some chance of coming across as copper: as it was, the hue registered as tarnish. The hard eyes were an even harder green. Both mane and tail had been cut so short as to leave barely anything behind: something Rarity had seen before on patrolponies who felt it gave offenders less to snap at. In this officer's case, so little remained that it was almost impossible to determine the original color, and Rarity struggled for a moment under the room's harsh lighting before settling on steel-grey.
He was looking down at her. Her being against the floor felt like the smallest element of that.
The officer looked her over. There was no recognition in his eyes. She hadn't really expected any, and thus there was no point in trying to invoke it. "Name," he demanded. A shift of his wide neck swung a length of stiff wire-reinforced rope around from his back. The notepad attached to the far end came to rest in front of his teeth, and he snatched the quill from its side before flipping the cover with an overly-practiced motion of his lips.
This is a misunderstanding of some sort. He is being harsh with me simply because he does not realize the true nature of the event. All I need do is speak honestly and all will be made clear. Politeness. Calm. Dignity. The hallmarks of a cultured mare.
"Rarity."
The officer had surprisingly good elocution for somepony speaking with a quill pressed between his teeth. It made the tone of the repetition simple to distinguish. "Rahr-it-tee..." He wrote it down. "Place of residence?"
Not without pride, "I am from Ponyville."
"So... you're not a Canterlot native, then." It could have been a sneer. It also could have been a side effect from holding the quill.
"No."
"And -- is that a Ponyville accent?"
She tried not to grit her teeth, succeeded. "No."
"So what kind of accent is that?"
The attempt not to narrow her eyes didn't go as well. "Mine."
The room was almost bare. It was her, the officer, a dirty little window which let far too little Sun through, and the silence which filled every other part.
"Fine, Rahr-it-tee..." the officer said. He made a few notes -- Rarity couldn't imagine what they were about -- then spat out the quill, which bounced on its end of the extra wire coil while he flipped the page. "So what brought you to Canterlot today?"
Was he really going to go over everything with her? They could mutually clear up the event with just a few words about it! "Can we not begin by discussing why I was placed here to await your arrival?"
"Oh, we will..." It was an assurance, although the 're' had been incarcerated. "But you're not a native. You've admitted that, if not where you're actually from because I've heard Ponyville --" there was no quill this time "-- residents speak and those in-ton-a-tions aren't it. So let's start with whatever could possibly bring you into the capital. Was it your -- job?"
She seized onto the cue with momentary relief. "Yes."
"It's your job to be in Barneigh's? Doing what you did?"
It was more slippery than it should have been. "No." Doing what she had done?
"Then...?" He inclined his head towards her. It was an open invitation to speak.
Rarity accepted it -- carefully. "I am a fashion designer. On occasion, this will bring me into the city. I attend trade shows, display my product, speak to those who carry my wares here, and so forth. In this case, I had what was quite frankly a first for me: a house party. A pony whom I met some moons ago asked me into her residence and requested that I bring several racks full of my latest creations so that she and her friends could look them over and so gain a personal understanding for my most recent work. After that, they would decide if they wished to purchase anything I had already created or commission me for a new piece." She'd brought eight racks with her -- and then there had been the measuring tapes, sample fabrics, bolts and buttons and jewels just in case somepony asked her to create something on the spot or being in the presence of so many nobles gave her an idea...
Basically, she'd overwhelmed her field's mass manipulation capacity. By a lot.
Twilight had helped her get it all onto the train. But the librarian hadn't come with her -- and that had left Rarity slowly working her way through the streets of Canterlot, pulling two racks using the rope held in her teeth, field seizing and pushing another for a few body lengths before switching off, everything in turn, and then there had been the raw weight in her heavy saddlebags, the ones she'd had to bring because she'd made the appointment as soon as she'd committed to the party, it all had to be done at once...
It had taken her two hours to work her way through Canterlot to the residence in question. Most of it had been uphill.
"A fashion designer," the officer repeated. His eyes went over her bare white coat. "Your mark shows gems. Not a dress. Gems."
"I work with gems quite frequently in my designs, and I also find those jewels myself: both are reflected in my mark," Rarity quickly said. "Your question is a common one --"
"-- so why aren't you dressed? The customers here are always dressed."
"I find that when I am presenting, I am best off leaving the focus on my creations instead of myself. Allowing my customers to imagine how they would look while wearing my pieces instead of --"
"-- I don't care."
The blinks shoved their way back into the interview room and suggested the shift could be evenly divided between two workers. "But -- you asked..."
"The front door clerk said you didn't have anything other than your saddlebags when you came in," the officer said. "Did they buy you out?"
Rarity wondered how far she could get in her answer before being told he didn't care about that either. "May I know your name, please?"
He took a small breath. He leaned forward, then took a much deeper one, allowing her to see the muscles moving along his chest. And it was not possible to interpret his expression as anything other than a smirk. "No."
Which was the moment Rarity realized that politeness, calm, dignity, and the hallmarks of a cultured mare would mean nothing.
"I am," she said, lips suddenly tight, "rather aware of the law. No officer can exist unidentified. When challenged, they must present their name and badge number to the pony wishing the information, or face discipline themselves -- potentially including, under the proper circumstances, the penalty for impersonation. Your name, please. And your badge number."
The smirk remained. "Do you know what kind of ponies are normally aware of the law?"
"Educated ones?" she offered.
And got wider. "No." He shrugged. "Cropski, nine-seven-six. So where's your supposed wares?"
"I sent them ahead to the train. I have other business in Canterlot this evening and did not wish to be hauling them around across the intervening time and distance." Especially given that the weight --
"Sales good?"
-- hadn't lost so much as a grain. "No."
She hadn't had a single sale. Nopony -- nopony from the twenty-eight who had been at the party -- had purchased a thing. Oh, they had gushed over her wares. They had openly fawned at the stitching, declared a separate portion of wonderment towards each color choice, praised the lines, celebrated the jewels, and awarded virtual trophies to the collection as a whole. In fact, they had loved her work so much that within two minutes of entering the opulent residence, they had, as a twenty-seven pony group (minus her hostess), declared that her pieces were --
-- cute.
And adorable.
The Death Words had been spoken, and the next five hours had perished under their crushing weight.
Upon release -- parole, truly, although the financial sentence could not be revoked -- she had asked her rather embarrassed hostess for a single favor: that one of the servants take the lot to the station. The thought of hauling everything around Canterlot across every hoofstep and second before the meeting... unbearable. The noble (who already owned so many of Rarity's pieces as to need a second dedicated wardrobe room simply to house the autumn colors) had agreed before apologizing. Again.
"So you came to Barneigh's after."
"As I said, I have a meeting this evening with --" No, a cultured mare did not name-drop, and she wasn't ready to shed the last veneer just yet. "-- a friend. There was time to pass."
"You said business earlier," Cropski noted, checking the pad.
Not. Just. Yet. "It is entirely possible to do business with one's friends."
It got her a shrug. "Now, according to the clerks, you came in, told them you didn't need any help, and just trotted around looking at the racks for a while. And by 'a while', they meant 'two hours'."
"There was quite a bit of time before sunset." Less now.
"And you didn't buy a single thing."
"Correct."
"Do you always spend two hours in a store without making a purchase?"
She was starting to see the shape of it. "When it is this store, yes."
"Because?"
Rarity fought the urge to push herself off the floor, felt the energy surge backwards towards her tail and produce a single mighty lash which nearly straightened out the curls. "Because I only come here to see what not to do."
He stared at her. "Repeat that," and the orders weren't getting any more subtle.
"What. Not. To. Do." Because all thoughts of coming back here were turning into the darkest of humor and suddenly, Rarity no longer cared if the store knew she considered them to be the most laughable part of the joke. "Barneigh's carries only store-exclusive items, Officer Cropski. Do you know why that is?" And before he could declare how little he cared, she rushed on. "Because if they were available at another shop, everypony would see them sitting among quality pieces and realize how putrid their goods truly are. They have their name, and they have had it for so long that they decided the name alone is what has meaning. It matters not what is sold here, as long as it is a Barneigh's item -- and sadly, there are ponies who agree with them. Ponies who leave here with their poorly-made, ludicrously-designed and amazingly-overpriced purchase under the sadly lingering delusion that all of the prior can be forgiven because that purchase was made at Barneigh's and therefore, the status is what matters. The contents of the shopping bags are meaningless: only the name on them. Sadly, at some point, the items must be removed and by then, there is a tiny chance the pony will have realized what was done, well past the closing of the window for the one-hour return policy... I come here to survey their stock and if I see anything upon their shelves which even faintly resembles any idea which has occurred to me, I must reconsider my own work. I have burned sketches and shredded dresses rather than take any chance that somepony would believe I had created a product worthy of this place, and I use 'worthy' within all the quotes it deserves. This is a bazaar of the ill-conceived, an art gallery for the self-blinding. The only part Barneigh's plays in the path of my life is as Danger Ahead sign so I will always know which way not to proceed. Does that answer your question, or do you require me to repeat any portion of the answer for your notes?"
This was a new kind of silence, one which crammed itself into the corners and seemed intent on cleaning the window. She wondered if it was on her side.
And then he smirked again.
"No intent to purchase..." he said and wrote. "Which brings us to why I was called in."
"I suppose it does," Rarity tensely replied.
"So tell me your -- version -- of it."
There was little simpler. "I judged that sufficient time had passed, which for this establishment, meant I simply could not stand to be here any longer. There is only so much watering from pain my eyes can withstand, thank you. So I headed for the door. As I was passing within two body lengths of the saddlebag register, I noted a glint of metal from the floor. Upon brief inspection, it turned out to be a tenth-bit piece. So I took it into my field and continued on my way."
"A tenth-bit piece." The words came out as a minor variation on 'a device designed to extinguish Sun'.
"Correct." Oh, she knew where this was going, and since there was no stopping the thing...
"Where is it now?" The room seemed to be getting colder.
"I would show you," Rarity offered, "but I do seem to recall a certain warning about what you would do to my horn. Although I am starting to wonder about that. Along with several other things."
"I told you --"
"-- you said much, yes. I feel you told me rather more than you intended at the time."
Their eyes locked. Rarity used the time to consider the horrible grooming of his lashes.
"So you're admitting, in front of me, that you took a tenth-bit piece from the floor."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it was there. It had no owner. There was nopony searching for it. The money did nopony any good where it was. So I took it and that way, put it in a position to accomplish something. Unfortunately, the first deed it completed was having me buried under a rather rude and decidedly overdone ponypile." Her hip was aching more than ever. She was going to need a six-hour soak at the spa just to make it feel even a little better.
She had expected the next smirking sentence, and other than in her regard towards the officer, was not disappointed. "And do you often hang around exclusive Canterlot shops searching for dropped money?"
"I do not hang around any given place looking to find lost bits and fractions of same. But should I happen to find them, I claim them. There are things they must do --"
"-- want to know how I see this?"
Rarity had known for a while, and that meant her assent was simply from curiosity as to how the words would emerge. "Please."
"That house party..." Officer Cropski pretended to muse. "Sounds pretty exclusive. A noble's residence?"
"Some would say so, including myself, although there are those angry about her having married into a minor House. You may speak with her if you wish, of course. Her address is --"
"-- you work with gems?"
"Correct."
"Find them yourself?"
"It allows me to charge considerably less for my work than if I purchased through a wholesaler."
"Find them while you're hanging around the residences of minor nobles?"
"No."
"If I went to every place you've been while you were working, would I find the local jewel supply dropped by a few stones?"
Only if you took them. "No."
"Seems to me somepony who hangs around Barneigh's scavenging for loose change might be trying to pick up a few other things. Two hours... were you just waiting for security to take their eyes off you?"
Tooth grinding now: the spa plus a trip to Zecora. "I would never steal anything from this place. It is not only a matter of respect for the law, but a question of taste. Sadly for them, I happen to have it."
"So where do you steal from?"
"Nowhere at all!"
And Rarity stood up.
Cropski jumped, and the sight made her feel very briefly better despite the flare of pain from her hip. "LIE DOWN!"
"I will not! You are not going to arrest me: I am fully aware of that. You showed it as soon as you trotted inside this bleak decor-free void of an icebox! You are not going to take me in. You cannot cite me for disobeying your orders and thus resisting arrest, for I have committed no crime, which means you have no authority to give orders at all, I cannot resist an arrest which can never come -- and you know it! All you can do is harass me, and you are doing a rather predictable job of it! My right hip hurts, Officer Cropski, hurts because several ponies responding to stupidity brought their weight to bear instead of their minds. I wish to stand, and so I will stand. The thing here I do not have to stand for is you! You have made it completely clear as to what your approach is, where every last one of your beliefs lie, you are wrong, and since I have committed no crime at all, you have no power over me other than to annoy -- and that, I have had quite enough of. I am fully aware of what is happening here. I will stand, I will speak -- and when I am finished, I will leave."
There was a moment -- perhaps half a breath -- when Rarity thought the stallion might be thinking, that her words had let him see himself through her eyes, that perhaps it had all been the stupid actions of a very inexperienced officer and there was still a chance for this one after all --
-- but then he smirked again.
"So stand," he said. "See if I care. If anything goes down, it just makes it all the easier to knock you down onto your poor abused hip. And as I was saying earlier -- do you know what kind of pony generally knows the law that well?" She did not chorus with the answer he provided to his own non-question. "A criminal. So, Rahr-it-tee -- what do you think is happening here?"
At that point, it was speaking just to let the words out, with no belief that they would truly be heard. "In ways other than my current lack of clothing and possession of taste, I do not fit the profile of a Barneigh's customer. I am not somepony they wish to have within their store. Even should I lose all sense of style in a horrible accident with my head injury forcing what little remains of me to believe their featured shade of puce is exactly what my life requires, they would not welcome me. So when I picked up the tenth-bit, it formed an excuse. Something which the clerk believed would shame me, preventing any future return. It will not do so. If next season, I wish to observe the cabinet of horrors they will claim as an autumn collection, I will do so, and the non-weight of eyes shall slide from my coat. But in order to complete the embarrassment, they decided to involve the police -- in a situation which does not involve the law. The part I fail to understand is why you are cooperating."
The smirk took elements of a sneer and found them compatible. "The clerk said she thought you'd stolen jewelry. Your mark is three gems. There are ponies who would say that indicates a talent for a certain kind of theft..."
As an excuse, it had a few major problems. "Barneigh's does not sell jewelry. Nopony had announced that a patron had lost jewelry. I would have taken lost jewelry to the counter. I did not do so because it was not jewelry. It was a tenth-bit, which she would have seen clearly as I raised it fully within my field so as to ensure nopony believed I was doing anything else. And your mark is three iron bars. Does that indicate a talent for being imprisoned?"
None of them seemed to matter. "You were heading for the door."
"Yes -- because I was leaving. And there is a security spell at the door. Should I have left with a product I had somehow deluded myself into wishing for ownership of and not purchased, a shield would have gone up. I am certain you know that, even if you do not wish to be aware of it at this time --"
"-- are those your saddlebags in the corner?"
"As you can stand to look at them, you may rest assured that they were not purchased here."
"There's a lot of weight at the bottom. I can see bulges from here. A lot of little bulges."
"Your physician will be pleased to learn of your sterling eyesight."
"Open them."
Rarity developed precognition. It wasn't Pinkie Sense: her tail didn't lash any more than it was doing already, no part of her body introduced new aches and her hip just kept on hurting as much as it already had. But she could still see exactly how the future was going to come out, especially for the next few minutes' worth of it, and that part of the vision wasn't comforting. "Are you aware of how I knew you would not arrest me? In matters of criminal cases with unicorns, the first duty of the arresting officer is to place a restraint on the horn, for the safety of the officer and anypony nearby. You are not even carrying a restraint. You knew when you came in that you could do nothing real --"
He didn't flinch. "-- I said, open them."
Rarity -- shrugged. "Very well." She was under no legal obligation to do so. Rarity was very aware of her rights, because the best way to lose them was through not understanding them in the first place. Rarity had spent too much of her time trying to enter high society in dealing with those who challenged her attempts in any way they could find...
...but she could see this future. She knew what the next part was, along with the variants. If she didn't open the saddlebags, tripping would become involved. Accidental shoves. Collisions. Snapping at a non-existent fly which, being imaginary, could not bite her -- and tearing through the fabric in the process. This way, her saddlebags remained intact.
"I am about to use my field," she told Cropski. "If, of course, you can find it within yourself to permit such."
He pretended to pay no attention to that. Rarity's soft blue field exerted, surrounded the lids of the bags. No hoof collided with her horn, and she displayed the weights she'd been carrying around the entire day.
Cropski looked.
He kept looking.
It changed into a stare.
"Those are --"
"-- tenth-bits, yes. Also quarter-bits. There are some smaller coins there, but they tend to sink towards the bottom. Also a few larger ones, but they are rather rare finds and also tend towards descent."
"How many --"
"-- if you truly wish to know, count them yourself. Did you wish to search through them in order to make certain there are no stolen goods within? I am willing to permit it, as long as you write down each coin removed within your notes and present that to me as a receipt..."
The stare switched to Rarity's face again. "And you don't hang around Canterlot looking for money."
"Two hours for a tenth-bit would be a rather poor rate of exchange, would it not?"
"So where do you --"
"-- I do not. I simply claim it where it is found. I admit that I find slightly more of it here, as so many ponies think it will somehow diminish them to be seen picking up a lost coin, as if it indicates poverty in some way, or the greed so many possess regardless. A coin can lie unclaimed for a very long time in Canterlot if the wrong ponies pass it by. Over and over. I have a trained eye, Officer. My magic allows me to detect gems: I admit that freely. And simply to give you a little more work before deliberately making another patently false assumption, I venture into wild zones to collect them." It wasn't a good time to mention the Diamond Dogs. "But I also spot them. A glint of Sun or Moon off the right protruding surface, a slightly different shape to a cliff edge. Signs. Without my magic, I can still tell where jewels are likely to be found. That skill translates well to spotting lost funds. But -- they are lost. The gems I dig out belong to nopony. Should I see somepony drop one? I return it. The same with bits. I simply -- collect lost and abandoned trifles I have become rather good at it. A tenth-bit here, perhaps a quarter-bit somewhere else. It accumulates. Many things are cumulative, if you give them enough time and even the most casual reflexive effort."
There could not have been more disbelief contained within the words, and the saturation within was more than enough to leak. "Are bits in fountains and wishing wells lost?"
"They belong to the owner of the fountain or well. I believe most of those belong to the city, with the funds collected to --"
And he didn't care. "Bits in another pony's saddlebags? Left on a counter when somepony is making change? How much do you take, Rahr-it-tee?"
"Bits in grass," Rarity said, starting to feel oddly peaceful within the inevitable. "Bits half-buried in dirt. Bits trodden on, sticking out from between stones. Or far more often, tenth-bits. Such as the one you so wish to use as an excuse..."
"You," he accused, and the descriptive term came out as the most degenerate of crimes, "are a scavenger. You're admitting that!"
She shrugged. "If that is the word you see as fitting."
He stared at her. The fury was open on his face, the tarnished kettle was getting close to boil, and no amount of chill in the stark room would prevent the steam from eruption.
"Get out," he ordered.
She collected her saddlebags. The weight made her hip ache again. And she left.
He followed her. All the way through the storage area, down the aisles of the store, out onto the street, through Canterlot under descending Sun...
And she'd known he would.
There was a way in which Rarity truly wanted to think better of him, to provide an excuse for all of it. Earth ponies were the minority in Canterlot -- a very small minority. To find one in a position of any authority outside the castle was rare. It could be hard, being an earth pony among so many unicorns -- especially when the Houses became involved and the force of truly false authority was brought to bear. She could imagine a young officer, initially dedicated to protecting the innocent, rapidly finding himself within the shifting power struggles of the nobles and learning that 'privilege' had started as a term meaning 'private law'. It would be very easy for a pony in that situation to stop doing what the law dictated and follow what the rich wanted. The ponies who owned Barneigh's were very rich indeed, a mini-empire built on a once-solid name which should have crumbled into flecks of rust long ago, and somepony there had ultimately wanted her embarrassed. So a young officer, who no longer truly knew what was important, had cooperated. Because of the pressures. The fog and fumes of wealth. Because he was an earth pony with no House behind him who didn't realize that the police served as one for him, one with more true might than the nobles would ever have...
She wished she could believe that. But... some ponies joined the police because the Guards couldn't do everything: they were mostly concerned with matters which involved the Princesses, and that was the minority of events -- even in Canterlot. Those ponies wanted to protect others. To keep order. To make sure the settled zones were also the safe ones.
And others just wanted to use their badge as a weapon against the world in the confidence that if anypony protested, Things Could Be Done...
Such ponies were normally filtered out at the hiring stage. She wondered how Cropski had gotten through.
Rarity had protested. And now he was following her, looking for Something He Could Do.
She knew her rights, certainly, and that was simply from having paid attention in school and learning, along with a refresher or two when a few less-than-nobles had made her see the need for such. But she didn't know the law, not every last ruling of it. And Cropski, in this next section of foreseen future, was waiting for her to break it. In any way, even the most minor one. Was she truly allowed to cross the street at any point? Only where there were intersections? Had some obscure ruling unenforced in centuries dictated that ponies make hoof signals or flare wings or possibly flash coronas before crossing? He would know where she did not, and he would arrest her for it.
Harassment, yes. And she could protest. But the arrest still would have happened, and any discipline... well, those who guarded the law also tended to do so for each other, until the reasons for stopping became too overpowering...
He hadn't know her, she had seen that at the start. Rarity didn't like declaring herself as an Element-Bearer most of the time. It could get her in the occasional door -- but it wasn't her skill, and that was what she truly wanted to serve as her ambassador to the social worlds. But if she'd invoked her status...
...would he have dismissed the claim? Verified it and then decided getting involved with the Bearers wasn't worth it? Or just gone for the thrill of taking control, a thrill so much stronger when he knew just what he was about to try finding an excuse to arrest...
She crossed. He said nothing.
Ponies were staring at her. Wondering why an officer of the law was following her so closely. What she'd done. And the Sun was going down...
"Shouldn't you be heading for the train station?" he challenged. "Get back to Ponyville, or wherever it is your voice is from?"
"I believe I told you about my appointment?"
"Oh, right... your friend. Is your friend in the same business as you?"
"Not a designer, no."
"A thief? Oh, wait... a scavenger?"
"A collector of unconsidered trifles, on occasion, yes..."
"You should break the appointment," he told her as the sky went ruby. "You really don't want anypony to see what kind of crowd you hang out with, do you? Especially if it's the wrong one. The wrong Canterlot crowd. You don't really belong in this city, any more than you belonged in Barneigh's, looking at things you couldn't afford even if you piled tenth-bits on the counter one at a time for the next twenty moons..."
Rarity ignored him, trotted forward in false peace. A little of the warmth was going out of the air now and like the chill of that bleak room, the temperature drop did nothing to ease the pain in her hip.
"I know what you are," Cropski told her. "That clerk knew it, too. A scavenger. And a scavenger is just a thief who hasn't taken something which belongs to anypony -- yet. At least not that I can prove right this second. A pony who'll pick up a tenth-bit is a pony who'll steal a jewel. The longer you stay in the city, the more time everypony has to investigate..."
"So picking up a tenth-bit is a gateway crime?" Rarity said with a lightness she didn't feel.
"Exactly."
"So -- picking up a tenth-bit is a crime in itself?"
"Ye --"
Silence. The Moon came up, and the coat of tarnish failed to claim a single highlight.
"And if I had fallen so low in my purchasing standards as to buy there," Rarity went on, "would it have been proper to inquire as to the origin of every last bit I paid with? The name and address of each customer? What they had purchased and how much had been spent? Should I carry receipts and invoices with me at all times to prove my income? How would I account for the found, I wonder? Not that I spend such, but... then again, that would only be documenting my own crimes..."
She could tell he liked the idea. Not enough to thank her through no longer following, of course, but it was definitely something he'd keep in mind for later. "A scavenger is a thief by another name -- and not for long. Nothing you say changes that."
And now the end of that short-term future was approaching, although she couldn't be certain how quickly it would come. She was further from her appointment at this hour than she'd wished to be, couldn't trot any faster with the state of her hip, had no means to send a message ahead. All she could do was limp steadily towards it and wonder how long it would take before it came looking for her. "No -- nothing I say changes your mind. You have chosen your excuse, your belief -- and there are no words or actions which will come from me to alter that." And for a moment, she managed to regret it.
He simply ignored all of it. "I didn't choose to be a thief."
"Nor did I. I am choosing to keep my appointment..."
Late now. She was moving so slowly... she hadn't believed herself so injured after it had happened, but the more she moved the joint, the more it protested. Cropski didn't like it: a scant pace could be a form of torture for a pony... but there seemed to be no law mandating a minimum speed for travel.
More city blocks painfully crept by. Horribly late, beyond any standard of etiquette. She would have been ashamed if it had been in any way her fault, and still couldn't avoid feeling embarrassed.
The wind was starting to pick up.
"So where is this crucial appointment that you couldn't make under Sun, like a law-abiding pony would?"
He still hadn't figured out where she was headed. He wouldn't have been able to make himself believe it no matter how large it loomed on the horizon and undoubtedly would have decided she was only trying to scare him off. "Not all things happen under Sun," Rarity simply replied. The wind was getting stronger, and some of it now felt as if it was blowing directly from overhead.
Another sneer. "Nothing good happens under Moon."
And from above them, "Truly?"
He hadn't known Rarity's name, had mocked her voice. But everypony in Canterlot knew this name and that voice, especially when its owner became upset and the echoes reached most of the city...
Cropski looked up. And then he made another mistake.
"Princess!" he exclaimed, shoving relief into his voice. "I didn't mean anything against you -- I simply meant that more crimes take place at night, something which this suspect knows very well --"
Luna landed in front of them, and the large dark eyes went narrow. "Suspect?" she demanded. "You are saying -- that the lady Rarity is a suspect in something? For I see no other pony here, and surely nopony of sanity would be accusing her of a crime without proof..."
Rarity glanced back just long enough to see the officer go pale. "Y-y-you..."
"Are you chill, officer?" Luna asked. The words might have been seen as polite. The tone was anything but. "Perhaps you should be better dressed in order to avoid having one's words shiver so, not to mention one's body. Rarity, you are late -- worryingly so. I came out to see if I could spot you from above. Fortunately, your mane and tail are rather distinctive from the air, even if your normal gait -- your hip! Who has done this to you? Where are they? Simply give me a location and I shall --"
"-- Luna, it's quite all right," Rarity carefully assured the Princess.
The younger of the Diarchy focused on the officer again, and her voice went low. "Did this one --"
"-- no." It was a truth. "He had nothing to do with the injury."
Cropski was shaking now. The filthy badge was vibrating, and Rarity saw a little bit of wax fall away -- wax he'd used to help obscure the numbers.
"...very well," Luna eventually answered, and Rarity could tell it was a lie. The Princess wasn't happy -- but she was willing to wait. "Aside from the bruising which I will wish accounted for -- you are all right?"
"Yes."
Luna forced a smile. "And I see your saddlebags are full. More so than I had expected, to be quite honest with you."
Rarity smiled. "You never know what you can find until you try looking, Luna -- even casually..."
It was the point where her precognition had run out: knowing that if she could simply keep going long enough, there was a strong chance Luna would find her -- and from that point on, she would be sheltered under the protective shadow of spread wings. She hadn't wanted to invoke Luna any more than her own status as Bearer: it seemed certain now that neither would have ever been believed. She had reached the end of her perception in safety --
-- but there were levels of stupidity which simply couldn't be foreseen.
An intelligent pony would have recognized what was going on.
One who was socially aware would have fumbled a few false apologies and cleared the area.
Cropski found the strength for another mistake. "You're meeting -- her? And you're addressing her -- like that? Like you have the right to --"
-- Luna's corona flared, and the edges of her eyes began to fade into white as her voice dropped into softness, the point where all calm was both lie and setup, the volume setting which made up the danger level. "Are you presuming to dictate whom I should speak with and the familiarity they are permitted to have? Is this an attempt to protect me from association with a suspect? Or is it --"
And he still had a mistake left in him.
He turned. He started to run. The dark blue field seized him, pulled him back as stars swirled about his coated body, as white began to take over the alicorn's irises --
"-- Luna!"
The field stopped pulling -- but did not drop the stallion.
Slowly, too slowly, color returned to the Princess' eyes as Cropski hung in the air, terrified past the point of speech. Luna's visual focus returned to Rarity. The field never flickered. "When you told me he did not injure you -- did you lie?"
"No."
Softly, "Is there something you wish for me to do? Something which needs to be done?"
Rarity looked up at the suspended pony.
She wondered how he was seeing this.
There were lessons here, of course. But there was one she felt he would be especially inclined to take away from the night, and it was exactly the wrong one.
But...
...she was an Element-Bearer.
She was Generosity.
And Generosity -- could give a second chance.
"Luna? It's not important. So I need for you -- to put him down. Please."
The Princess did so. Admittedly, she did so by releasing the field instantly and letting the stallion drop the rest of the way.
Rarity wondered if Luna had managed to add something into her vanishing field at the last second which would ensure Cropski would land so very badly. On his right hip. "My apologies for being late -- truly. I was detained, and then --"
"-- you will tell me," Luna cut in. "Away from here." The Princess managed a smile. "So -- the donation. May I take it? You should not be carrying that weight. I am not entirely certain that I should not be carrying you..."
That got a smile out of Rarity. "Please -- for the donation, at least. Twilight's lifted me before when she's in a hurry, but she generally fails to warn me."
Luna's field took the saddlebags. "Did you count it?" Cropski was starting to pick himself off the street. Rarity and the Princess slowly began trotting towards the castle.
"No -- I know you enjoy that part." Another smile. "I would never deprive you of it. All I know about this round of donations to the adoption center -- to go with your fountain and wishing well funds -- is that it's every coin I managed to casually find over the last season -- plus one tenth-bit."
"A tenth-bit?" Luna asked as the mares receded into shadow.
"Well..."
And they were gone.
Cropski finished standing up.
A Princess.
He'd gotten one -- who knew a Princess. On a true name basis.
And he hadn't been fired. Or disciplined. Or even reported. He'd -- gotten away with it. The mare had said it wasn't important, she probably wouldn't tell the Princess anything, just wanted to put the incident behind her...
...and in the time it took him to reach the end of the block, still shivering a little (and convincing himself it was only from the wind), he'd convinced himself all was well. He was fine. Nothing would ever happen to him -- because he'd learned his lesson, and that education was an important one. He would never forget what he'd learned that night: namely, if you were going to do somepony important a favor by throwing your weight around, you'd better be sure the mare targeted wasn't connected to somepony more important. You never knew what kind of spider was sitting at the center of a social web.
Message received. Course passed. Diploma issued.
He worked his way through Canterlot, wishing for a sweater. The streets were fairly empty in this part of the city: the nightlife was elsewhere, the businesses had gone dark under Moon, and all he had to deal with was a public park on the right and a few shuttered retail operations on the left --
-- there was a colt coming out of the park. A young adolescent. And he was wearing a sweater, one with a hood which partially obscured his face.
It wasn't that long after sunset. He could have been playing a game with his fellows, simply exited the grounds in this direction, heading for home.
Or he could be underage and out on the street, up to who knew what.
Well, it was his job to find out what. And besides, partially covering one's head, even on a cold night, was clearly a sign of a pony who didn't want to be spotted, those were always up to no good and he couldn't see a horn sticking out, so there was no chance this one was associated with anypony of importance...
He closed in.
And he had just pulled out the lie about curfews on the cowering, crying colt, Cropski being able to hold any underage pony overnight for any reason if he felt like it when the wind shifted again --
-- until it was coming from overhead.
For the second time, he looked up -- and made a mistake.
Luna's field caught him before he could run more than a body length. The alicorn slowly shook her head, then glanced over to Rarity, who was suspended within a bubble of stars on the right.
"Generous," the designer said, "does not mean stupid."
Afterwards, there was the question of who to blame.
Rarity had some for the clerk at Barneigh's. (She went back, of course, whenever she felt the need, and stayed as long as she could stand it, for she always needed lessons on what not to do, along with why a name alone should never carry all the weight. And she took the angry stares from clerks who were now afraid to say anything against her, picked up anything she happened to find, and returned a lost earring to the counter in the hopes that they would locate the customer who'd had it fall out.) A serving was due the owner who had both supported and encouraged the actions. There was plenty for Cropski, of course, and it would all follow him into whatever employment he found next -- after the alternate interpretation of his mark wrapped up, since there had been more than a few ponies willing to come forward once the Lunar staff announced the investigation and his former fellows decided there was nothing there worth protecting. There was some to go around for those who had gotten him past the general entrance requirements as a legacy hire, which meant there was probably a portion due his parents as well.
There was plenty of blame to go around -- but there was also a question, one which haunted her on every train ride home. The one which asked what happened to the ponies who didn't have a Princess to speak for them.
There was blame.
And there was a question.
But there was no good answer.
