Rain poured down. The sky was dark; the world was black. Slipstar grunted and hissed and moaned as he tried to wriggle through the narrow doorway, his crippled wings catching on the frame.
‘Ah,’ he grunted. ‘Ah!’
A servant rushed forward, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. For half-a-second, he stared, then started forward once more. Slipstar winced and brandished a hoof to dissuade him.
‘No … don’t –’ he gasped.
The servant flinched, then muttered, ‘His Lordship was not expecting—’
Slipstar bared his teeth. His wings were hurting now. Sharp daggers of pain were shooting up through his locked joints, scorching hot, as if they were forged from flame. He stifled a cry.
‘Ah,’ he whimpered, salt tears stinging his face. ‘Ah!’
‘Sir, I—’
Slipstar wrenched himself across the threshold, snorting, heaving, gasping, his head spinning, the familiar jolts and clicks and crackles of agony parading through his flightless limbs. Sour spit flooded his mouth and he sank sideways to slump against the wall. Pressed against the cold stone, he wasn’t sure whether to giggle or cry. Then again, when did I last, truly, laugh? When did I last give a smile, a true smile, for even a second? The thought itself almost made it happen.
Almost, but not quite.
The servant, who had hastened to close the door, watched him quietly, then said, ‘I am obliged to thank you for your visit, sir, but Lord Ashel will not be seeing anyone at present –’
‘He’ll be seeing me.’
‘Sir,’ protested the servant, ‘I must—’
‘Lead the way.’
Slipstar wiped away a sliver of drool, sniffed, and when the servant opened his mouth to protest, snapped, ‘I shan’t be staying long, at any rate! – Move! – Now!’
The servant opened his mouth a second time, then closed it.
‘Follow me.’
They walked. The sound of hoofsteps clicked off the walls. Bright flames danced in dark brackets. Cold hard stone glared back at them from every side.
‘He will not want to be disturbed,’ muttered the servant, eyes fixed straight ahead, his back rigid.
‘Hmph,’ grunted Slipstar, trying to work the muscles in his wings. He winced. They barely even moved. Useless things. Why do I put up with them? Why should anyone have to put up with them? There was a rumble of distant thunder. The servant made a sound.
‘It’ll be bad weather tonight,’ he murmured to no-one in particular, ‘very bad.’
Slipstar grunted his acknowledgement, and shook the water from his mane.
‘You have travelled here?’ inquired the servant, eyes still jammed in front, unblinking.
‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
The servant paused. ‘His Lordship has been very busy, you must understand. Forgive me, sir, but he will not be pleased with your arriving unannounced.’
‘He doesn’t have to be.’
‘Sir … I– I must protest – His Lordship is … is not in the greatest of spirits, sir, to be frank – it is understandable, of course, given news of his son –’ He broke off. Slipstar shrugged.
‘I shan’t keep him long.’
They reached a worn wooden door. The servant knocked twice, then entered. Slipstar shuffled in behind him.
It was very different here.
He squinted down at the rich red carpet, at the shelves, laden with books of thick and thin, at the frescoes adorning the walls, history preserved in beauteous art. A library.
‘Wait here, sir –’
Slipstar didn’t even bother to look where the servant had vanished to. His eyes were fixed on the wall, at the brightly-coloured Pegasi, their painted faces glinting in the painted sun, each pair of eyes behind every set of goggles narrow, firm, determined as they flew, scattering the muddy clouds with their wings outstretched, whole and intact, undamaged and free.
He couldn’t help himself. He shook with laughter; dry, painful laughter. But there is no humour to it. A tear slid down his face, and he doubled up, voice cracking as he chuckled. Even here, even now, life can still find ways to taunt me. How long since I stopped flying? How long since they told me I would never fly again? And yet somehow, despite the overwhelming evidence against my case, I have always believed, or hoped, rather, that I would one day fly again. He gave his wings a feeble jolt and cackled at their burning reply. Cackled and sobbed at once. We all have our dreams. Our little reasons worth living for. We concentrate our efforts on achieving these dreams, even though the tree of ambition rarely bears fruit. But for me, it did. I was living my dream. And yet here I am now, flightless, wasting away the remnants of my life on the orders of a monarch who most fear and none respect. A fitting irony.
Slipstar edged over to the cabinet jammed tightly between a pair of bookshelves. It wasn’t much to look at; old and musty, with the varnish peeling off. Its handles were all scuffed and scraped and its top was dented. It was, in all honesty, rather ugly. Hardly the kind of furnishing a Corodian Lord chooses to adorn their home with.
I wonder …
He tried to slide the uppermost drawer open, but it was stiff. Locked, perhaps? He grunted as he gave it another tug. A thin rattle issued out from behind the wood. The drawer remained shut. Jewellery? Gemstones? And if so, why keep them in so unsightly a piece of furniture? But what does it matter? I see conspiracy in everything. Perhaps the old fool keeps it out of sentiment. Perhaps it once belonged to a lowly fourth cousin or a particularly flattering servant. He snorted. Perhaps …
There was a mirror perched atop the cabinet. Slipstar leaned forwards, and as he did his wing caught the bookshelf to his right. He gave a jolt at the resulting spear-thrust of pain. Even when I brush them off something, it hurts.
‘Ah!’ he whimpered, sucking in his tears as he stared into the glass.
Heavy lidded eyes, one half-closed, permanently. An ochre coat of thin, bristly fur and a greasy black mane. And behind, his wings, the very centrepiece of desolation, spread crookedly outward in macabre gestures of grandiosity. But you are joking, surely. That cannot be me. However did that handsome young colt become this wraith-like figure of incapacity? A joke, of course. Only wait, and those dead eyes will widen and fill with the fire of my stolen youth. Only wait, and those hideous twigs will drop away to reveal a pair of shiny new wings with which I shall rule the skies, like I used to.
Only wait …
He gave a wry leer, and his face leered back at him. How did I become … this? He turned away, disgusted. The door opened.
‘Inspector – to what do I owe the pleasure?’
Lord Ashel was something of a disappointment. A unicorn, it was true, and therefore of noble stock, and yet his face was lined, his eyes were weary, his midriff was considerably larger than what it used to be. Not quite so young and handsome as he once was. It happens to the best of us. Only look at me. Slipstar bowed, ignoring the prickle in his wings.
‘Lord Ashel – I inconvenience you, or so I am told.’
Ashel’s tired eyes blinked. ‘Not at all,’ he said, ‘always a pleasure, to renew an old acquaintance – you have travelled far?’ he added, with an unconvincing yet admirable stab at interest.
‘It was a … difficult journey,’ said Slipstar. ‘The weather was somewhat troubling. I had to walk …’
Ashel’s eyes flickered briefly to his ruined wings and then back. ‘Of course – I understand …’ You do not. Nopony does.
Ashel paused, then said, ‘I have been busy, Inspector – this war, an increase in tax … the unease amongst the peasantry … my son …’ His voice shook and died. Your son? His life thrown carelessly away to gain another few millimetres of worthless ground. How many unicorns have I pressed into service since this war turned magical? How many families have been torn apart in the course of my duties? Immersed in self-pity, it is easy, sometimes, to forget.
‘You have my condolences.’
Ashel’s voice was hollow. ‘He was … brave? – At the end?’
Slipstar nodded slowly. ‘He was.’
Ashel whimpered, his face contorted with grief. As if he would burst apart from the pain of it. Some may find the scene heart-breaking, but to me it is banal. I have seen it and its like all too often over the past few weeks of my life, and I wonder from time to time whether they truly are sincere in their sorrow. I doubt their pain can be nearly as bad as my own, and yet it is Ashel who weeps and not I.
Slipstar waited. After several minutes, the unicorn spoke.
‘Why must we fight, Inspector?’ he asked in a thick voice. ‘Why are we at war, again? Did we not decree peace, at the end of the last one? Did the monarchs not swear, by their own blood, never to oppose each other again?’ They did, but only fools took them seriously. A pony’s word used to mean something, but now it is worth less than the wings on my back.
Ashel’s gut wobbled ridiculously as he walked over to the painted wall. Slipstar had to stifle a giggle.
‘Celestia,’ breathed the former, hoof quivering an inch from the painted sun and the alicorn illustrated beneath it. ‘In her day, things were different – how did it go wrong? How did everything go so wrong?’
‘Many reasons. Equestria had had its time.’ Or so the history books tell us.
‘But Corod?’ said Ashel, turning. ‘Is it truly the best place for us? For everypony?’
Slipstar shrugged. ‘We all try to live as best we can.’
‘And yet we suffer,’ whispered Ashel, eyes glued back to the wall. ‘All of us.’ You seem to have done all right. A dead son, some would say, is not an unreasonable price for your lordship and status. ‘Is it necessary? Is it really worth it?’
‘The king desires nothing but peace and prosperity for the lands and ponies of Corod. But if we are ever to achieve this peace in these troubled times then everypony must do their duty.’
‘Everypony must do their duty,’ repeated Ashel quietly. ‘You are right, of course. You are right.’
There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the muffled growl of distant thunder. Ashel stared a few seconds longer at the wall, then sighed.
‘To business, then,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’
And now, at last, we get to it. Slipstar rubbed his eyes and said, ‘I have come on the business of his Majesty’s High Council, on behalf of Superintendent Yarrow. I have come for the very same reason to which I came here last: for your support, and the support of your family in the war.’
Ashel looked puzzled. ‘My support? What do you—’
Slipstar interrupted him. ‘In this war, as you are very much aware, our front line is being held by unicorns. Why is that, Lord Ashel?’
Ashel looked nonplussed. ‘Why is—? But I fail to see the relevance, Inspector –’
Slipstar cut across him. ‘Earth ponies are strong, and able, as are the pegasi, and can fight. But if they were to come against magic?’ Slipstar puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. ‘Neither race can understand or undo it. Neither race can counteract it. The enemy has magic, that much is clear.
‘Earth ponies, although expendable, cannot be expected to charge repeatedly onward to find themselves outmatched time and time again. The same applies for the pegasi. And so we turned to our nobles, the unicorns, in our time of need, but would you believe it? Precious few volunteered. And so impressment began. If we couldn't have the fathers, then we would settle for the foals. It was painful, of course, for the nobles to part with their sons and daughters. But the king demanded it. It was made law.’
Ashel’s jaw tightened. His eye twitched.
‘Every unicorn foal showing magical prowess was taken to nurture and refine their skills. A kingdom’s worth of noble offspring, preparing for war.
‘There were no exceptions, Lord Ashel. Not a one family was valued over any other. If a foal was good with magic, they were impressed. Many nobles thought to disguise their offspring’s abilities. Many thought to cheat the law. They were discovered, and punished accordingly. Their titles and privileges were the least of what they lost.’
Ashel made a tiny noise, but did not speak.
‘Others tried to hide their offspring. They made out as if they had never existed. All it took to uncover this treasonous deception was a pouch-full of bits tossed in the right direction. It’s amazing, the secrets that are uncovered when some ponies start to talk.’
Ashel, again, said nothing. But I can almost feel him squirm.
‘When I came for your son, you were in quite a state, my Lord. The final member of your family, departing for distant lands, never to be seen again, as it has turned out. And yet, barely a day after his departure, you were in high spirits. It struck me as unusual. As I understood it, your wife was dead, and your only son had left you worrying about whether or not you would ever see him again. It struck me, in fact, as suspicious. Very suspicious …
‘And lo and behold!’ said Slipstar, leering maliciously, ‘when I discovered that you had a daughter– well … I knew what was to happen then …’
As if on cue, the library door tore itself open. Ponies, clad in black, stomped through the entrance and into the room.
Ashel seemed to crumple. His knees wobbled and gave way, his expression one of pure horror. And the game is up.
‘Search everywhere,’ snapped Slipstar to the throng, ‘leave no place unchecked. I want her out of here before sundown.’
They dispersed immediately, many clattering back out through the doorway they had just entered from, a few staying behind to conduct a proper search of the library.
Ashel gave a moan of despair, and, voice cracking, said, ‘My daughter! – No, please! – Inspector, she is just a filly! Please, no! Leave her – please …’
Slipstar took no notice. Every time, they plead and moan and whine and become very tedious. Every time.
‘Please! The king has no need of her –’ The king has no real need for any of them. What good are a few fillies? What use will a couple of colts be against the fury of the Romoudian Empire? And yet the king has demanded it, and so it must be done. ‘Please, Inspector, I will do whatever else you ask of me! I beg of you! Spare my daughter! Please –’
Slipstar looked into his tear-stained face, and laughed. He laughed so hard he nearly cried. ‘Do you really believe the power to spare your daughter rests with me? I am flattered! Nothing I say or do will prevent her fate, and you know this. You have lied, Lord Ashel. You have deceived your king, and for that there is a price …’
‘Please,’ he sobbed, ‘please – not my daughter – please …’
‘Your assets will be seized in the name of his Majesty. You will appear before the High Council and they will judge your fate, in his Majesty’s stead.’
‘Not my daughter – please …’
‘You’re daughter will soon become the very least of your worries, Lord Ashel, on that you can depend. We leave for Cardos as soon as possible.’
‘But –’ he gasped, ‘– m-my daughter … she is so young – have pity … take pity, I beg of you – please …’
‘Pity? Look at me, Lord Ashel.’ Slipstar winced as he bent down, his wings crunching. ‘Look at me! Look at my wings! Look at what I have become! Take pity? I can barely get to sleep at night. I can barely get out of bed in the morning! Take pity? I can barely even blink without experiencing some kind of pain, and you want me to take pity?’ He laughed again. And again, it is humourless. ‘I am so absorbed in my own sufferings, I find I have little time for anypony else’s!’ he hissed. ‘And so you want me to take pity?’
‘Please … please …’
But where’s the harm? His daughter is innocent, and unaware even now of the horrors she may, and probably will, face in her not-too-distant future. Surely I can eke out a single droplet of pity. Surely I am not so cold-hearted as to deny his daughter that. But there is nothing. I only feel sorry for myself, as is usual, and have no room for anything else.
‘When you find her, take them both and leave,’ said Slipstar to the nearest black-clad pony. ‘As for the building … burn it.’
The pony raised a brow. ‘Not sure it’ll take a flame in this weather, sir.’
‘No,’ he shrugged. ‘Fair point.’
‘Please! My daughter! Inspector! Inspector, wait …’
Slipstar shut his ears to the cries and shuffled to the door. Do I feel any better after doing that? Do my wings hurt any less? Was there any pleasure to be taken from another pony’s despair? And even if there was, how long would it last for? He gritted his teeth at another needle of pain. But what else is there for me?
What else?
