Prince Blueblood was the kind of pony who thought he knew his direction in life. With a cutie mark of a compass rose, well-earned for mastering the Hedge Maze in his youth, one could say that his sense of direction was deserved, and rather complete. When he would sense that something had shifted from its proper heading, that was a Problem.
His radically-changed office with its foyer gapingly vacant, and the new aide - aide in the singular no less - were all Problems.
“What is the meaning of this," he demanded, rather civilly, of the only other pony in the room. "What have you done to my office!”
The young stallion quickly looked up and leapt to his hooves.
“Ah, yes, you must be Prince Blueblood. Welcome to your office, sir.”
“Your Grace!” Blueblood said, quite severely.
“Come again?”
“You shall address me as ‘Your Grace,’ is that perfectly understood?’’
“Perfectly, Your Grace.”
“What is the meaning of this? What are you doing in my office, and what have you done??”
“Right, Your Grace. About that–”
“I demand an explanation, or I will report you to your superior!”
Blueblood and glanced around. Not wanting to reveal any undue uncertainty, he asked his next question with extreme authority.
“And who is your superior?”
“That would be yourself, Your Grace.”
Blueblood paused at that.
“Continue.”
“Consolidation, Your Grace. Consolidation and sequestration. Budget cuts have hit us all quite hard, Your Grace, and I must report that I am your new aide, your only aide, for the departments of The Interior, as you are well aware, as well as your recently-bestowed departments of Laughter, Equestrian Games Handicapped, Archmagery Division Three, and Foreign Affairs Office. Yes, Department of Foreign Affairs Office. You can change that last bit if you like, I never liked it.”
It was quite a bit to take in all at once so early in the afternoon. Blueblood processed this for a moment before seizing upon the few aspects of what was just said that he actually understood.
“Budget cuts?”
“Oh, yes, Your Grace,” the colt answered emphatically, “Quite steep.”
“I see.”
He really didn’t.
“And my staff?”
“You’re looking at it, Your Grace. Officially you have most of your Interior staff as well, but they’re out on assignment. If I do say so, Your Grace, it is quite possible they kept their jobs because of the sheer difficulty in recalling them ahead of schedule.”
Interior staff… Out.
“Out where?”
“Equestria.”
“Equestria,” Blueblood parroted.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“What of it?”
“All of it, I presume, Your Grace, you’ve fully half of them still.”
“Still where?”
“Out on assignment, Your Grace.”
“What assignment?!”
“The Interior.”
“Inside of what?!”
“Equestria, Your Gra–”
“I do not like jokes, you peasant!”
The colt withered a bit under Blueblood’s berating. They stood there for a moment, each not sure what to do next.
“Your name, so I can properly report you. To myself.”
“Quick Sort, Your Grace.”
“Pretentious–!”
“Quick Sort! My name, Your Grace, is Quick Sort.”
Blueblood puzzled that around for a moment.
“I see. Consider yourself reported, Quick Sort, for playing unwelcome mind-games with your superior and a Noble.”
“I understand, Your Grace.”
That matter settled, Blueblood looked around the room, and re-discovered that, aside from his own glorious self and the bothersome aide, the room was unoccupied.
“How do you come to be in my presence, Quick Sort.”
“You came in the room, Your Grace.”
“Why for are you here?”
“Transferred, Your Grace.”
“Transferred,” Blueblood parroted.
“Yes, Your Grace. I’m part of Foreign Affairs Office staff. I think the only one who made the transition.”
“Is that so?”
“I wouldn’t know, Your Grace. But there is–”
“Where did you move from?”
“Amber Wing, Third Floor, 301–”
“No, before that.”
“Same wing, Basement, B20–”
“No, where are you from.”
“Canterlot, Your Grace.”
“No, before that.”
“Manehattan, Your–”
“Before that!”
The colt paused, thinking hard.
“The stork?”
“You said you emigrated, from where?!”
“Ah, no, Your Grace. Departmental Transfer. You’re Department of Foreign Affairs Office director.”
Blueblood started at this abrupt shift in direction.
“I see.”
He did, eventually.
“Yes, Your Grace. Now, as I was about to say, you’ve a guest in your office to meet–”
“This isn’t my office?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Your office-office, then?”
Quick Sort pointed to the door with the name ‘Prince Blueblood, Marquis’ on a golden placard.
“Yes, yes. Yes. A guest, you say?”
“Yes, Your Grace. To see the director of the Department of Foreign–”
“In brief, I have not all day, Sport.”
“Sort, Your Grace.”
“What.”
A second passed before Quick Sort stepped around the impending collision.
“Griffon Ambassador to see you, Your Grace.”
Another quiet second stretched, filled with the scent of not-yet-stale coffee.
“And?” Blueblood demanded.
“That was the brief, Your Grace.”
Blueblood fought the urge to place a hoof to his brow. He now had a sense of the kind of direction this talk was headed.
“How long as this ambassador been in my office?”
“Since this morning, Your Grace.”
A quick glance at the clock indicated that was at least two hours.
“I see.”
“He has been most patient, Your Grace.”
Blueblood considered that for a moment. Thinking of anypony unattended within his own private office was also a Problem.
“Why has he not been directed to the Ambassadorial staff?”
“You’re it, Your Grace.”
Blueblood considered this, and decided to not press into further, more vexing bewilderment on the subject.
“Have you been into my office?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“I see.”
Griffon is not pony, Blueblood concluded, this is not a Problem.
“Shall I announce you, Your Grace?”
“Certainly not. Let me tend to my business without interruption while you… go about whatever it is you are to do.”
“In what particular order, Your Grace?”
“Simultaneously.”
“Yes, Your Grace. What order should I tend to my duties? I am quite certain I would require three days for each day of work, do you have priority for my efforts?”
Marching up to Auntie certainly wasn’t an option for the thin aide.
“No, no, just… go about whatever it is you must do.”
“As you wish, Your Grace. Though, Your Grace, the pile regarding the Department of Laughter is quite impressive, might–”
“Laughter?”
“Yes, Your Grace, Department of Laughter.”
“What in Equestria is the Department of Laughter doing in my Department of Maps!”
“Interior.”
“I am aware that it is inside, why is it here?”
“The same reason as the Departments of Equestrian Games Handicapped, Archmagery Division Three, and Foreign Affairs Office, I should suspect, Your Grace.”
“And that is?”
“At a guess, making somepony else’s life easier, Your Grace.”
Blueblood seethed. He liked maps. Maps were good, sensible, and behaved themselves. What was he going to do with the handicapped? And Laughter!
“I am not a silly pony,” Blueblood said, quite finally.
“I don’t think it’s meant for you, Your Grace.”
Blueblood seethed further.
“I am going to my office,” he announced.
“Very well, Your Grace.”
Turning to a new direction, Blueblood marched to his door and yanked the door open.
Before him, he was greeted with the scene of a griffon, presumably some ambassador, sprawled atop his desk, admiring the mural across from the window. Hearing the door open, it turned and its - his - features bloomed into a gregarious smile.
“Ah, Ambassador! At last we meet! I must say, keeping me cooped up in here, I was beginning to think you almost didn’t want me here, but when that drapery fell off the wall, well, let me just say that I can appreciate the kind of pony who would put Sapphire Shores on top of your world.”
The mural, usually covered in a tasteful weaving which was now heaped on the floor, was of course a map of Equestria in all its immaculate detail. Lain across its top, in equal visual attention, was a particularly alluring depiction of a certain pop music artist.
Unaware, Blueblood’s face flushed.
“Ah, but now that you’re here, we can to business! Our Fishing Gladiator Guild would like to file for official access to your Trottingham Banks. Due to the nature of the request, your Department of Aquatic Mysteries final act was to refer us here, something about ‘existential differences breaching into the diplomatic realm but it’s my my problem anymore we’re being laid off.”
Again, Blueblood wasn’t quite sure where to start with that.
“Yes,” Said Blueblood, finally wresting his gaze away from the upper half of the mural. “She did lay off eventually, but getting that sketch was the best decision I’ve ever made.”
“Haha, a true jest!”
The ambassador thumped Blueblood in the side.
“But, business.”
“Business, yes.”
“I’m authorized to negotiate for our FGG to gain access to the Banks for the prophesied… How to translate... Ah, ‘Kraken Pre-Empting And Feasting Upon Its Wretched Flesh To Make Epic Poems About.’”
Blueblood blinked, his own light lunch oddly trickling into his mind. Something the ambassador had said….
“Eat meat?!?”
“Ah,” said the ambassador, the toothy grin never quite leaving his face, “I see it is going to be one of those days.”
