Chapter 1: Concerning Pawns
Chapter 1: Concerning Pawns
“... the Pawns: They are the very Life of this Game.”
- Princess Lace Curtain, former Duchess of Manechester.
Breaking over the mountains of eastern Canterlot, the dawn that every pony in Equestria had waited for streaked out over the land, painting the hills and fields in vibrant gold and orange hues. The light danced through the supple green trees, splashing westward lines of black ink in the grand portrait of this summer morning. Dancing on the subtle breeze, the light sunk into every crevice of Equestria, from the wildest of forests to the most gilded seats of civilization. Heading ever further to the west, the mighty sun soon came to bathe charming hamlet of Ponyville in its dazzling warm light. It was the start of what seemed to be a gentle, sleepy morning.
On the contrary however, Ponyville had been wide awake all night, as it has always been for the Summer Sun Festival. The residents, much like their neighbors of the capital, were still fiercely partying themselves slowly towards exhaustion. Music boomed from town hall, where most of population had stuffed themselves; most of which were still engaged in dancing and drinking. Occasionally, one or two ponies would stumble out of its main doors an into the dirt streets, drunk off of various liqueurs. Many opted to stay where they collapsed, letting the balmy rays above drift invisible blankets over them, urging them to much needed sleep. Apart from them, there were also a select few couples that had exited town hall so as to watch the sunrise of the year’s longest day with their special somepony. Together, couples would sit, crooning their necks around one another and nuzzling the faces of their own specific beloved in the splendor of the early day.
At the entrance of town hall stood a cream colored earth pony that was caressing a turquoise colored unicorn, the latter of which sat in an odd position. Both were uttering sweet nothings to one another and leaned in to kiss one another. Their tender moment was ruined however when three little fillies pushed past them, each looking with a disheartened expression on their young faces. The couple themselves was clearly vexed by this interruption, but the fillies paid them no mind. For what was one couple’s ire compared to finding one’s destiny? Yes, the Cutie Mark Crusaders had once again had a fruitless search for their chosen talents and were feeling shades of fatigue and desperation wash over them.
As they walked away from the center of festivities together, the red headed Apple Bloom was the first to speak up in her usual twang, “Shoot girls, we stayed up all night trying ta find our cutie marks and we ain’t got nothin’ to show for it.”
Her friends, Sweetie Belle the unicorn and Scootaloo the pegasus didn’t need to be reminded of their most recent failures. Gazing off to the sight of the rising sun, Scootaloo lightly fluttered her wings before adding, “You’d think that we’d have a better chance,” sighed the orange colored filly, “Especially since today is the Summer Sun Festival. Doesn’t that mean we all get free stuff from the Empress or somethin’?”
This forced an incredulous look from Apple Bloom. “How can ya honestly believe that?” Sweetie Belle shook her head, opting to stay out of the impending argument. Apple Bloom halted and rose her hoof to her chest, as though she herself held the topic. “The Summer Sun Festival is about the longest day of the year. Not about getting favors from the Empire.”
Scootaloo naturally took the honey colored earth pony’s comment as an attack on her intelligence. “I already knew that, professor!” she added in a condescending tone, her little wings flaring up defensively. “But Celestia’s been raising the sun forever; if this day is so special, why doesn’t she give something back to us?”
“She does give something to us, an’ it’s called day.” Retorted the Apple Bloom, not willing to back down from her friend’s challenge. “Don’t blame the Empress just because you can’t sing.”
“GIRLS!” weakly shouted Sweetie Belle, “It’s not worth it; it’s just another failed mission. Somethin’ we’re all used to by now.”
“But she said--” sounded both Apple Bloom and Scootaloo in unison, looking to Apple Bloom to aid them in their respective arguments.
But the pale coated unicorn would have none of it, “We’ll just try again later, like we always do.” She said definitively, walking off in the direction of her home, “It’s not worth fighting over. Y’all go home an’ get some sleep.”
The two remaining fillies watched Sweetie Belle leave, each feeling defeated and annoyed by their situation. Both shot the other one an angered look before parting ways without so much as word.
As she trotted down the lonely path to her sister’s Carousel Boutique, Sweetie Belle couldn’t help but feel somewhat guilty over not stopping Apple Bloom and Scootaloo from arguing earlier. Even if Apple Bloom had been correct, she shouldn’t have been mean. Sweetie mentally swore to herself that she’d play peacemaker to her friends the next time she saw them. Whenever that would be.
For far from the separating fillies, over the outskirts of Ponyville, soared a coming change.
♙--------------------------♙
Through the morning clouds, came two pegasi flying nearly parallel to one another. Pulled behind them flew an apparatus that resembled a wagon with various fins and wings attached to it. The gliding storage device was firmly attached to the pair’s hind legs. The secured tarp that covered it’s rear flittered and flapped in the breeze.
The faster flyer of the two pegasi was a lean and youthful stallion, with a coat of a darkened mustard tint. His swept back sepia colored mane and messy tail steadily waved to and fro, in an almost uniform pattern with the flapping of his healthy wings. Freckles dotted his nose, attempting to draw attention from his eyes of deepest sapphire. He wore a belted leather harness around his body, on it swayed a holster that snugly held a baseball bat inside its confines. His cutie mark was that of a baseball bat with exaggerated hit lines surrounding it.
To his right, flew a contrasting pegasus. He was heavier-set and tired looking stallion who possessed a coat of olive. And unlike his younger partner, this stallion wore a bit of clothing on him; sporting a grey pin-stripe vest and a grey flat cap with an incredibly shortened Mohawk of umbra brown hair running down from under it. Matching a neatly trimmed tail that was tied off at the base that was style to resemble a short broom. He also bore freckles, but his sat on his cheeks and complimented his forest green eyes. His particular cutie mark was a mortar and pestle combination.
The younger of the two nudged the older with his hoof, and gestured to Sweet Apple Acres as they flew over it. But as he started to drift towards the orchard, the elder seized his wing with his mouth and pulled him back on course. This drew a confused look from the young pegasus, to which the elder responded to by mouthing the words “Not now.” He then proceeded to point in the direction of the Ponyville’s boutique, specifically pointing out an area behind the tents to the rear of the shop. The younger shrugged and turned in rough unison with the elder, preparing to land near the designated area.
After coming to a slow and quiet landing, the two proceeded to untie themselves from the glider-cart. The elder undid his left leg tether first and proceeded to bring his hoof smacking into the younger pegasi’s head. “Sure boyo, why don’t we just stop for apples, cause that’s what we’re being paid for right?” asked the elder through his brogue.
The younger one cringed at the hit and swatted outward with the wing nearest his attacker. “Oi! Let me be!” he said through a light brogue of his own. “The only reason we ever come to this piss-water town is for the apples. So why are we here Speak Easy? What are we being paid for?” questioned the younger of the two, rubbing his head and shaking free the untied tether from his right leg.
Speak Easy lazily flapped his olive colored wings twice before he tucked them into his sides, “Oh isn’t this just like me brother to forget why we’re here.” He said to himself, sucking at his teeth. “The King wants us to acquire leverage for a deal he plans to make. Then transport said leverage back to Canterlot and keep it safe until whatever the deal he’s aiming to carry out is finalized.”
Speak could see that his brother didn’t entirely follow his meaning. He gestured over to his sibling to help push their cart out of sight. As they both placed their forelegs on the cart Speak Easy continued, “Bootleg, we’re here to capture and transport a pony of interest. It’ll be the easiest five thousand bits we’ve ever made. Got it now?”
Bootleg looked over to his elder brother and nodded to him. “Sure, but who are we after?” A valid question, one that Speak Easy would answer after they shoved the cart behind fully behind a pink checkered tent. Speak then flipped the rear tarp over on itself, revealing a small dossier. Bootleg took this as his answer and reached up and turned the cover page open with his mouth.
After reading through the details, he turned to Speak Easy who had pulled a lighter and a homemade cigarette from his vest pocket and was holding them aloft with his wings. “The King is going after the element holders? Isn’t that some kinda jinx? Bad karma and stuff like that?”
Lighting his cigarette and placing the lighter back into his vest, Speak Easy chuckled at his brother’s question, “And tell me Bootleg, ya really think after all the shite we’ve done, karma’s gonna give a damn about us taking one little filly away from all she knows?” He paused, taking time to exhale smoke through his nose. He looked over at the boutique, and took another breath of his cigarette. “Daylight’s a burnin’ boyo, we best do what we came for.”
The brothers nodded to one another and circled around the tents, surveying the area so as to make sure no one else is around. A thought crossed Bootleg’s mind and he answered with a laugh of his own, “Arson, Larceny, Assault, Embezzlement, Extortion, Vandalism, Tax Evasion, Bribery, Sale and Possession of Illegal Wares and Public Indecency. Guess we’ll have to add foalnapping to the list, eh me brother?”
“Right you are, Bootleg.” Yawned Speak Easy, looking off towards the sun. “Well, no one’s around. Ya think it’ll be more fun to play this straight, or to put on a ruse?” Bootleg seemed taken aback by the question and promptly answered with hesitation, “I dunno.” This was a response Speak heard all too often from his younger brother. “Well praise Faust above that at least one of us was born with da ability of decision-makin’.”
At this Bootleg rolled his eyes and watched as Speak Easy trotted around the corner of the tent and began heading for the jewel encrusted door of the boutique. “It’s a damn shame, really, we shoulda brought some tools to get these nice beauties out with.” Commented Speak half-heartedly, spitting his cigarette out onto the pathway and crushing it beneath a hoof.
He then turned to his younger brother, now taking care to speak softly “Ready your harness and go get the cart.” His right wing stretched out and reached into his vest pocket again, this time retrieving a small letter envelope; this was followed shortly by his left wing pressing at the doorbell.
He put on his best smile, and waited for the door.
When the jingle of the doorbell came, Sweetie Belle had already climbed into Rarity’s bed and was drifting off to sleep. Her head popped up from the pillows quickly, but was still feeling extremely tired. Sweetie moved to rise from the bed, but the comforting softness of the pillows demanded that she stay, and soon her head fell back to the bed like a brick.
Unfortunately for Sweetie Belle, the doorbell soon demanded that she rise in a new form. As ring after ring came, Rarity’s white Persian cat, Opalescence, who had been dropped off the day before by Fluttershy came mewing and hissing onto the bed. Opal was not a patient cat, especially not when Sweetie was involved. The sound from below had obviously annoyed the fluffy white cat, and so she came to annoy Sweetie Belle until she solved the first annoyance. Slowly, Sweetie’s head rose from the pillows of Rarity’s bed, and shot an angered glare at the demanding cat. Before long, another ring came, eliciting another hiss from Opal.
Sweetie heaved and heavy sigh and removed her tired self from the bed, stumbling a bit as she did so. “Alright, alright I’m going!” she slurred to her sister’s cat. As she traipsed down the boutique stairs she cursed her bad luck, “Dumb Doorbell…Dumb Opal…” She uttered under her breathe, approaching the door.
Maybe it was Rarity, back early from her trip to Canterlot with the rest of her friends, and maybe she forgot to bring her key with her. Such a thought had crossed her mind, but based on what little Rarity had told her about her trip, she shouldn’t have come back until the following day. In the back of her mind, she hoped it was Rarity, she hated being alone.
She wiped her tired left eye with her right hoof as her horned sparked a weak blue hue. The blue aura slowly wrapped around the lock of the front door; but before she could command it to be turned, her magic hesitated. She wasn’t sure why, but it suddenly became difficult to command her magic. Why was her horn acting this way? Was it the door? Was it what was behind it? True, she felt something was off about a visitor so early in the morning. But it wasn’t just that, it was something more. She didn’t have words to describe it, and did not possess the wisdom to discern what it truly meant. All she knew, was that her own magic was arguing against her will. And maybe it was right, maybe her horn was right. Her gut told her not to open it, her magic told her not to open it; could her destiny be telling her the same?
As these thoughts rushed through her young mind, her pride took hold of her. She was a Cutie Mark Crusader, unafraid of anything. She couldn’t let anything stop her, ever. That is what her pride told her; whilst the curiosity of the moment screamed at her to open the door and discover why she had to be so rudely awoken from potential sleep. Scootaloo would open the door. Apple Bloom would open the door. So why couldn’t she?
“Dumb horn!” And in that moment, her own will was forced against that of her magic. Her sparks of blue turned the lock, gripped the door, and pulled it open.
Light flooded through the doorway, but Sweetie was enveloped in a shadow. An unfamiliar shadow. Before her stood a pegasus she didn’t recognize. He held a letter with a wing she didn’t recognize. On his head, sat a hat she didn’t recognize. And on his face, sat a smile she did not recognize.
“Sweetie Belle?” asked the stranger in a strange accent. His breathe flowed forward with his words, and slithered to both her nostrils and ears. He smelled bad, like smoke. Sweetie wanted to cover her nose, but felt it would be rude.
“Yes, but who are you?” Sweetie answered his question with a question. She had never seen this stallion before, he was not a part of Cloudsdale’s weather team with Scootaloo’s idol, Rainbow Dash. Nor was he a resident of Ponyville.
“The name’s R.E. Liable, of the Imperial Mail Expressway,” lied Speak Easy. “I have a letter here from your sister Rarity.” He said with a smile, holding out the letter in his wing to her.
This stallion was from the capital, that would explain the smell. Sweetie had heard that grown up ponies smoked in the capital as some sort of fun. But no pony in Ponyville smoked, so she had no one to ask how fun it really was.
Sweetie Belle’s horn sparked up again and took the letter from the supposed mail pony and his wings returned to his sides. She gave it a look, all it read on the envelop besides the address were the words “For Sweetie Belle”, and it was done in a fancy looking cursive writing. It sure looked like Rarity’s writing.
She looked up at Speak Easy, and asked “Why would my sister send me a letter? And why so early?”
“I was told to give it only to you, your sister was very clear that the message was urgent, and for your eyes only. If I had to guess, it might have something to do with her stay in the capital” Speak Easy replied without breaking his charming smile.
News from Rarity? Was she staying longer? Was she coming home early? She’d have to read it to find out. “Thank you Mr. Liable” stated Sweetie Belle, in the most polite tone she could come up with in her tired state. She bowed her head and went to retreat back into the house.
But before she could, the stallion spoke up again, “Such a nice little filly. I hope the news is good.” He paused, reaching into the opposite pocket that had held the letter, and from it produced a decent sized caramel candy. Speak held it out to the young pony, “How about a sweetie for you, Sweetie. For being such a helpful sister.”
This caused Sweetie to fully turn around to face Speak Easy. She always did enjoy a nice caramel, but she remembered the lesson that was taught to all fillies and colts: Never accept candy from strangers, no matter how nice they are. “No thanks Mr. Box. It was nice of you to offer.” Speak Easy responded with a shrug and popped the caramel into his own mouth as Sweetie quickly retreated back into the house, and closed the door.
And with that, he sat and smiled to himself. Sat and waited.
Sweetie Belle sat on the floor with her back to the door, having not yet locked it whilst holding the letter from the stranger. This is what she woke up for? A letter from Rarity that was delivered by some smelly stallion? Fatigue and frustration had built up in Sweetie and she wanted nothing more than to read this letter and be off to bed. “It’s probably some sort of atrocious fashion emergency” uttered Sweetie in a voice of mock importance.
She strained for a second, and willed magic to spark from her horn again. The Blue aura holding the letter brought it hovering down in front of Sweetie’s face, it then moved its grip under the seal, and with forceful jerk opened the letter.
When she did though, the young unicorn found not a letter inside the envelope. Instead, when she opened it, outward flew what appeared to be grains of dust or dirt but it smelled faintly of cake. The unknown substance scattered over Sweetie’s face and the surrounding floor around her, scaring the little filly so much that she jumped backwards into the door. The impact reflected back into her body and threw her to the floor.
Sweetie had given the smallest of screams when the substance flew forth from the letter, but gathered her wits when she saw the dust had brought no harm to her. Without moving from her floored position, she looked at the brown substance and sniffed at it. Sweet, it smelled sweet. Almost like vanilla pudding. That was all.
That is what she had been disturbed for? So that Rarity could send a sample of some sugar powder back from the capital!? It couldn’t have waited until she got back from her trip? She kicked up the powdered dust with a stomp of her hooves. She could feel her throat tightening from frustration alone. She stomped the dust again and groaned in annoyance before turning towards the stairs.
But when she groaned, no sound left her mouth. Sweetie paused, and mouthed a “huh?” but again, no sound came out of her tightening throat.
She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t yell. And soon found that she couldn’t breathe. To Sweetie Belle’s horror, she felt her throat beginning to fully swell closed, cutting off her body to all air. She didn’t know what this stuff was, but she was genuinely scared of whatever this foul poison was. She felt like she was being strangled and instinctly reached her hooves up to her throat, but there were no offending appendages to throw off. She attempted to cough, but to no avail. Her airway was shut.
But her throat wasn’t the only sense affected by the poison; Sweetie soon felt her eyes burning and heard her ears began to ring. The feeling in her nostrils dulled and found her nose could no longer smell anything, good or bad.
She panicked and ran towards the kitchen, but her teary eyes betrayed her and she collided with a dresser. Effectively blinded, she wildly scrambled in any direction, fumbling for something, anything familiar. She tried to call out for help, but there were only empty gasps. She wanted to scream. She wanted her friends. She wanted her sister. She wanted the coming darkness gone, and for the pain to go away. This was a dream, a terrible dream. A nightmare she’d wake up from any second now.
Her head felt light, her world was a blur of tears, and she had no pony around to help. She could not but struggle helplessly against her invisible attacker. And soon enough, after a minute of being deprived of oxygen, little Sweetie Belle lay passed out on the boutique floor.
Promptly after Sweetie’s thrashing subsided, the boutique door swung open. In the doorway, was none other than Speak Easy, who was flanked by his younger brother and their cart.
Speak Easy trotted over to Sweetie’s unconscious body, and knelt down beside her. He flittered out his wings and used them to tilt her head from side to side, pleased with the results of his latest experiment.
Bootleg unfixed himself from the cart and entered the boutique, he stopped in his tracks after seeing the condition of their prey. “Faust above, what did ya do to her Speak?” there was a hint of fear in his voice, whether this was fear of losing out on the bounty or aiding in the killing of a helpless filly is unknown.
“This,” started Speak, “is an airborne poison concocted from two parts Swamp-Bloat leaves with one part ground Everfree fungal pod and about ten grams of vanilla bean extract. I’ve yet to name this creation…but I do know for certain it causes paralysis in Griffons. Now we know it causes rapid throat swelling in ponies. Well, that or she’s just unlucky enough to be allergic to it.” Assessed Speak Easy in an almost nonchalant manner.
“Is she dead?” asked Bootleg, approaching the scene ever so gently.
“No, but she will be if I don’t subdue the swelling. Responded Speak with a sniff. He turned to his shaken brother, the sight of which drew a smile across Speak’s features. “We’ve seen much worse than this, boyo. And you know it.”
“That doesn’t make it easier to see…” muttered Bootleg in response.
“Go to the cart, find the boiled water, and mix one teaspoon of the cinnamon powder with one teaspoon honey then add a pinch of black pepper.” Stated Speak. Bootleg nodded and quickly headed back to the cart. “I should have everything labeled so that you don’t get lost.”
Bootleg threw back the tarp on the cart and opened up a built-in chest furthest from the rear. There were several vials that were label as boiled water. Using his wings, he uncorked one vial and began adding the ingredients as told with the tools Speak had labeled and ready for their use. Exact and to the letter, Bootleg added the necessary things to the vial, corked it, and gave it a shake. He then rushed back to his waiting brother and transferred the vial to his wings.
Speak scooted forward, and with his left wing, propped up Sweetie’s body in a near-sitting position, but making sure that her head was hanging back, and that her mouth was open. He then uncorked the mixture with his mouth and tilted the remedy down into her mouth. Once all the liquid had gone, he handed the empty vial to Bootleg, and proceeded to massage the throat of the young filly. He smiled as he felt her swelling quickly start to subside. “So much trouble, just for one little filly. I coulda just had ya club her o’er the head. Woulda been so much faster.”
Bootleg laughed at the small joke, “Yes well I’m sure it’d also make us look a lot worse if the details of this job are ever found out.”
Speak nodded and laughed as well, “Aye, I suppose it would.” But paused when he felt breath starting to steady in Sweetie’s small chest. “Go get me the valerian tea; it’ll keep her nice and unconscious until we can get her back to Canterlot.”
Bootleg once again complied and retreated to their cart; finding a small jug a pre-brewed tea, he picked it up in his mouth and carried it back to his elder. Speak Easy took the jug and slowly urged the filly to drink once more.
Luckily, the brew went down without choking Sweetie and Speak gave the small jug back to his younger brother for him to replace. He then rose from his kneeling position and gave his legs a shake. “Now get ya arse over here and help me put her in da cart.”
“I thought you had her handled, or is a little filly too much for ya?” joked Bootleg, striding over to Sweetie. The olive pegasus cocked his head, “Oh so ya gonna make jokes on me boyo? After you were busy cryin’ in da corner not five minutes ago. And all because little Sweetie ‘ere got a little sleepy.” Retorted Speak as they lifted Sweetie Belle’s sedate body onto the back of Bootleg. The younger pegasi groaned at the comment and walked their prize to the door. Not pleased with a lack of response, Speak added, “Besides, she’s ‘eavier than she looks.”
Neither brother had noticed Opal, who had come down from the second story upon hearing the all the ruckus. The white cat had witnessed what was going on, and was silently creeping about under a drawer. She had not been sure as to what was happening before her, but she could plainly see that Sweetie Belle was being abducted. As difficult as she was at times, Opal still knew Sweetie and Rarity were the only family she had. She had to help.
Bootleg gently placed Sweetie down on the flat bed of the cart; pushing her as far back as he could so as to not risk her falling out during flight. He whispered the smallest “Sorry” as he secured the tarp once again.
Gazing back inside the boutique entrance way, “You were right me brother, this will be the easiest five thousand bits we’ve ever made.” Bootleg commented, hoping Speak would hear.
For a little while, there was no response. Then, there was a sudden sound of crashing furniture and a yell of pain from Speak Easy. Bootleg rushed to the door to find his elder brother frantically flapping away from a knocked over dresser, a white cat hissed and clung to his face. There were already visible scratch marks on Speak’s freckled cheeks. Speak hovered unsteadily, constantly changing direction and wildly kicking his legs; he shook his face back and forth in an attempt to dislodge the terrorizing fur ball.
“Get it off my face! GET IT OFF MY FACE!!!” shouted Speak frantically. He swatted at Opal several times with his hooves unsuccessfully, knocking over several changing shades and slamming into a fabric closet.
Bootleg was swift on the draw; quickly un-holstering his baseball bat from its leather sheath and readily switching it to the grip of his right wing. He ran up to his brother and measured his target. “Hold still, Speak!” Speak promptly did as he was told and locked his body in position, shutting his eyes.
Opal continued to fiercely scratch at Speak’s face, unwary of his approaching younger brother. Bootleg saw his chance, wound up, and swung his bat. The metal rod smacked without restraint into Opalescence’s small body, forcing a high-pitched yowl from the cat as it went soaring off towards a pile of fallen fabric.
“Faust be damned! That is the last time I’m nice to a cat!” yelled the olive colored pegasus, walking briskly out the door, “Holy shite that stings!” Bootleg didn’t wait to see if the cat was coming back for more, but kept his bat ready as he followed his elder brother, closing the door as they both left. “Hope, no one heard all that.” Added Bootleg off-handedly as he approached Speak Easy, who was searching a small exterior compartment for a remedy for his fresh scratches.
“Where’s da clove oil? I could swear I brought it wit’ me.” Questioned Speak, evidently making no progress on his end. Bootleg holstered his bat, and opened a similar compartment on the opposite end of the cart. “It’s right here Speak,” the mustard pegasus held up the small oil container for his brother to see and cantered over to him. He didn’t need to be told what to do; proceeded to dip his feathers in the oil and began dabbing at Speak’s wounds.
The sun was now much higher in the sky, fully visible from the mountains of the Imperial Capital. The dawn had passed and the day had come.
“We’ve taken too much time,” started Speak, wincing between dabs. “We’ll have to pull double time back to Canterlot.” Bootleg nodded in response and walked back around the cart to replace the oil container. “Guess that means I’m flyin’ this cart meself?”
“You fly much faster than I do, you’ll get there quicker.” Affirmed Speak, giving his own wings a flap and rising into the air. Bootleg, backed up to the front of the cart, and began fastening the cart to his leather harness. “Where are we takin’ her?”
“To the Heated Mare Meadery.” Speak circled around his grounded brother, wanting him to quicken his pace. He knew some pony had to come around sooner or later, and when they did, he wanted them to be long gone.
Bootleg was taken by surprise, “Why our meadery? The last thing we need is a foalnapped filly living in our home and business!” he all but shouted, running forward and taking flight.
Speak followed suit and soared after the departing cart. He shouted sarcastically in return, “Sure, go ahead, why don’t ya speak up boyo? I don’t think the whole town heard where we’re takin’ her!”
But by the time Speak had finished his retort, they were far from earshot of any pony in the area. The Pegasi brothers had fled back into the rising sun from whence they came; and nary a soul knew they were ever there.
♙--------------------------♙
Back at the boutique, rustling beneath the fabric toppled in her scuffle laid an injured Opal. Mewing painfully, she rose herself from the pile and limped towards the door. She felt her bones on her right side were shaken, and knew that a few ribs were cracked, if not fully shattered. Her small lungs breathed labored, heavy breaths as she inched closer and closer to her cat-flap exit. She needed help, both for herself, and for Sweetie Belle.
Fluttershy. She’d be the only one to understand Opal; she’d have to be the only one to get help. Thought the cat, pushing weakly out the door. It was going to be a long trip.
♙--------------------------♙
Roughly a mile outside of Canterlot, The Brothers Mead cut through the morning air. Speak Easy had finally caught up to his faster brother, mostly due to his brother carrying the weight of the cart with him. Bootleg, had not said a word since they left; he was still peeved at the announcement that Sweetie would be their personal guest back at the Heated Mare Meadery. He had thought they would be dropping her off with one of The King’s contacts, or with the Trotter. They didn’t have time to look after a hostage filly, and sure as sin didn’t have anywhere to keep one.
He periodically shot glances over to his brother of olive shade; his face was already healing nicely. Speak’s poultices were unnaturally powerful, surpassing even the healing capabilities of most medical corps unicorns. Speak was blessed with a useful and incredible talent. Unlike himself, thought Bootleg, gazing back at his own flank. What kinda pony, especially a pegasus, has a destiny comprised of hitting things with a bat?
Speak Easy took notice of Bootleg’s troubled look, and decided it wasn’t the way he ought to be looking. “Quit yer starin’ at ya arse boyo! Keep ya eyes focused on where ya goin’.” Came his snickering voice. “You’ll never get into da Wonderbolts with that lack of concentration!” Bootleg recognized this was just stab at him, but didn’t appreciate the joke all the same. “Shut ya mouth! I can outfly any of those leotard wearin’ pansies any day of da week!” spat Bootleg, coming in dangerously close to his brother so as to look him in the eye.
“Oh yeah, and that’s exactly why they ejected ya from the program is it?” laughed Speak, placing a hoof between them and shoving himself away from his angered sibling.
Bootleg swore under his breath, and prematurely began to descend towards Canterlot. This action perturbed Speak, who came gliding down to his brother’s level before he could drop further. “Pull up! Yer flyin’ too low; ground sentries are suspicious of low flyers on Imperial Holidays.” Reminded Speak, “We have to get back above cloud level, and bypass the morning traffic from above.”
“I thought you finally picked up the landing permits.” Grumbled Bootleg. Speak shook his head, “I said I’d get around to pickin’ them up. Now please, climb higher before we’re noti---!” A sharp and loud bang rang, like a thunder crack, rang out from over Speak’s right shoulder, causing both brothers to nearly jump out of their skin. Without breaking from their flight path, Speak and Bootleg slowly turned their heads to regard the offensive sound.
Drifting behind the brothers were three gilded imperial chariots, each carrying a unicorn gunner in addition to the dual pegasi piloting each chariot. The pegasi pilots wore the traditional golden guard armor that covered the upper body and crept up the neck, ending in the crested helms that many of the imperial citizens were familiar with. The gunners however, were a new improvement to the Solar Empire’s military. They were covered in light golden scale armor that resembled a skirt as it wrapped around their whole length of their bodies, from chest to flank. The armor covered little more than that, mostly to offer mobility. Their legs and necks were uncovered by armor, and in their place sat patriotic linens of gold and purple colors instead. On their heads sat feathered berets, a stylistic nod to the northern Gryphus Empire no doubt.
They needed not look intimidating like their guardsmen counterparts. For the fear they commanded was in wielding the fearsome Model Two Equestrian Flare. A .75 caliber flintlock rifle that was adapted from the Griffon .69 Moineau flintlock rifle design. It is hailed by many to be the weapon that put down the NLR. Capable of blowing an average sized armored equine in two with an accurately placed shot; it would have no trouble with putting down two slow moving and unarmored pegasi.
That bang was a warning shot, issued by the closest gunner. Who was already well into the process of reloading a second shot. Speak was confident they wouldn’t be so generous as to give another warning.
Speak Easy soon noticed the reason why the first gunner looked so eager to reload. Bootleg’s flight pace was increasing, “Stop runnin’ boyo; they’ll think we’re guilty.” Uttered Speak through his teeth, putting on a mock smile for the imperials.
“Travelers, you are traveling towards the Capital of Canterlot outside both official tourist and merchant sky-lanes with unidentifiable cargo!” Yelled the second closest gunner; who was dressed in much finer style and as such was the obvious leader of the group “Deviate from your present course and accompany us to the nearest travel checkpoint to verify your citizenship and your cargo!”
“But we ARE guilty Speak…” replied Bootleg, not ceasing his pace increase. Speak wasn’t ready for this kind of honesty; he didn’t need it right now. He placed a free hoof on a wheel of the cart and pushed in the opposite direction in which they flew. “Yes, but we don’t need them to know that we know that we’re guilty…” Bootleg shook his head at this, “Well what’s da plan then?” whilst Speak kept up his smile, “I’m thinkin’, I’m thinkin’.”
“If you continue on your course, we will shoot to kill! You will not be warned again!” Came the shout of the second gunner again; this warning was accompanied by the closest and furthest gunners readying their weapons. Magic flowed from their horns, adjusting their sights on their targets.
“Good morning friends! My name is I. M. Lyre, and this is my adopted son, Hugh Jass! We are merchants with an express permit to the early morning market!” Shouted Speak Easy in response, “We are good friends with Captain Love Lace, you may contact him if you wish to verify our permits.”
They were closing in on Canterlot fast, and were running out of time. Hopefully, dropping the Captain’s name would get them somewhere. The second gunner paused and blinked unbelievably at the brothers. He pursed his lips, suddenly sweating, and instantly lowered his rifle. “Stand down troops!” The other gunners were slow to react, and looked at their commanding officer quizzically “I said stand down fools! These pegasi are under the protection of Captain Love Lace, who speaks with the authority of House Le Blanc of the imperial family!” yelled the gunner officer in an almost frenzied manner. Hearing this, the other two gunners lowered their rifles, and all three chariots pulled off their pursuit.
Speak Easy heaved a huge sigh, “Good, Love Lace’s name still commands weight.” It had been a gamble he had taken upon them, as it had been quite a while since he last used the Captain’s name for any favor. Either way, he was just glad it worked out so well.
Finally able to turn back around, Speak sped up and punched Bootleg the shoulder playfully. “See? I always told ya out Ma didn’t raise a fool! Well, she didn’t raise two at least.” Bootleg answered only with a half-hearted laugh and shook his head. He knew Speak meant well, but he did get tired of always being treated like a moron. But there was no arguing with Speak, he always seemed right. He’d just have to grin and bear the usual treatment like he always did.
♙--------------------------♙
The day was still young when the brothers finally touched down in Canterlot just outside the Capital’s market district. One might not have thought it, but the city streets were still quite lively. Marginally more so than the near vacant roads of Ponyville. True, most of the festive game booths were closed, as well as concession stands. But the majority of the usual merchant stalls were still open from the night before, many of which had resorted to hiring help for ‘round the clock shifts.
The streets were still busy with a wide assortment of tourists and citizens, young and old. From all breeds of pony, to the visiting Griffons, to even the rare Zebra or Elk. The main streets were rife with taxi carts and traveling wagons, the brothers could even swear they spotted a few new steam-powered investments that nobles were calling “cars”. Boot was always enamored with such technological advances, and stopped to wonder if every pony would one day own one. Speak easy didn’t care for them though, he thought they just looked like squished, ugly train engines. Nudging his younger brother in the side, they continued down the side streets that they had been traversing for years.
They then turned down what was likely the most vacant street during the daytime in Canterlot. It’s real name was no longer used if anyone still remembered it, as it was now known better by its nickname, Wicked Way; or simply as the red light district of the imperial Capital. It housed probably the best and worst ponies you’d ever want to meet. And it never seemed to form a shortage of new arrivals, from employees to customers. No matter your kink, there was a bordello for you in varying shapes and sizes. At the far end of the way, sat Speak’s personal favorite section : where the widest assortment of odd eateries and risqué shops sat. Such a Miss Velvet’s The Crop, the Panty Pastry dessert shop, and the brothers’ favorite pub The Sea Unicorn.
Speak had always insisted to Bootleg that the shops and pubs around Wicked Way always seemed like the best target consumer for their mead. But the younger brother had always disagreed, saying that the kind of customers you’d get from this district aren’t the kind of customer you want to keep. Speak knew where the money was though, the real money anyhow.
Turning down a back alley that lead them away from Wicked Way, Bootleg lead both the cart and his brother to the through the darkened turns and twists until they came upon the familiar rear entrance of the Heated Mare Meadery, Speak Easy’s pride and joy. Bootleg himself was never interested in running this place as he didn’t know the first thing about brewing mead; but he did derive enjoyment from helping his brother enforce his business practices, usually on competitors to their business.
Speak helped his brother get unattached from the cart, as it would take both of them to wheel it into the small garage that was built into the back of the meadery. Compared to the events of earlier, pushing a cart back into its resting place was easy enough. They then slowly trotted over to the front of some crates they had stored in the garage and sat down. The brothers smiled, and enthusiastically bumped their hooves against each other.
“Easiest five thousand bits, ever.” They said in unison, each with his own accented laugh after the statement. With his laughter subsiding, Speak rose to his hooves and cantered over to the rear of the cart. “Let me get our guest out of her chariot…oh! And while I do, could you see if we have anything in the icebox? I’m right parched.” At this, Bootleg took flittered his wings and shot up into a moderate hover. He exited the garage and disappeared through the meadery doorway.
Speak smiled to himself, “That’s a good lad.” He all but whispered to himself, untying the rope that secured the tarp. But just as he went to throw back the cover, a trash can fell over in the ally, followed by the yowl of a cat. Speak flew at the sound and pivoted, landing in a stand position on his hind legs with his wings outstretched, forelegs up to his chest, and ready to fight any oncoming felines that dared show their furry face. He felt that his scratches had finally healed, and was in no mood to receive fresh ones.
However, no cats pounced. No fur balls attacked. And no felines mauled. Speak was relieved at this, and turned to find a returned Bootleg staring at him. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing, I thought I heard something in the alley. Anyway, never mind that.” Spouted Speak Easy in rapid succession, throwing back the covers of the cart. Bootleg shrugged at this behavior and placed two mead bottles down on one of the nearby crates before looking at Speak, who had gone quiet. He could see a silent horror creeping over his brother’s face, as though he had just stepped into something vile and he didn’t want to lift his hoof to tell what it was. He saw sweat beading on Speak’s head, and his olive face was turning pale.
“Where is she?” uttered Speak, barely audible to Bootleg.
“What was that?” questioned the mustard colored stallion.
“WHERE IS SHE?!!” roared Speak Easy, turning his gaze to meet his brothers. Bootleg could see an accusatory flame burning in those green eyes, and knew well enough where this was headed. “How should I know? You’re the one who placed her in there.” Answered Bootleg honestly, attempting to deflect the blame back at Speak.
“You were the one driving, and you were the one being reckless when we came across that patrol. What if she fell out because of you?” came the accusation from Speak, as he threw his forelegs onto the cart and slammed his hooves onto its vacant flatbed. His wings flapped aggressively in an assertion of dominance. But Bootleg would not back down, as he threw up his own aggressive wing beat in defiance.
“I swear by Faust above, if I lost out on good money because you, I will personally fu---!?”
Speak didn’t get to finish, as he found himself crashing mid-sentence and nose first into the flatbed. His head swung back, throwing his hat from his head and spinning his world. He could smell the copper scent of blood in his nostrils. His eyes began to water, and swore several times a Bootleg before realizing that he’d been kicked. More specifically, his hind legs we kicked out from under him. He looked up to see that Bootleg was rushing towards him, asking what had happened.
Realization shot through Speak like a bullet, Bootleg hadn’t done this. It was another pony. One that wasn’t supposed to be awake. This was affirmed when he heard the clopping of tiny hooves against the pavement just down the way. “It’s Sweetie. Get her back before she gets away!” coughed Speak, wiping his nose. Bootleg wasn’t feeling up to taking orders from his brother right now, but he’d be losing out on money too if she got away. And so he soared out the door and after the retreating filly as Speak gathered himself against the wagon and replaced his hat. After he regained his wherewithal, Speak rushed to the compartments of the cart and began rummaging through the drawers.
Sweetie had no idea where she was, or when it was, or where she had been. She had hoped the events from earlier were all a dream. But they weren’t. She knew she had been taken from her home after she succumbed to that weird powder from earlier. And it was all planned by that strange Mister Liable.
She knew now she shouldn’t have trusted him, as she darted back and forth through what seemed like never ending alleyways. The sun shined through breaks in the cramped rooftops above and reflected off viscous puddles on the floor beneath her. The Sun! The sun was still up, that must mean she hasn’t been gone long, and it must mean that she must not be far from Ponyville.
With renewed vigor, she raced throughout the endless stream of alleys, she ran until she saw it. A light at the end of the tunnel. An exit onto a street. A street where she could get help and be saved from these crazy pegasi.
She felt weak, but ran like there was no tomorrow towards the light. The light where her sister lived, the light where her friends lived, the light where she lived.
So enamored with the light was she, that she did not hear Bootleg swoop down from above. He had her before she had time to react, placing a hoof over her mouth so that she couldn’t scream, and holding her firmly to his chest with his free hoof. Faster than he arrived, he flapped his wings and flew off into the darkness of the Canterlot alleys.
Speak Easy was waiting in front of the cart when Bootleg returned with Sweetie, who was struggling as hard she possibly could whilst in his grip. Speak briskly trotted over to the pair and looked Sweetie Belle in the eye. “Great catch boyo, I swear I’d be lost without your help sometimes.” The words flowed from his mouth, but they were only half genuine as he confirmed with an added, “Don’t let it go to ya head though.”
Without breaking eye-contact, Speak held out both of his wings to Sweetie, each of which held a clear vial. One vial held an oddly colored liquid, the other held a brown colored powder. Sweetie could not help but let out a muffled scream and let tears flow freely at the sight of the second vial. A scream that was answered with a knowing nod from Speak Easy. “That’s right, you know what this is.”
“What you may not know however, is that you have a choice.” Speak smiled his earlier smile, and changed his voice to a more soothing tone. “And the choice is whether you want to get along with us or not. It’s just that simple.” Sweetie Belle was confused, what did he mean by “get along”?
Speak then gestured to Bootleg, who nodded and removed his hoof from her mouth. Sweetie felt like she should scream, but all she could manage between sniffles was a soft “Huh?”
“We’re not here to hurt you Sweetie Belle, we’re here to bring you to your sister.” He said, wiping away a salty tear from her pale face. “That’s where we are now, we’re in Canterlot. We’ll bring you to your sister in due time, but we’ll need you to cooperate with us so that we can do our jobs well.”
“But why did you take me from my home?” Sniffed Sweetie, “If you needed my help, you could have just asked.” She added with a whimper. Speak nodded to Bootleg, letting him know that she wasn’t going to run. “Because we’re secret spies for Empress Celestia, we couldn’t let you know anything unless you were gonna be a helpful lassie. We’re on a super important mission to find a group of bad-guys who want to hurt the Solar Empire.”
“So we need to know that we can count on you.” He finished, holding out the vials once more. “You must choose, to side with us, and drink this valerian tea…” Speak drew attention to the liquid vial. “…Or to side with a bad guy, and have another fun moment with your good friend from the past.” He said sweetly, holding up the brown vial.
For Sweetie, it was not a hard decision. She had tried to run once, and they only caught her. At least if she cooperated, she’d see her sister again. She lowered her head and uttered, “I’m with you.”
“A wise choice, for such a young filly.” Chuckled Speak with an affirmative nod, pocketing the vial with the brown powder and holding out the valerian for Sweetie to take. And take it she did, as light blue aura swirled around her small horn and shot out, taking the vial and opening it. Sweetie paused for the slightest of moments, her thoughts drifting to her friends back home. She hoped they would be alright without her. She then tilted the vial towards her mouth and drank the bitter, unsavory tasting tea.
Speak then walked past his brother, tapping him on the shoulder with his left wing. “She’ll be feeling tired, let her use my bed.” At this Bootleg scoffed, “Yeah and where are ya goin’? Just up an’ leavin’ me ta look after her?”
Pulling a lighter and cigarette from his vest, he turned and smiled at his younger brother, “Reportin’ to da King, like any good pawn should.” He lit up his cig and placed it in his mouth. He inhaled once, spread his wings, and then he was gone. Soaring off through the dark nest of corridors that they called home.
♙--------------------------♙
At the now quiet Imperial Palace, as all of the noble guests slept, a shadow moved. A figure clad in a midnight black cowl and uniform walked briskly through the halls towards the room of Rarity, divine unicorn beauty and holder of the Element of Generosity. The figure did not creep, or sneak, or attempt stealth of any kind. They walked freely through the guarded halls, unnoticed by any and all castle staff.
When the figure came to the guarded guest room of Rarity, the posted soldiers did nothing to halt the advances of the unknown figure; They walked unchallenged into her room.
They approached her bedside and spoke in an androgynous yet commanding voice so as to be heard, “Lady Rarity, wake up!”
The voice startled the sleeping Rarity, who quickly awoke with a jumble of garbled phrases. But soon came to her senses after realizing that she recognized neither the voice nor the appearance of the pony at her bedside. “Who are you!? What do you want!?” Rarity asked frantically, completely forgettomg to just scream for help.
“I am the Trotter, my dearest Lady Rarity. And what I want, is to deliver a message.” Stated the anonymous shadow before Rarity. It paused, waiting for her response, but none came. Rarity was either too dumbstruck or too polite to interrupt the Trotter any further.
“My lord, Esprit Le Blanc of the royal family, wishes to hold an audience with you. He believes that he has a proposition for you that will prove to be mutually beneficial. And wishes to offer you the opportunity of a lifetime.”
Chapter 2: En Passant
“The strong are those which are able to intercept at will the communication between the senses and the mind.” -Alderic Absolon, Provincial Minister of Birdeaux.
Lavender. With a hint of peaches.
Speak Easy always adored this smell; the unmistakable aroma that came only from the interior of the Le Blanc estate. Speak stood before a grand door of aged white oak and pearl finishes. A door he had stood before many times just for an audience with Earl Esprit. In his time waiting, Speak could not help but admire the well-lit halls of polished marble that he had traipsed down before. Nor could he help but find beauty in the faint music that echoed from an unknown pianist down said halls. Or that he found such peace in watching the blooming trees sway in the wind outside the window to his right. Compared to the dark alleys of his home, these halls were a new world. A world lined in silver and gold, with the most luxurious of linens and the finest crafted furniture. It was a world that seemed so far away from the troubles of Equestria. Almost like heaven.
But it wasn’t a new world; nor was it heaven. It was the exact same world that he was from. This was just an estate, a place where the elite lived. Still it soothed Speak Easy to get away from the darkness and the dirt of his home; to ascend to a place where he was ordained by birth to not be. He tried to not think too hard on it, as he knew there was no money in dreaming. But he could not help but wonder sometimes if Equestria would look much brighter to him and his brother had been born on this higher plane. An audible “ahem” reminded him of his place back in reality with. The grizzled voice that carried the sound came from an elderly butler that had appeared from the grand doors.
The olive pegasus turned back to the pony that had just exited the grand doors, giving a half-apologetic nod. The earth pony before him was one he had seen many times before. He was a lethargic but proud looking stallion with an eccentrically curled white mane. He wore a white tuxedo and that was fine pressed and neatly folded over much of his wrinkled, plum colored body. The stallion wheezed between every few breathes and had sunken eyes of deep shrouded blue. His name was Honor Bound and he had been serving the Le Blanc family since long before Speak Easy was born.
“His lordship will see you now.” Croaked the old butler in a somewhat labored breath. Speak did nothing but nod again, opting to not enter into any form of conversation with the old pony. Not out of contempt for Honor, the butler had never shown any to him. It was just that he was anxious enough with the morning’s discordant events, even though he tried his hardest to mask such.
The butler silently noted such, and with a quick nod of his own, opened the doors for Speak Easy. Speak needed no further prompt and proceeded into the office.
In here, the scent of Lavender was the strongest. This was due to the large patch of them growing outside the large opened windows at the rear of the office. Large tapestries hung from the walls, each more beautiful than the last. Two of which were exact copies of the heroic depictions of the holders of the Elements of Harmony that stained the glass in Canterlot castle. There was faint music playing, from a scratchy old record player in the corner nearest the doors. The tune was operatic and rich, with a commanding Gryphus baritone providing the vocals. In the center of the room was a desk of purest white, with inlays of ivory and silver and was covered in most part by indigo cloth that ran down parallel ends like a small banner. On the desk itself sat neatly lain parchment, an ink well made of pearl, several pens crafted from phoenix feathers, and an impressive looking silver box that bore the mark of the Solar Empire the edge facing the door.
A single chair sat behind a white oak desk that resembled the grand doors. It assaulted the eyes with vibrant rouge silk cushions and gleaming gold frames, each leg possessing meticulously crafted designs of suns and moons, and each sun and moon was inlayed with a sapphires and rubies for their respective celestial mass they represented. Two chairs occupied the space before the desk, the frames were carved from lovely sets of ivory, and the seats were made up from cerulean colored cushions. The furniture in the room alone never ceased to amaze Speak, despite his many dealings with the youngest member of the Le Blanc family.
Speak had not yet seen Esprit however, which he found odd. Normally the alabaster stallion would be sitting at his desk, ready to greet him. But a light cough from behind the largest chair soon alerted the olive pegasus as to his employer’s location. Spying around the desk, Speak could see his employer leaning against the frame of the center-most window. Esprit wore a wine-colored waistcoat of silk that was adorned in small fleur designs, and wore a cravat necktie that Speak had seen other nobles wearing. A gold chain hung out of his left breast pocket and his monocle and dinner coat from earlier was gone.
With another light cough, Esprit turned away from the open windows and looked to Speak, a pleased smile on his face. “Ah Speak Eezy. I ‘ave been looking forward to your return.” Said the unicorn in his usual Gryphus accent, moving past his desk and to the stationary Speak. Speak, in turn could not help but return the gesture with welcoming smile of his own.
Esprit extended his right foreleg and Speak did the same, engaging in a familiar hoof-shake. “It’s good ta be back boss.” Esprit gave a light chuckle from under his smile, enjoying the small jest “You did not travel as far as you may think, perhaps you got lost.” He then looked past Speak, to Honor Bound, who was still standing in the doorway. “Honor, you may leave us.” Ordered the white unicorn with a small nod; To which he wrinkled plum gave a dutiful bow of his own before closing the door.
The two of them waited until they heard his hoof beats fade to continue. Certain now that they were alone, Speak spoke first, “He still doesn’t like me, I can see da disdain in his eyes. Dose old, creepy eyes.”
Esprit titled his head, sighing and rolling his eyes, “Honor eez loyal to ze family, and ze family never cared for me associating with the lower classes. But zen, zey never really cared for anything I ‘ave pursued.” Stated Esprit, giving a small pat to the back of Speak. He then continued, “But what zey ‘ate most of all; mind zat this is during the rare times zat they notice of my life. Is that I act too familiar with ze lower classes, and thus, do not take my royal duties seriously.”
At this Speak snorted, “An’ I thought me parents were hard on me. It never ceases to amaze how we ponies ‘ave been around fer thousands of years, an’ we still bow to corrupt aristocracy.” Speak realized that this may come across as offensive to an aristocrat, and quickly recovered with an apology.
“Zat’s quite ze revolutionary outlook Speak Eezy, take care not to be ‘anged for possessing such a correct view.” Said Esprit in response with a laugh. “I should ‘ope zat your rebellious ways do not completely rub off on me. Though at times, I suspect zey already ‘ave.”
“Don’t get me wrong boss, I was brought up Faustian, and have complete faith in da Empress. But I can’t help but wonder at times if things would be better without the Solar Empire, without lunar rebels, without politics. Just peace, for every pony in Equestria.” There was a brief pause as the two traded incredulous looks before bursting into hearty laughter. What Speak had said was a clear and blatant jest. Esprit knew that Speak could never abide a peaceful world; it would mean the end to his occupation and thus, an end to his funds. Just as Speak knew that Esprit believed in his heart that there would never be peace, true peace for pony kind. Not since the return of Nightmare Moon. It was an infallible truth that the land of Equestria had grown dark and deadly in the years since Nightmare’s return. Something dark came with her on that summer day. Even still, these two stallions found a way to smile. The most unlikely of allies.
With their laughter subsiding, the thin white stallion then took this chance to move away from the doors, and walked over to the left side of the room, stopping in front of a liquor cabinet. Esprit had been halted by a sudden jolt of pain that shot through his back. There he paused for a moment, taking a brief moment to stretch his back. He gave the softest of grunts as he did so, wincing slightly after a particular turn. This lasted only a second though, and he soon returned back to his full posture.
Esprit turned his head to the left, just enough so that Speak was to be seen in his peripherals. “Please, s’asseoir, sit.” Speak swiftly complied, trotting up to the right-most chair of cerulean, fluttering his wings just enough to lift himself up and into the seat.
“Me brotha and I have procured your leverage.” To which Esprit smiled knowingly, his horn sparking with golden swirls; they slithered through the air and gripped at the cabinet doors, flinging them open swiftly. “Oui, I ‘ave been made aware of such.” Several small glasses and a bottle of imported whiskey came hovering out of the cabinet before the doors swung shut. “I trust you encountered no trouble?” inquired Esprit.
“No trouble that’s worth mentionin’” came Speak’s reply. Esprit himself paused a moment, shifting his jaw around. An uncomfortable expression on his face. Esprit’s magic sparked off once more, and the dancing bottle proceeded to uncork and pour itself in two of the three glasses he had removed, filling them modestly. The unicorn placed the empty third glass on the table, which caused a puzzled look to streak out across Speak’s freckled face. “Come come Speak Eezy, you should know better zan to leave out details; Especially when those details involve you having to throw out the name of my family’s guard captain. ” sighed Esprit to Speak; the levitating second glass resting in the air within reach of Speak. “Saying zat it is not mentioning is like saying zat this third glass before you is full.” Continued Esprit, gesturing to the empty third glass he had laid on the table. It was apparent that Esprit had placed it there simply to prove a point.
The pegasus took the briefest gulp of air as he reached out with his right wing, and took the glass, quickly raising it to his lips so as to sip from it. He hadn’t meant to hide the events of the morning from the Earl; it had been an honest slip of the tongue. One that he thought he’d end up regretting. In his worry, Speak had not savored the drink he was given, and quickly took another sip to calm his nerves. The creamy taste of oak and molasses cavorted across Speak’s tongue, splashing together with a sweet hint of corn and apricot as well. The drink warmed him to his core before diving into his gullet. Speak pursed his lips, thinking to himself, letting his eyes return before him as Esprit climbed onto his own seat, looking as though he was waiting for something.
Realization snapped into Speak, “A thousand apologies boss. Me brotha had gotten a lil’ uppity dis morning after we procured yer item. His head was in da clouds an’ he was actin’ a fool.” Speak Easy paused, making sure to keep eye contact with his employer. His own emerald stare reflected in plates of gold. “He attracted da attention of the outer patrols wid his foolery an’ they didn’t give me any time to react…So I dropped Captain Lace’s name.”
Esprit’s smirk had gone during Speak’s explanation, replaced by a look of cold chastisement. “I ‘ope zat in ze future you will remember zat Love Lace answers not only to me but to the rest of my family as well.” Esprit took a drink from his own levitating glass, and gave a small cough. Placing his glace down on the desk before him, he continued, “I would appreciate it, and zat means so should you, if you would not give ze rest of my family reason to look into my business.”
Speak nodded feverishly, hoping that the subject would be dropped. “I’ll definitely keep it in mind, boss. The front of my mind.”
“I know you will,” confirmed Esprit, looking satisfied as his knowing smile and pleasant demeanor returned. His magic sparked it’s gilded color, lifting both the glass and Speak’s gaze from the desk. He held it aloft, seemingly inspecting it before raising an eyebrow and asking, “How is your refreshment?”
“Bourbon whiskey, aged roughly fifteen years, in white oak from Cervidas, caramel and vanilla for da main sweetness; subtle hints of corn, apricot, an’ tobacco.” Speak whispered to himself as he raised the glass to his nostrils, taking a whiff, “Ya can smell da malt an’ rye. This is Elk-made. Imported from the Cervidae Hegemony to da far south. It’s rich, sought after by a lot o’ folk o’er in Manehatten. Fetches a helluva price with da Griffons up north.” Finished Speak, lowering his glass, letting his gaze return to the thin royal before him. “I, err, it’s quite good ya grace…sorry boss.” Fumbled Speak Easy slightly embarrassed at his outburst. His ability to dissect things down to ingredients based on smell and taste alone was normally something he kept in check.
“Non, non.” Retorted Esprit, waving a hoof. “It eez ‘ow you are. I would not dream of persecuting you for who you are. Perhaps for your actions and foolishness, but not for your talent.” The glass hovering over Esprit’s head then floated down and pressed itself to his own lips. After his own respective drink, it spun back and forth gently before placing itself down on the table. “It eez, of course why you are such an asset.”
“’Owever, I know you did not come ‘ere just for a friendly drink and to report your progress. You came for compensation, for performing a noble service for a humble Earl of Equestria.” This drew a light chuckle from both respective ponies. “Just doing a pawn’s job for his king.” Joked Speak in response.
“Ah, well now zat you bring such a thing up.” Commented Esprit, his tone suddenly falling again from a light and friendly one to a tone of dead seriousness.
Speak said nothing, instead opting to just listen. Esprit taking this cue, continued “Today you ‘ave earned five thousand bits. Regardless of what else happens today, you ‘ave earned zat.” His horn shot off a golden spark, urging the center drawer of his gilded desk to open up and forcing it to seemingly spit out a small piece of paper with silver trimmings. The paper hovered to the left of Esprit, and there it stayed. This was the typical payment, a letter of credit from Esprit. One that with the seal of the royal family could be cashed at any banking establishment in Equestria.
But something about what Esprit said sounded off to Speak Easy. “Regardless of what happens today boss?” inquired Speak, raising an eyebrow and leaning closer to the white stallion.
“Oui, I ‘ave another job for you and your brother.” Said Esprit with a nod, his attention turned to the letter of credit as it floated down to his desk to be sealed. The silver box on the desk slowly opened its maw, urged by Esprit’s magic. “I cannot say ze details just yet,” more magic sparked from Esprit, coaxing a small flame to ignite from the within the box. A small circular container with a red substance inside, Speak knew it was wax, swiftly hovered out of the box and placed itself over the fire.
Waiting for the wax to heat, Esprit turned his gaze back to Speak who had lifted his glass, seeking to finish his whiskey. “What I can say, is zat should you accomplish ze task, you will be given a sum of five million Equestrian Bits.”
“WHAT!!?” coughed Speak Easy, nearly choking, unsure if his hearing had betrayed him. There was no possible way that the unicorn before him was telling the absolute truth. He must have just said the wrong number. Even royalty make mistakes at times, Esprit must have meant another five thousand. Or maybe Speak’s hearing was off, still ringing from the thunderous gunshots from earlier. Regardless of whose fault it may have been, he quickly wiped at the bourbon that had escaped his throat onto his chin with his left wing and placed the glass down on the table with his right wing. “I’m sorry, yer grace I believe I misheard you.”
Esprit found this reaction natural, and chuckled at the sight. True, he had never offered the brothers anything over five thousand bits in the past. However, the past had been naught but pavement to the way for the severity of the task he was about to lie at the hooves of the pegasus before him. However, instead of correcting Speak, Esprit just stared at him, magically lifting the now heated wax over the folded letter. Speak on the other hoof, waited for an answer. One that would never come. The Earl was serious. He had not spoken out of turn. The truth of it was that the stallion before him, whom Speak had only known for several years, was offering a chance to live a new life. A chance for at something greater. Speak’s mind was a frenzy of panicked thoughts, incapable of processing just how he and his brother would spend that kind of coin. In the midst of chaos, a single phrase, like earlier brought calm and a reason to think slowly.
“If we succeed.”
The words caused an echo of thought in Speak’s mind. An echo that flooded the olive colored stallion’s mind with questions. What would the task be? What was the risk of such a task? What task could they, the Brothers Mead, be asked to accomplish for so great a reward.
Esprit’s gaze had not broken contact with Speak’s the entire time, even as he poured the scalding wax upon the letter and pressed his family seal, which he had called from the box, to the liquid surface. “Let me assure you, zis will be no simple task. I would not ask it of you if I did not trust you. And I would not entrust such a burden to you if I believed you would fail.” At this, however, Esprit broke his gaze from Speak and he moved to replace the items he had retrieved from the silver box. The wax and seal fled back into the container, smothering and extinguishing the flame as the lid closed.
“I must admit, that sounds mighty intimidating boss.” Was all Speak easy could urge forth, both touched and scared that he was now verbally trusted by a member of the imperial family. In the back of Speak’s mind however, scared or not, he felt empowered by the promise of such wealth.
Esprit had left his chair and approached the crackling record player, pulling the needle back from the spinning record. It had been giving off a periodic tick sound since the final operatic act came to a close. But in all honesty, Speak had not heard a thing but Esprit the whole time. He wanted to ask questions, to know what he was expected to do. But he knew his place, and he knew he would wait for Esprit, who had moved to the rear windows of the office, to have the final word.
A soft breeze blew into the office from the garden outside, carrying a lovely fragrance through the room as it ruffled some parchment on the desk and swayed through tapestries. Esprit enjoyed the wind as much as his hireling did, but his enjoyment was short lived as he felt his back stiffen with pain. “It eez quickening, how unfortunate...” breathed Esprit to himself, letting his posture melt away as he stretched his back. Forcing yet another wince to fly over the features of the unicorn; a look that, though unseen, was picked up by Speak through the subtle irregularities in Esprit’s posture today. Speak had been no stranger to such sights before, but generally in the past there was day lapses in the pain fits.
Speak, worried slightly at the well-being of his employer opted to inquire after what he had seen, though in the back of his mind, he wondered if he himself wanted the truth. “Boss.” Began Speak, “I know it might not be my place…but, is the pain getting worse?”
Esprit’s gaze fell to the windowsill at the question, but did not turn to face Speak. He waited, wondering to himself if Speak needed a full and honest answer. “The doctors say I still ‘ave plenty of time. Complications are to be expected.”
Speak responded only with a silent nod. Esprit may not have given him an answer to his question but he also knew that his boss had no obligation to tell him anything more than he already had. An awkward silence pervaded the office for a few seconds after such, with neither Speak nor Esprit uttering a word.
The royal unicorn finally turned back to the waiting pegasus, gesturing to letter “You may take your payment. And know zat I will schedule a dinner at ze Event Horizon; you will have your details then. I expect both you and brother to attend and dress for ze occasion; keep in mind zat you will ‘ave company to impress.”
Speak climbed down from his chair and swept up the letter in his right wing, placing it in his breast pocket. “Anything else boss?” inquired Speak Easy stepping to the side of the desk. “Yes. Move my leverage to ze Carousal.” Added Esprit with a nod, finally turning to face the olive pegasus.
“Madam Head’s pleasure palace?” Speak asked, somewhat surprised at the choice of location in which to keep a captured filly. Esprit nodded again in confirmation, “Oui, Madam Head will prove to be more zan capable of providing us with a secure location in which to house our guest. No one will come looking for her in a brothel, and if she escapes she can and will be easily found.”
This made complete sense, even if other ponies had indeed seen the brothers’ earlier handiwork; they would not think to check Canterlot, much less a bordello within Canterlot. Satisfied with his orders, Speak Easy gave a bow to the Earl, spreading out his wings to as though to touch the ground. And with that, he turned, opened the doors of the office and was gone.
Now alone, Esprit turned his gaze back out to the garden outside his window. Those golden eyes took in everything. Every swaying branch, to every wing beat of the bees and dragonflies. He wasn’t sure why he was doing it, just that he felt that he had to. Things were about to change. For better or worse he could not say nor anticipate. But there was no backing away; there was no resetting the pieces that he had meticulously placed. He had been given the first move, and his move had been made. This game, his game, had begun.
♙--------------------------♙
Back at the Heated Mare Meadery, in the lower tier of Canterlot, Bootleg waited for his brother’s return. Despite this, he was far from stationary and relaxed. The mustard tinted stallion swore in the back of his mind, his patience wearing thin as he was forced to foal-sit the now awake and curious Sweetie Belle. He never understood his brother’s apparent lack of concern when the truth was involved. Yes, the filly had been fooled into believing that they were to be trusted to some extent, but due to her nature as a foal she soon took to her restless nature as soon as Speak Easy’s tea had worn off on her. Now, instead of being quiet and fearful, Sweetie was jumping all over Speak’s room, where she had been confined by Bootleg.
The room itself was a modest combination of work-place and sleep area. The lighting was dim and came mostly from an oil lamp in the eastern corner, nearest Speak’s windows. Shadows stretched across the room in fear of the light, climbing over the luxurious looking bed to Speak’s rickety and worn looking desk. In the western corner, adjacent to the bed, sat a lab station of some sort; on it sat an assortment of tools and alchemical apparatuses. Such things that could be seen were items such as a worn looking mortar and pestle, a retort and alembic that seemed rather new, and a small oven-looking calcinator. The wall parallel to the bed that the lab station sat against was comprised completely of drawers. Each draw was adorned with a small slot, on each was scribbled the name of whatever herb or ingredient was housed within. Sweetie herself was propped against the set of dual windows that sat parallel to the bed, which gave a view downward into the meadery.
Attempting to lighten things up, the young unicorn decided that she would try to engage in some form of conversation with Bootleg, who sat before the door. “What’s that thing? Ooh, ooh! How about that thing?” Squeaked Sweetie, pressing her face to the glass as she spoke, gesturing to one of the several giant mixing vats that lined the main hall. Bootleg himself jumped slightly at the filly’s sudden high-pitched remark. She had barely spoken a word and Bootleg already felt himself fighting the growing urge to shut her mouth forcibly with a hard object. He knew it would solve nothing, as he was really annoyed with his brother more than he was with the captive Sweetie Belle.
“Expensive equipment, so don’t go touching it.” Grumbled Bootleg with a clear tone of annoyance in his voice. The filly stopped and pouted, kicking away a small patch of dust on the floor. “How am I going to touch it? You won’t let me out of this room.” Asked Sweetie with yet another squeak in her voice. “I was just asking what it was.” Stated Sweetie matter-of-factly as she dropped herself onto her rump. In truth, she was only trying to fight the boredom of her prison. “Why can’t you be like the other pegasus? Mister Liable.” Queried Sweetie, oblivious to why Bootleg seemed so grumpy.
This question actually lifted Bootleg’s mood by a tad, such was made evident by his smirk, “Because he’s a liar.” Blurted Bootleg with a mocking laugh, deciding to take this chance perhaps shut up the young foal with some story-telling. Always used to work on him when he was younger. “His name ain’t Liable. Never been a ‘Mister’ neither.”
Sweetie may have been naïve, but she was still a quick study. Instead of acting defeated by the lie, she asked, “Every pony lies one time or another, no matter how big or how small. Rarity told me that once…” She paused, her thoughts turning to Rarity, and her hopes of reunification with her. “Besides, he said that you both had reasons. You’re secret agents of Celestia after all!” She said with a smile, attempting to mask her flash of sorrow. This drew only a sigh from Bootleg.
These stallions both had very important jobs, this much Sweetie had believed; but her curiosity wouldn’t be sated with belief, she wanted to know more about these pegasi that had swooped down and changed her life. If even for a day. “What is his name then? The pegasus in the hat.” Bootleg, eyed the filly, seeing no harm in being honest. “First off. He’s me brotha, me older brotha. An’ his name is Speak Easy.”
At this, Sweetie giggled softly, “Speak? What a silly first name.” The older pony was taken aback at first but was soon encouraged by the filly’s smile, “Well, it isn’t much funnier than being named Bootleg. I dunno what Ma an’ Da were thinkin’.” Sweetie Belle sat up a little and turned her full attention to the stallion beside her.
“What are your mom and dad like Bootleg?” He didn’t know what he had said to get her attention; all Bootleg knew was that when he looked to her, He could not help but say more. “Probably not so different from your own. Our Da was--” Sweetie raised her hoof, interrupting
with a childish vigor in her voice, “Oh! Oh! So your dad was really big and strong? Wears lots of hats and has a really, really big mustache???”
Bootleg could only guess that this was the vague description of her own father, as it certainly did not match what he was about to say. “Oi, ya sister ever tell ya not to talk back to grown-ups when we’re talkin’?” questioned Bootleg with a growl. Sweetie Belle lowered her head, slightly dejected at having her enthusiasm shot down.
It rolled his eyes and gave another audible sigh, “Look, I’m not trying to be mean…I just don’t like being interrupted.” Uttered Bootleg in a semi-sincere apologetic tone. Sweetie raised her gaze to meet Bootleg’s. His sapphire eyes mirrored her sister’s eyes. In which was held the same look; one that Sweetie Belle did not truly comprehend but had seen many times before. A look that yearned for understanding, to be listened to, rather than just be heard.
“I’m…I’m sorry. Please keep talking.” Breathed Sweetie, attempting to rekindle a more positive aura of conversation.
Bootleg in turn, nodded to the filly, silently accepting her apology and hoping that she had done the same for him. “Anyway. Our Da was a short statured stallion of a pegasus, who ‘ad wrinkles since the day I was born…” this drew a light smile from the filly, but Sweetie said nothing. “…He was born in Las Equinus, a large city on the on the southern coastal border. Lots o’ Faustian influence there, an’ lots o’ trade with da Cervidas Hegemony.” Continued Bootleg, wanting to distract Sweetie with as many details as he could remember. “He was a disciplined pegasus, attended the officer college in Canterlot, served as a captain in the imperial military for decades. Da also always wanted us boys to join up…Well; you can see how that turned out.” Sweetie Belle had no way of picking up on Bootleg’s sarcasm and took it as his admittance of serving the Solar Empire as an imperial spy. “Da was an odd pegasus, as he didn’t ‘ave any real aptitude fer flyin’, and fer all his soldier trainin’, he acted like a real foal after leavin’ da service.” Bootleg paused, thinking to his self for more details that he had missed rising from his sitting position in front of the door to pace. “I always thought it was because he was just weird. Speak thinks it’s because he considered us disappointments.”
Sweetie raised an eyebrow at this, and in her curiosity squeaked up a question. Though took great care to wait until Bootleg was finished. “Why would your dad be disappointed? You and your brother seem like…” Sweetie stopped herself before calling them outright nice, as she knew they weren’t. She didn’t want to lie, but neither did she want to tell the truth to the mustard pegasus’s face. “…you have a real nice home and job.” Nice save, thought Sweetie, but she needed a follow up. “Umm…like our mom and dad really like that Rarity has a nice home and job.”
The recurring lie was thrown back into discussion, the one that left a foul taste in Bootleg’s mouth every time he repeated it. This filly was likely going to go through some terrible things. He couldn’t stand lying to her and being treated like someone who was going to help her. Speak
never told him the whole truth when it came to jobs; for all Bootleg knew, they had just foalnapped the younger sister of an element holder so that their boss could trade her away to a noble for favors or funds.
He didn’t want to believe such things; he always wanted to believe that Speak cared about more things than money. But he could only half-convince himself every time, despite the amount of effort he put forth.
Bootleg had gone silent, forcing himself to look away from Sweetie. If this was really just a pit stop for her before being tossed to the wolves, then didn’t she deserve to know some truth about what was going on? The little thing didn’t even have her Cutie Mark yet. Bootleg could feel a small amount of guilt building up in his gut, making him feel slightly nauseous; such always happened when he truly stopped to think about things that he was responsible for.
He turned back to regard Sweetie Belle, who had lost focus on him soon after he went silent. She sat in the same position, but her gaze was turned to the western corner, seemingly enthralled by the alchemical apparatuses. Rising to a standing position, Bootleg slowly walked over to the window that Sweetie had been pressed against minutes ago, once again drawing the attention of the young unicorn. As he did so, Bootleg turned his head, meeting Sweetie’s stare. Without breaking the connected look between them, the mustard pegasus tilted his head in gesture that gave Sweetie permission to approach him.
Rising from the floor, the young unicorn cantered over to her auburn haired captor. She halted once directly parallel to Bootleg, and she looked up into his eyes with a great wonder and curiosity. Had she said something wrong? Why did his eyes look sad? Was he angry with her? Many questions flowed through the young mind of Sweetie.
These questions became hushed when Bootleg breathed a faint sentence, turning away to face the window so that what was said was barely audible, even to the close Sweetie. She only gathered something that resembled “easy” and “thousand”. She knew not what that meant, but opted to wait for him to speak up. Surely, if he called her over, it was to tell her something.
“Sweetie…” started Bootleg, “Your name. It was Sweetie right?” asked the stallion, looking back down to the filly. Sweetie did naught but nod whilst muttering a quiet “uh-huh.” Bootleg nodded and again turned to look out the window. “Your parents sound like model citizens, an’ I’m sure they love you so very much…” voiced Bootleg, somewhat awkwardly and trying hard to sound sincere. “…They sound like they could never be disappointed with you.”
At this, Sweetie smiled up at Bootleg, but still could not meet his gaze. “I uh, I suppose ya wanna continue where we left off…so…” fumbled Bootleg, searching for the right way to tell her the truth. The stallion brought a hoof up to his head, scratching a spot behind his left ear in thought. “Eh, look…da reason our Da considered me an’ me brotha disappointments isn’t because he didn’t like where we’re livin’. It’s because of what we’ve done.” Sweetie’s smiling
expression faded in favor for a look more inquisitive. This stallion was so strange. She’d have never expected in all the time of her young existence to meet a pony like he. To foal-nap you one minute, and try to apologize to you the next. Or well, at least an apology was what Sweetie thought Bootleg was trying to accomplish. Taking her chance to employ some of her old “reporter instincts”, Sweetie moved forward so that she could turn to face him better. Bootleg naturally took notice and soon was once again locked in the vice grip of her sap green eyes. “What could you have done that could disappoint your dad?”
“We surpassed him, that’s what.”
Those unexpected words coerced a surprised jump from the mulberry haired Sweetie Belle, who hadn’t expected such a harsh tone. A sinking realization came to her however when she realized that the somber looking Bootleg of the moment had jumped as well without saying a word. Neither of which had heard the door open, nor did either even comprehend who it had originated from for a second or two.
The pair turned to the doorway, and there looks were met by the smirking face of Speak Easy, looking down his nose at them. Smoke flowed about him from a recently lit cigarette. Bootleg grimaced ever so subtlety, feeling like he had been hit in the stomach. He had no idea how long Speak had been outside the door or what he had heard of the pair’s conversation. Sweetie’s expression also dropped into one of fear. To her, Bootleg had acted okay enough to outright talk to but Speak, the stallion who had poisoned her hours earlier all but silenced her. As though he was reaching out with invisible claws of ice that gripped and froze her throat.
With no response to his comment, Speak chuckled and continued. “Da always disapproved of us accomplishing more for the Empire as spies than he ever did as a soldier. He was a petty, superstitious and ignorant stallion. Always was stuck in the old ways.”
Speak’s smirk was taunting and cruel, a personal jab at Bootleg for nearly ratting them out. “Isn’t dat right boyo?”
Bootleg knew that his brother was full of it, but said nothing. Even though he wanted to. He let his sight fall to the floor before Speak, as though surveying it for answers to what he should do. There were no answers though, only wooden planks. Looking back up at his elder brother, Bootleg finally decided against calling out Speak on his twisting of the truth. He might have been disgusted by it, and he knew that he almost never agreed with his olive colored kin. But a small filly that he barely even knew anything about could not warrant a strong enough reason to defy the only family he currently had. So he clenched his eyes shut, only for a few seconds, trying to reassure himself that his brother knew what was best; regardless of the frustration he caused him on a daily basis.
Turning to look back at Sweetie Belle, Bootleg nodded and agreed, “He’s right. Father was disappointed because…we were better than him…” came his voice brokenly.
Regaining her composure slightly at the urging of Bootleg, Sweetie responded “Well that doesn’t seem very fair. Not all kids want to be like their parents.” With a shake of her head, to emphasize the point.
Speak approached the couple as she did so, taking a moment to pat Sweetie on the head with his right wing. “Well Sweetie. Life isn’t very fair, and it’s hardly equal among ponies. Some are born with an innate talent among them,” Speak raised his wing from her hair, and proceeded to point to her flank, “And some of us have to work through life, both thick and thin to get what we desire most.”
Sweetie wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or a joke, but the way Speak said it made her at least think that he was calling her a hard worker. So she did her best to smile for him, regardless of how much she still feared the stallion.
Smiling back insincerely at the filly, Speak took a few steps back before adding, “No roads in life are easy Sweetie and sometimes you’ll just have to make the most of wherever you find yourself.”
“Ya can either keep a cool head an’ act, or ya can flap your gums in regret and confusion.” The last part of the sentence was accompanied by a deliberate puff of smoke that blew forth from Speak’s nostrils towards Bootleg. Sweetie herself may have missed the bold meaning but Speak’s little brother could feel the sting of both the words on his mind and the smoke in his eyes.
Blinking away small tears, Bootleg approached Speak, and lowering his voice to a murmur “So what did he say?” came his hushed voice, uninterested in any further games. Speak let his grin widen at this, “Oh so now you care for secrecy?” whispered Speak. Bootleg scowled at this and broke eye contact with Speak, “Just tell me the damn details.”
“Da job is still on, boyo. An’ before ya ask,” Speak took a moment to reach up to his breast pocket, withdrawing the sealed letter of credit he had received, and waving it before Bootleg’s chest “We’ve already got da five thousand.” Bootleg nodded at the sight he was familiar with, heaving the slightest of sighs.
“But that don’ mean da job’s done…We’ve got a bigger job, bigger dan anythin’ we’ve ever taken on before.” Continued Speak, returning the letter to his breast pocket and looking over to Sweetie Belle. With another insincere grin, Speak said to Sweetie, “Be a darlin’ an’ wait here for us Sweetie, da boyo and I need to discuss imperial plans away from inquisitive minds.”
Sweetie had no choice in the matter, she knew that much. Nonetheless she gave a light smile in response to Speak’s words, hoping it was another compliment as the two stallions left the room and closed the door behind them.
Almost as soon as the door slammed shut however, Speak, in a deceptively fast move for a heavier set pegasus had pulled and slammed Bootleg into the adjoining wall. Bootleg let out a gasp of pain as he felt the air forcedly rushed from his lungs. It was a few moments before he even realized that Speak’s foreleg was pinned against his throat. Bootleg tried to wriggle free, thrashing his body about to and fro, but Speak stayed with him, foreleg still raised and cutting off his air. Bootleg pushed off the wall with his wings, attempting to off balance Speak. But this too was in vain as the bigger pony slammed the smaller back into the wall. “I-I-ugh…S-…rry.” Gasped Bootleg in panic, attempting to appease his elder brother. He extended his wings, and flapped wildly, rising into the air. Speak however, would not give him any room, and beat his own wings and allowing him to maintain his grips as the slid up the wall. The mustard colored stallion could feel his world spinning, and could feel his head getting light. Dizziness was setting in and his vision began to blur. They may have had differences, they may have even seriously fought before; but only one question rang in Bootleg’s mind. Did his brother truly intend to kill him over something so trivial?
It was then, in the blur of a chaotic moment, that Bootleg felt his airway open up once more. Speak had released him.
Bootleg fell to the floor with a thud, coughing and gasping for air as a starved prisoner would for food. He raised his head, looking for signs of where his brother had went. His eyes were still blurred from the tears that had welled up during the scuffle.
Speak gently touched down next to Bootleg after a second or so, and instantly fell into a kneel beside his younger brother. His voice was soft and almost haunting, “An’ that’s why, boyo, we don’t tell anythin’ true about ourselves…Because we will be hurt.” Bootleg was still coughing in between breaths, and so said nothing. Speak continued, “We can only look out for ourselves, not others…now I didn’t want to hurt you, but you needed a reminder of the hazards we face. Being what we are.”
Slowly, Bootleg began to stand again; Speak placed his own head beneath his brother’s chest to help him do so. His breathing was more steady but still labored. “I know, brotha, I know.” Was all Bootleg could muster, looking up at Speak. Speak, in turn smiled lightly and ran a hoof over his brother’s messy mane, attempting to apply some neatness to it.
“For a moment though, I thought you were gonna kill me.” Admitted Bootleg. “You coulda just punched me or somethin’.” Bootleg coughed once more, and gave a shove to his elder brother. Naturally wanting some distance.
“Then you’d only hit me back, an’ no lesson woulda been learned now would it?” said Speak, “besides, you’re in da wrong here.” Speak’s wings flapped once more before fully returning to their tucked in position. “I mean, holy shite, I go an’ get da money just as I usually do. An’ ya reward my physical efforts with tellin’ our little captive shite that’s been going on in our lives.”
“You’re a right bastard, ya know that?” spat Bootleg, Speak smiled and nodded in affirmation of this, causing more smoke to billow over to the mustard colored pegasus. Bootleg waved a hoof in an attempt to dissipate the annoying streams before continuing, “That don’t give ya da right to outright strangle me!”
“Oh by the love o’…You’d strangle me too if I threatened ya chance at five million bits!” defended Speak.
“Da hell I wou--…wait-what???” said Bootleg, stopping in his tracks, unsure of what he heard was true or if the lack of oxygen to his brain had affected him.
“Dat’s right boyo, Five. Million.” Speak was pleased that money had not suddenly surrendered its hold over his younger brother. “We put our petty squabbles aside an’ we—”
“Ya tried ta strangle me ya bastard!” interrupted, not pleased that Speak would make light of such. Speak on the other hoof just shook his head, ignoring his brother’s focus of the moment “An’ we can afford your surgery. Hell we could afford it ten times over!”
Bootleg wanted to say more, but that last fact presented did something to stifle the anger he was reeling from. He knew he needed corrective surgery for the cataract in his right eye. He’d never be able to attain his dreams without that surgery. He’d be stuck forever as an assistant to his commanding brother. But Bootleg was no fool, despite what his brother may have everyone believe, and was fully aware that this was just another lie constructed to distract him from what had just happened. “Oh yeah, and just how are we gonna get dis supposed five million? Anotha foal-napping? Cause that sure is easy.” scoffed Bootleg with blatant sarcasm, waving his hoof again to dismiss both Speak’s claim and the smoke that still flowed from his brother’s nose.
Speak did not care for his brother’s disbelief, and found it rather immature to be acting so unprofessional. “I get it, you’re mad. Real mad. I get it boyo.” Said Speak, raising his voice beyond the hushed tones that they had both been using. “Care ta wrap this ‘caring for foals’ shite up and start-actin’ like a Faust-damned professional?!” Speak then walked right past Bootleg and swiftly opened the door into his office.
Entering his room, Speak turned and half-shouted, “An’ once ya grow up boyo, feel free ta put on somethin’ nice! We’re hittin’ da Carousal. Then we’re meeting the Earl for dinner!” The words themselves were betrayed by the tone they were delivered in. This sudden intrusion had of course scared Sweetie Belle, who had been jumping on Speak’s bed and had barely heard a thing. She quickly found herself ceasing her activity and bolted off the bed and onto the floor. But the olive pegasus paid her no mind, striding over to the drawers on the wall. He eyed them all, forgetting in his brief flash of anger what he was looking for. He cast off his grey flat cap and stripped off his vest; making sure to retrieve the letter of credit before discarding the clothing onto his bed where Sweetie had been jumping. He gingerly placed the letter onto his old desk before looking back to the listed drawers.
Finally, Speak spotted his target, a particular drawer reading: “Wht/Gld Attr.”, he briskly brought up his right wing to the handle and yanked. Sweetie wasn’t quite sure as to what she should do, she felt like she was peeping in plain sight as Speak changed into a new hat and vest combo. Sweetie noticed though, that the clothes looked exactly like what he had already been wearing. Save of course for the color change in the items. Both the fabric of the vest and that of the hat were pearl white, with all the pin-stripes and accented designs were threaded with gold string. In fact, the only thing that separated these new clothes from the old ones was a hastily tied cravat that covered his neck and chest area.
Sweetie herself found the outfit choice to be strange; granted she knew truly little about the fashion world but it was plain to see. The outfit itself was nice, even beautiful with its pure yet regal colors and soft, cozy fabric. But that itself seemed to be the problem. The personality didn’t match the wearer. Or at least that is what Sweetie Belle found herself thinking as Speak as the dark coated pegasus snatched up the letter again and stuffed it behind a handkerchief in his left breast pocket. This train of thought was finally broken when she found that Speak was now staring directly at her. “You’re comin’ along with us lassie.” He said in a tone that allowed no choice to be made on her part. He gestured with his head towards the door to make clear his order.
Sweetie Belle knew she couldn’t say no, and proceeded to quickly head towards the door. The two of them reached the door at the same time, and unsure of what else to make of her situation now with her captives now fighting, in the most polite way she could she asked, “Where are we going mister Speak?”
At first, no answer came, but as they walked down the first hallway on the right back towards the garage area, Speak looked down at the filly and finally spoke, “We’re moving ya to da next safe house. A lovely establishment called The Carousal. There will be plenty of nice mares an’ fillies there for ya to talk to while me an’ be brotha plan our next move for getting you and your sista ta safety.” Speak made sure to maintain all of his half-truths, even though he suspected that Bootleg may have already told her otherwise what was going on.
“Carousal? Is that anything like the Carousel Boutique?” asked Sweetie, hoping that she’d be around at least something that resembled home. Speak looked down at the filly and smirked, directing her into the garage. “I doubt that ya will think so. But I think some of the lovely ladies there have custom orders from a prominent shop in Ponyville. So you might recognize some of them.” Came the false assurance of the stallion. Sweetie, assuming that was the best she could hope for in regards of an actual answer, Sweetie nodded to herself, letting her gaze fall to the ground.
But something more egged at Sweetie. In the small time that had past, neither had seen Bootleg at all. Nor did they see any evidence as to where he was, or where he had went. The two of them had already exited the meadery and were standing in the alley. They had stopped so that Speak
could close up the garage doors. But still, Bootleg was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone? He must have been there a few minutes ago. Speak had been yelling at him when he came bursting into his room. Worried about the stallion that had attempted niceties with her, Sweetie opened her mouth to speak up once more. “Mister Speak, where is your brother?”
“The boyo? I haven’t da slightest clue.” Answered Speak, honestly for a change. “But he better be getting’ ready for our meeting later on.” Speak extended his wing nearest Sweetie and urged her to walk on down the alley-way. The very same alley that she had tried to escape down only hours earlier. She couldn’t help but feel a need to run again, to escape again. She knew she’d likely be caught again with minimal effort from the nearby Speak Easy. Sweetie still wanted freedom, but she had already been promised a return to Rarity. But was that promise genuine? Could Speak be trusted? Bootleg had said earlier that his elder brother was a liar.
On the other hoof however, Speak had come across as professional and confident, an aura that Sweetie could recognized from Rarity. He seemed what was the word? Earnest? Like he took his job seriously; that’s how Sweetie saw him. He even looked like he might be an imperial spy.
And if that was indeed the case, who could she trust more? If either of them.
Despite these thoughts, Sweetie said no more and walked alongside Speak, with a wing resting on her back. Guiding her. Urging her to a new fate that he has deemed for her. Slowly, they exited the passages of the twisted alley and found their way back onto the streets.
♙--------------------------♙
Already far from the meadery, Bootleg stomped through yet another lost and shady back alley. Occasionally kicking over a trash can with an audible grunt, the mustard pegasus still angered by the actions of his brother. “Rotten bastard!” he yelled to himself, shattering an empty ale bottle with a stomp of his left foreleg.
“How can he be so damn selfish? Lookin’ at da world like it’s such an ugly thing; when he does nothing ta make it better!” he shouted again, flying into the air and swatting at a hanging lamp. The old light holder easily snapped off of its hanging line and plummeted to the ground where it smashed and crumpled against the cobblestone below. Bootleg knew that taking his anger out on inanimate objects would not help stifle his anger, but he could not help himself.
Eight years of disregarding the property, lives, and imperial rights of others. That’s how long he had been saddled with Speak and his harsh philosophies. True, it was Bootleg who had volunteered to accompany Speak when he left home. But Bootleg had all been forced into it. With the death of their Da, their Ma was left to support the two of them with only her talent as a seer to do so. Speak decided on leaving months after, eager to fill one of the new positions at the renovated rainbow factory of Clousdale. Ma naturally disapproved, urging that Speak would stay and ply his talents as an herbalist. But Speak only argued that he could make more money for the family with the budding industries of Equestria than he could being the town’s alchemist. Moved by Speak’s dedication to the family, Bootleg insisted that he tag along too. That way, their mother would not have to support anyone but herself, while the two of them could still support her.
But things changed. Speak changed. Bootleg himself never really understood why, and the thought of how much they had fallen since leaving home always seemed to send a hot flash through the wild haired pony.
Diving to the ground with a loud cry of anger, he smashed directly through an old-looking wooden crate that had been lying against the wall of this alley. The sound finally drew the attention of another alley dweller, who came skulking from around a nearby corner.
“Washiz all da rracket...?” came the drunken slur of a muck-covered, hiccupping red earth pony. One of his dull grey eyes lazily drifted from side to side, while the other one remained locked onto the pegasus before him. His almond mane and beard were unwashed and knotted together, and he stank of urine and cheap alcohol. He noisily burped before continuing, “Thisshiz maii alley-way ya hotch little shiiiit!” He slowly stumbled towards Bootleg with a violent look on his features, “betcher runsh home, to ya slutch of a..of a mama…beforeah I getsch violent..”
Bootleg did not need this right now, not even from an old codger who was too drunk to know what planet he was on. He bit his lips and stifled any outright insults, attempting to calm himself. But he did not give any ground, he stayed put, glued to the spot. His mind unwilling to submit to the will of such a waste of space. Staring down the red homeless stallion with his blue eyes he shouted a warning, “An’ ya best crawl back into whatever shite-hole ya crawled out of, ‘cause I’m in no mood for games.”
No sooner had he said that than a response in the form an old ale bottle was tossed his way. Bootleg easily ducked the pathetically thrown object and gritted his teeth in anger at the red stallion who barked, “I ain’t playin’ witchuu little shit!” as he reached for yet another discarded bottle with his mouth.
But just as the old stallion wrapped his teeth around said bottle and brought it up to be thrown, Bootleg had vanished from his view. His old grey eyes whizzed back and forth, trying to spy the noisy youth but saw nothing. He never looked up.
With a resounding PING! The metal bat of Bootleg, held aloft from his wing connected onto the unwashed cranium of the red pony, who bit down from the force of the impact, crunching the glass bottle between his teeth. The old stallion shrieked in pain from both the metal against his skull and the glass that now replaced his teeth’s spot in his gums. He stumbled to the ground, eyes blurred from both trauma and tears. Spitting crimson blood from his torn mouth, he tried to rise.
Bootleg did not allow him. There was another swing, and another chime of metal bouncing off skull. The old pony fell to the ground once more after a yelp, his chin crashing into the stone below him, shoving the glass further up into his gum-line. He rolled over onto his back just in time to see Bootleg through his tears, bat raised for another strike. Bootleg strongly planted his hoof into the chest of the bum, and swung.
The helpless earth pony cried again as the metal bludgeoned his jawline. He raised his hooves up towards Bootleg in a plea of mercy. “ Aye’mthorry, aye’mthorry! Pleauth, thopp!” came his garbled cry, spitting blood onto his chin with every word evidence of his shredded tongue. His jaw had been fractured after one swing. Bootleg would still have none of it though, as he normally was quick to anger. But with the recent events and pent up frustration, he couldn’t come back from going over. Not with this pony. With a yell of anger, he struck again.
He rained down blow after blow with his bat against the red stallion’s head, making sure to follow through after hitting a different spot every time so as to avoid splatter landing on either himself or his bat. The words from the pony beneath his hoof became more garbled until he stopped speaking and just kept shrieking. It wasn’t until the fifteenth swing, that the shrieks from below stopped altogether; and then it wasn’t until the seventeenth swing that Bootleg halted. Finally halted, he gazed down upon the body of his victim. Whose face was now a jumble of bruises, gashes and distorted bone structure, covered in his life liquid of a shade just a tad darker than his coat. He swore under his breath upon seeing the damage he had wrecked on the stranger, and swore again upon seeing the blood that had spattered onto his foreleg. Thinking quickly, he spat onto both his bat and his foreleg, coating them generously before rubbing his stained leg off on the belly of the unmoving earth pony. Fortunately the blood transferred easily to its new surface thanks to the moisture of his saliva.
Bootleg didn’t bother to hide the body, for he knew the rest of this damnable city was just like his brother, harsh and uncaring. And he knew he was becoming no better, despite how hard he stamped the ground and blamed his brother. Bootleg had just ended the life of another out of anger, and yet felt nothing. Sliding his now sloppily cleaned bat back into its holster, Bootleg decided it was time to return from his tantrum and trotted out into the city, feeling a little better than he did going in. The weight of what he just did never sinking in.
♙--------------------------♙
The afternoon sun was already stretched out to the west, spilling darker hues of gold and orange across the metropolis of Canterlot. The Wicked Way that Sweetie Belle and Speak Easy walked down was now seeing more activity, though most of said activity was chariot and taxi traffic. The lights on the many risqué establishments were flickering on, but most of the red lanterns on the street were either dimmed or unlit. Most of the ponies that were out and about were crowded around the pubs and local eateries. A loud sputter from behind the pair urged Sweetie Belle to jump in surprise. The loud and clunky contraption passed them on the street, sputtering and
spewing steam as it rolled down the way. It reminded her of Apple Bloom’s description of the Super Speedy Cider Squeezy 6000 that had visited Ponyville in the past. Except this one was much bigger, looking like it could hold at least ten ponies inside. It also sported reinforced armor plating. Was this a military vehicle? It made the ground tremble with every cycle of it’s great wheels. It finally pulled to a stop before one of the larger pub-looking establishments, screeching as a fresh billow of steam erupted from its many exhaust tubes.
The rear hatch of the monstrous vehicle sprang open, and out of it filed roughly eight soldiers of the imperial army. But they were not as Sweetie was expecting them to be. As she had only seen scowling faces behind towering suits of armor. These soldiers, however, were dressed in not armor but in purple and gold dress uniforms, much like the ones she had heard use sticks of thunder to destroy corruption. And not a single one of them were pegasi, every last one of the stallions were unicorns. Sweetie found this especially strange, as she had only ever seen winged soldiers in Ponyville.
The clamoring soldiers talked loudly amongst each other. Speak himself began to eye them warily, and began to subtly pull Sweetie closer to him. A thought flashed in the mind of Sweetie Belle; maybe she could get help from these soldiers. If he really wasn’t an agent of Empress Celestia, these soldiers would know and be able to get her back home! But what if he was who he said he was? And he was just super serious about his job. A decision had to be made.
As they neared the laughing soldiers, Sweetie began to pull away from Speak. She knew all grown-ups hated when foals caused a scene and that’s exactly what she planned to do. Speak however, thought this was a simple escape gesture and held fast to the little pony. Speak himself wasn’t too sure with what the filly was trying to pull, but he soon began to suspect that it had something to do with the group ahead. Clever for being so young, he thought, steadying his hold on Sweetie. He knew his only good chance of passing by either involved him stifling her movements with his grip, or seeing if he was fortunate enough for the soldiers to not care. So he tightened his grip. Though feeling some small pain from the vastly stronger stallion, Sweetie was hopeful now that Speak had opted to cause resistance between the two. Now all she had to do was start crying and yelling for help.
“Speak Easy!” came a beautiful, sing-song cry from above the walking pair, drawing eyes from several passer-byes and from one of the soldiers.
An unknown figure darted downwards, swooping in from the skies above and nearly pouncing Speak to the ground. Sweetie had no idea who it was, but was too stunned to look right away, as she had been knocked from Speak’s grasp by this unknown flyer.
A moment passed as Sweetie regained her senses before looking up but not before she was entranced by what she saw. Before her stood a beautiful and well-groomed griffon whose alluring orange eyes flared like little suns as she helped up the stallion she had just felled. She had gorgeous alabaster wings, that though only partially opened at that moment looked like they
could span three more Sweetie Belles in length. The little filly had never seen a griffon up close before. Or rather, she’d never seen one ever. To Sweetie, this creature was a wonder. In place of a mane, she had elongated, rosy-tipped feathers that traced from the center of her forehead to the nape of her neck. The summer day’s light breeze flowed through these feathers allowing her plumage to sway majestically and occasionally lifting them completely up from the left side of her face before comfortable habit set them back down. Her over-sized and heavily stylized eyelashes were faker yet more elegant she’d ever seen her sister wear. But they complimented her short eyebrows. And Sweetie could not help but feel entranced by watching them swiftly dart through the air every time she blinked. Yes, from her polished golden beak and the fire-drop make up designs of salmon pink that encircled her eyes, to her jeweled talons and her curvaceous yet toned lower body.
She was magnificent.
While Sweetie Belle sat enraptured, the female griffon had tenderly helping Speak back to a fully standing position. All the while whispering feverish apologies in both Equestrian and Gryphus and caressing his left ear with her right talon, pausing only to adjust his hat and to brush clean any rubbish that might have latched onto his vest. At this, Speak could not help but chuckle softly as he threw a wing around the griffon and brought her in beak-to-nose. “I’m gone for less than six hours from the city and yet you still find the need to track me down? You must really need me today.” he asked with a smile, staring knowingly into those orange eyes of fire.
The faintest of blushes flashed over the griffon’s face, barely visible past her make up. She attempted to play at innocence, with a smile she said, “I ‘ave no idea what you mean mon chéri. There’s no reason for me to need you.” Her voice had a musical quality about it, fitting in nicely with her light Gryphus accent.
“Roxy, you’re a damn poor liar. Always have been.” Retorted Speak. “And though I’d love to help you with whatever personal problem you’re dealing with right now. I have my own concerns to take care of.” He gestured to the starry eyed Sweetie Belle, releasing his hold on his griffon friend.
Roxy approached Sweetie, looking at the little filly with a somewhat perplexed look on her face. She naturally smiled softly in response to Sweetie’s expression, before turning back to Speak, an eyebrow raised, “You ‘ave a kid now?”
This elicited a hearty laugh from Speak, who moved himself next to the young foal, tussling her mane with his left wing. This action quickly awakened Sweetie back to the reality around her. But before she could dart away upon realizing that she was free, the same left wing wrapped around her side and held her close. “Dear me lassie, ya’ve gone an’ confused my dear friend here by appearing to be related. Please, introduce yaself.” Instructed Speak to Sweetie, still tickled by Roxy’s query.
For a moment, Sweetie remained silent, wondering if maybe this new figure could help her. She sneaked a peek down the path, and her heart sank in seeing that the soldiers were gone. This griffon, though a complete stranger might well be her only chance at some freedom. Pursing her lips in a pout like face that resembled her sister’s, she finally looked up at Roxy.
“H-hello, I’m Sweetie Belle, a unicorn from Ponyville…” she sniffed, letting some tears well up at the edge of her large green eyes. “Could you please hel--”
“Why’s she so sad looking?” Queried Roxy to Speak, interrupting Sweetie’s plea. In turn, Sweetie spoke, “Because I was ---” but was interrupted by Speak’s own answer of “Because I took her from her home. She’s my latest assignment.”
Sweetie paused, still sniffling she looked up at the olive pegasus with pure surprise in her eyes. Did he just admit to foal-napping her? Even if this girl was his friend, and even if he was an agent of Celestia, why would he openly admit to a crime?
“Ah. Oh. Aww, did my big, mean Speak Easy scare you with a surprise trip to ze capital? Oh you poor thing.” Cooed the griffon, stooping her body to the filly’s level and gingerly wiping away her tears. But Roxy’s response shocked Sweetie even more than Speak’s honesty. She was okay with the fact that he had done such a thing. Roxy’s smile was as chilling as it was sweet as she continued, “Don’t hate him for it though. He can be a little rough sometimes…” as she emphasized the rough, Roxy shuddered and smiled to herself, “…but just bear with him. He’s only doing his job.” With that, she shot a playful wink at Sweetie before rising back up to her normal height, teasingly brushing her tail against Speak’s face as she did so.
“Don’t be rude, da lassie was kind enough to introduce herself to ya. Now you do the same.” Commented speak, currently unfazed by Roxy’s flirting.
“But of course, mon chéri.” Chirped Roxy, batting her overly large eyelashes at speak regardless. She then turned to the still restrained Sweetie Belle, who possessed a look of both confusion and sadness. Roxy ignored this however, and proceeded to puff out her chest feathers and flared her strikingly preened wings. “Bonjour, my name eez Roxanne Harpe d’Aviangnon. It eez a pleasure to make your acquaintance, little unicorn of Ponyville. I am certain we will get along just fine.”
Unsure of how to proceed, Sweetie simply nodded to the beautiful creature before her and squeaked out a small “It’s nice to meet you, Roxanne. I’ve never met, or even seen a griffon before…I um, really like your feathers.”
Roxy could not help but giggle at this. “Oh, you are just ze sweetest little thing. Please, call me Roxy, my real name is too long.” She made clear her endearment my gingerly patting Sweetie’s head.
While the girls spoke amongst each other, Speak withdrew and placed another cigarette between his lips, replacing the one that had been knocked from his mouth when Roxy landed on him.
“See? I knew ya lassies would get along…” he paused, retrieving his lighter from his pocket and sparking forth yet another flame onto his new rolled stick of tobacco. “…but ma darlin’s, we’re on a tight schedule this afternoon. So let us walk an’ talk.” Came a Speak’s continuation, throwing his free wing around Roxy and steering them both down the lightly crowded sidewalk of Wicked Way.
“So, where are we ‘eaded?” hummed Roxy, nuzzling herself against the neck of Speak. Speak took a moment to exhale, smoke crawling from his nose. Smoke that made Sweetie feel sick every time she inhaled the noxious fumes. “To your old job.”
Roxy went wide eyed, but did not yet remove her head from its resting place. So that’s what was going on. Slowly, she raised rose from her previous position, placing her beak just behind Speak’s left ear. “So you’re going to sell zis filly?” Whispered Roxy, making sure to be quiet enough to avoid eavesdropping from Sweetie. Speak in turn could not help but smile at the narrow-mindedness of Roxy. She always was slow when it came to grasping bigger pictures.
Speak turned and buried his nose into the feathery head of his close friend, and uttered “Oh ma dearest Roxy, you shouldn’t spoil da ending if ya don’t know it yourself. Da impatience ya have will get ya punished one day.” Roxy answered only by sticking out her tongue at the olive pegasus.
And so they walked, straight down the Wicked Way for several minutes, the only conversation between them being a light discussion that Roxy was having with Sweetie about griffons. Speak paid them little mind though, taking notice only of where they were headed and how much strength he had to hold Sweetie with. His thoughts occasionally drifted to his brother, but stayed mostly on the subject of the job ahead of them. Bootleg would come around, this Speak Easy knew. His younger brother always did in the end, despite the number of arguments they’ve had. Bootleg had no one else to rely on, no one else to look after him in all of Canterlot. He’d disagree now, but remember who has put food on the table and a roof over his head. But as strongly as Speak knew this, he also knew he needed Bootleg too. There was no way that he could accomplish a job worth so much without him.
So in thought was Speak that he nearly ignored the tugging of Roxy on his neck. “Speeeak…you’re going to miss it.” Came Roxy’s mock-whine tune. Pointing to a great set of golden gates.
He knew she was jesting, there was no possible way he’d miss the entrance. Those familiar gates of beaming yellow, with the great pearlescent letters atop them that read “Carousal”. Where the ragged and dirty cobblestone street diverged and melted into a pristine red brick drive way. Many cherry and peach trees large and small dotted the outer grounds, adding a sense of freshness and vitality to the place. Freshly watered grass of the frontal garden lawn glimmered and swayed in the gentle breeze, with rows upon rows of white and red roses packed the sides of the driveway, all seemingly eager for attention from the way their colors beckoned. Against one another they pushed until the drive way curved on itself, ending at a marble patio and staircase. Along such stairs stood many stone cut effigies of beautiful mares, all displayed in salacious poses and all partially clad in varying lengths of cloth robes, reflecting the artist’s favor for classic Equine mythology. In the dead center of the marble patio sat a grand and decorative fountain, a new addition in the past year. It was a carved collection of females from different species and races within those races. Speak knew that this had been added to acknowledge the catering to other races among their merchandise; such was evident from the statues Griffons, Elks, Zebras, Buffalo and others. All of which were lined next to each other, each in a provocative posture and displaying signs of heat on their carved features. Water flowed creatively from the nether regions of every single figure. An impressive feat considering the diversity of the sculptures. And past that still stood the real magnificence.
The pleasure palace was quite literally, a genuine palace. It stood four stories tall, and was colored a peach-like yellow, with the uppermost trim painted a vibrant crimson. Massive pillars of alabaster stone stood before the large entrance-way, diligently upholding the substantial shingled roof of midnight black. Each portion of the black roof curved upwards in a flexible triangle design, forming up into what appeared to resemble the canopy of a carousel. Crystalline windows dotted the grand exterior walls with perfected symmetry. At the main door to the entrance-way, stood humongous stained-glass doors of garish color. From a distance, one could not tell what designs had been forcefully slithered through the glass, but one not needed to see the details to know the whole was beautiful. The main building was not the only part of this palace though. Several thinner corridors could be seen branching away from the center on multiple floors, leading into a western, eastern, and an unseen south wing. Each of these shared the architectural beauty of the main palace and entry-way and even spanned the same height; each wing contained hundreds of rooms.
How the great Madame Head kept the whole place under her thumb would baffle Speak forever. The olive pegasus looked down at the young unicorn, attempting to gauge her thoughts. She looked like she was in as much awe as when she had seen Roxy. But this reaction was different, almost as though she was amazed at both the size and purpose of such a place, if she even got that far with her thoughts. Grinning, he withdrew his left wing from around Roxy and drifted it before Sweetie, sweeping it across the Carousal in a grandiose gesture. Sweetie turned her gaze to the stallion beside her, and when her forest eyes met his eyes of emerald he said, “Well lassie, welcome to the Carousal. Da finest bordello in all o’ Canterlot. Welcome, to ya new home.”
♙--------------------------♙
Back at the Le Blanc Estate, in a large changing room separate from the master bedroom of the Earl, the lone white stallion stood amongst a parade of floating clothing choices. Occasionally a new suit would glide down, draped in Esprit’s magical glow. He lazily eyed each one, before
returning it to the swirling dance above him. A soft hum escaped his lips at timed intervals, sweeping out his right foreleg before him as though he was a daydreaming conductor.
For a moment, he pulled down a new design from Manehatten that had strong Canterlot tones and nods, noticeable in the long coat tails and lack of lacy ruffles. An honest and strong look, but far too bland for such an occasion. Perhaps a more common fashion from Hoofington, to show his connection to the people perhaps? But no, the blue pinstripe may have been in-season, but it was too casual and may end up making him look not serious.
As he thought on all this, a sharp pain, akin to being stabbed, rang through his jaw, forcing Esprit to jump slightly and drop all of the clothes he had been carrying. He allowed a hiss from his alabaster lips. He brought his right hoof up to his jawline, attempting to gently caress the origin of the offending feeling. Esprit could feel excess liquid building up in his mouth and quickly traipsed over to his desk. In one swift motion, he opened up one of the nearby dresser drawers and retrieved a handkerchief.
As he dabbed at the entrance of his mouth with the handkerchief, it came back less white and more splotched with red every time. The sores were acting up again, this Esprit knew for certain now. He shook his head, shifting around his jaw slightly. Silently, he cursed to himself. First, his back aches again, and now the pain of his mouth sores was kicking in. This would not do. Esprit would not have his infirmities get in the way of this day’s first step. Perturbed and annoyed with his bodily state, Esprit quickly made his way to the door into his bedroom.
“My lord!” came a voice of urgency, attempting to swiftly catch the attention of the retreating Esprit. At first, the unicorn cautiously paused, but relaxed upon remembering the only pony capable of being in the same room as he without knowing. As Esprit turned, the shadowy figure slithered from its corner, holding aloft a small vial on its left hoof. In the androgynous voice that the white stallion knew well, the Trotter said, “Your medicine is here.”
The gold wisp-like grip briskly seized the elixir from the shadowy hoof. Esprit uttered a quiet “Merci,” before uncorking the bottle and pouring the medicinal liquid down his throat.
Lowering its hoof, the Trotter gazed at Esprit through hazed eyes, “The Generous Lady has accepted your offer for dinner. I have informed her that you will meet her at seven, at the Event Horizon.” Esprit said nothing though, opting to silently nod as he continued to dab at his mouth. The Trotter, taking this as permission to continue, did so. “I have already taken care of the V.I.P. reservation, and shall inform the brothers of the appointed time in which to appear.”
“What of my family?” asked Esprit, magically raising the clothing he had just dropped. The Trotter approached its master in the center of the room, “Marquis Chasseur is presiding over a series of executions at the main festival grounds. The honorable Judge Gavel Call will also be present, along with The Rifle. They plan to make a show of quite a few traitors of the empire--”
Esprit spat a few drops of remaining blood into his handkerchief, interrupting the Trotter. His golden eyes darted over each outfit he picked up before questioning, “Of course. Chasseur always ‘as enjoyed a good ‘anging. And what of the eldest?”
“Prince Prosper is still currently with your mother, Princess Puissance. The Hound is also with them. It would seem that they are both currently at the imperial palace, discussing your latest arrangement with the Spoon family. They are no doubt trying to speed along the wedding plans. Princess Puissance seems to be putting copious amounts of pressure on mister Sterling Spoon to fund most of the wedding costs ever since she personally paid for his daughter’s dowry.”
Esprit sighed at this, displeased both by his bodily infirmity and the actions of his family. “You would think that zey would ‘ave better things to do than bother my fiancé’s family. Too eager to see a return on their investment.”
The Trotter nodded beneath its cowl in agreement, “That is the most likely scenario my lord…May I have permission to speak freely my lord?”
Esprit nodded without hesitation, “As always, my friend.” Returning all of the now slightly wrinkled clothing to their respective wardrobes as he did so.
“I have been in your service for a long time. And in that time, for as long as I have watched, your family has always acted this way. Perhaps it would behoove you to accept them for what they are.” Uttered the Trotter, closing the distance between the two ponies.
The white stallion waited until the last of his suits was tucked away before eyeing his shrouded servant. While he appreciated its consul, Esprit did not particularly enjoy being told what to think about his family. But he held fast to his tongue, knowing that the Trotter has said such not as a command, but as an affirmation that Esprit must be strong. Slowly he confirmed, “Je sais, mon ami. I know…We are passing a threshold for which we ‘ave never crossed before. And truth be told… I am nervous.” He rubbed a hoof across his face, tracing from his eyes down to his jaw. The pain had seemingly subsided, and the blood halted but he still shifted his jaw around uncomfortably. “I can only ‘ope that zis undertaking goes as smoothly as possible, and with a minimal number of corpses left in its wake.” His golden eyes shot back up to the Trotter, looking for any small sign of understanding, but as usual. There was nothing. No sympathy. No hesitation. The alabaster unicorn finally lowered his hoof from his face after a moment of thinking, before straightening his posture and allowing a look of resolve wash over his face. “I will be counting on you. As well as the brothers, and any other support we will gather.”
“You are my King. My Emperor. My Lord. I will continue to serve you as always, until I but dust in the wind. Until the day where your vision of Equestria is realized. ” At these words, the Trotter pivoted away from Esprit and coasted back towards the shadows. But before the figure could disappear, it turned its hooded head and said, “May Generosity smile upon you. For Canterlot is sick, and you are the cure.” But then it was gone, as silently as it had arrived. Esprit
found that last sentence amusingly ironic, considering his current condition. For a moment, he just stood, steeling himself for what he had begun. And what he had started would mean.
The smell of metal and copper pervaded the air around him, breaking his line of thought. He already reeked slightly of blood, and he hadn’t even sent anyone to their death yet. This would not do, not for a meeting with an element holder. Opening a small cabinet of aromatic bottles of perfume and cologne and picked one out, a bottle lined with a gold and purple label. Magically opening the bottle, Esprit took a whiff of the contents. Oh yes, this would do.
Lavender. With a hint of peaches.
