“I can’t thank you enough for coming with me, Taille. It’s good to have somepony I know I can trust join me for this voyage.” A gleaming white unicorn with a shaggy, steel-grey mane looked over to his friend, another unicorn with a rich green coat and a head of wavy, scarlet locks.
“Acier, of course I was going to come along, there’s really no need to thank me. You’re like a little brother to me, after all.” Taille laughed, waving his friend off as he prepared two glasses of wine. “Since we’ll be arriving in Massilla soon, how about a toast?”
“Are both those glasses for you, Taille, or do I get the privilege of drinking with you? Acier laughed, taking one of the glasses of rosy colored wine and raising it. “Cheers. May my efforts be as bountiful as my sweetheart, Prairie, is beautiful.”
Taille went quiet for a moment, his expression souring. Shaking his head, he regained his smile, and raised his glass. “And may all those who stay in your favor be granted good tidings.” Taille laughed, before he and Acier downed their drinks. As soon as they set the glasses back down, a horn sounded outside the cabin, announcing the ship’s entrance into Massilla Harbor.
Massilla was one of the largest ports in the Southern Empire, second only to the great metropolis of Alexandramare, and was one of the few harbors where Equestrian merchants could be found. It’s relative closeness to the Equestrian border compared to other harbors made it the main port for merchants who shipped by sea to avoid the lawless territory of the Badlands. Ships like Acier’s were regular arrivals to the harbor, though most were from the counties of Manehatten or Neightalia, rather than Prance.
Acier, appointed head of the Metalsmith family’s Prance-based sword making company, had taken a calculated gamble and chartered a ship to ferry him and some of his goods south to the Empire. His relatives there would put the company in good word with a local Legion Armory. If things went well, they could end up making millions of bits in the sale of fine swords to the many officers of all ranks within the Imperial Legions.
“Alright Taille, I’ve got to go meet Uncle Ferrum and Aunt Aureus. Try not to blow your family’s fortune at the bar. I’ll be back with cause to celebrate.” Acier smiled, walking down the gangplank to the harbor.
“I’ll tell them to put it on your tab, Acier!” Taille laughed, motioning him on.
“Here’s to Monsieur Acier de Lame Metalsmith! A true businesscolt now!” Taille led a toast in the tavern. Acier had come back not just with a huge smile upon his face, but with a contract signed by a Legion Impertor.
“Ah, you offer too much praise, Taille.” Acier laughed, raising a mug in toast regardless. Turning to the rest of the tavern, with his mug still raised, Acier announced, “This round for the entire bar is on me!”
Acier was met with an approving roar from the other patrons, all of whom joined in the toast. Taking part in the revelry, Acier found an old stallion tapping his shoulder. Turning around, Acier looked over the colt. He was quite old, easily in his twilight years. Whatever color his mane had been, it was now a silver-grey, while his coat, once clearly a rich blue, had faded to near grey, to where it looked black in the candlelit tavern.
“Pardon moi, but did I hear your friend say you were named Metalsmith?” The colt asked.
“Ah! Another Prenchcolt! Oui, I am indeed a Metalsmith, Acier de Lame, son of Charrue en Fer Metalsmith. Who might you be, my good stallion?”
“Doré, my good lord.” The stallion smiled. “I’m an old friend of your father, even if I admit to losing touch with him after... my time in the Musketeers. How is your father anyway?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you, Monsieur, he was slain by Revolutionaries while getting my mother and I out of Prance.” Acier shook his head. Doré looked down, shaking his head as well.
“Désolé, my lord, I did not know. I thought he had escaped the Revolution, he was always good to his peasants. Well, if I could ask for a favor, my lord? As an old friend of the family?”
“Of course, Doré, I’d be honored to assist a friend of my father. What do you require, my good colt?” Acier nodded, holding a hoof out to Doré, and walking away from the crowded area of the tavern with him.
Taille raised a brow at the sight of Acier walking off with a seemingly random old colt. Waving down the bartender, he pointed towards Doré.
“Who is that stallion with the Metalsmith? Do you know?”
“Him? I’m surprised your friend is even speaking to him.” The bartender looked over to Acier and Doré.
“Why is that? Who is he?” Taille pressed the question, sliding an Imperial Denarius over the counter, which the bartender discreetly pocketed.
“That’s Doré Blé. He was exiled here as one of the leaders of the Prench Revolution.”
“What?!” Taille leaned over the counter, lowering his voice. “Are you being serious? It that really Doré Blé?”
“Aye, that’s Doré Blé in the flesh. Might want to tell your friend there to back away slowly.” The bartender shrugged before getting back to work. Taille sat back on his stool, putting a hoof to his chin.
“My lord, you’d do me a great honor if you could deliver this letter to a friend I have in Maresailles. Necessity requires I remain in Massilla, but getting mail from here to Prance is quite hard without finding a Prench ship in the harbor.” Doré provided a sealed envelope.
“Who will I be delivering this to, Monsieur?” Acier asked, taking the envelope and examining it for a brief moment.
“One Monsieur Doctrine, he is a retired magistrate living in Renault Manor. I thank you for doing me this honor, my lord.” Doré offered a smile.
“It is no trouble at all, Monsieur Doré, anything for a friend of my father.” Acier smiled, taking the letter and stashing it in a coat pocket. “Now then, may I buy you another drink, Monsieur?”
“Oh, no, no, my lord, it is much too late for me. If I keep drinking I might never make it home.” Doré gave a wheezing laugh. Turning to leave, he looked back to Acier. “Thank you again, my lord.”
“It is my pleasure. You have a good night, Monsieur Doré.” Acier nodded, smiling as he returned to the bar. “Sorry to keep you, Taille.”
“Not a problem, Acier. Not a problem at all.” Taille smiled, taking a swig from his mug.
Prairie Dorée wandered through the river docks of Maresailles, looking for Acier’s ship. She knew he would be arriving back today, that’s what Marché had told her anyhow. If anypony would know when and where the ships of Acier’s company were, it would be Marché les Forces, the company’s logistics manager.
At last, she spotted the twin banners of Prance and the Metalsmith Family flying above the sails, and she ran to greet the ship as it pulled into dock.
“Prairie!? I didn’t know you would be here!” Taille looked down over the gunwale, beaming at the sight of the beautiful orange mare at the pier.
“Hello, Taille! I wanted to be here to greet you and Acier as soon as you got back! Is he there with you?!” Prairie called up, waving a hoof to Taille. Taille frowned, then nodded.
“Oui, he is taking care of some final things. He will be right out. But, while we both are here…” Taille flashed down to Prairie, taking the Earth Pony mare in his hooves. “Please, if you are his, at least allow me one night. Just one night before you are wed.”
“I have told you before, Taille, I will not become the mistress to my fiance’s best friend.” Prairie scowled, removing herself from Taille’s grasp. “You must move away from this petty jealousy. I am sure there are other mares in Prance you would fancy.”
“There is no other mare in all the world like you, Prairie. Should anything happen, know that I will love you just as much as Acier.” Taille declared dramatically, taking a step back as Acier came over the gunwale. Prairie moved away from Taille, running up to Acier and embracing him.
“My love, I return with good news.” Acier smiled.
“Your relatives got you a deal?” Prairie asked, looking up to his eyes.
“Better. I have signed a contract directly with a Legion. We shall be swimming in riches, my dear Prairie, and you shall never have want for anything.” Acier pulled Prairie back into an embrace, his lips meeting her’s.
Taille scowled, turning away from the scene and walking off into the crowd. He had made up his mind now, and there were arrangements to be made. As he walked, he reached into his jacket, pulling out a letter from Doré Blé that he had… liberated from Acier’s possession. The letter itself was innocent, merely a list of condolences from an old stallion to another old stallion, but the contents weren’t the charge would be based on, it was the source that was damning. The Revolution failed a little over a decade ago and while many thought the threat was gone, the Nobility was still terrified of Revolutionaries hiding among the populace. A mere accusation would be enough to send anypony to the prison of Castello di Tasso for life.
“Monsieur Marché! Could I have a word!” Taille called out upon reaching the offices of Acier’s company.
“What?! Oh, it’s you, Voleur. To what do I owe the next Baron de Morsey?” Marché les Forces came from his office, moving through the bustle over to Taille.
“I wish to speak privately with you concerning business matters, Monsieur.” Taille responded vaguely, looking around to make sure nopony was paying much attention to them.
“Alright, come with me.” Marché gestured for Taille to follow him back into his office. Locking the door upon entry, he moved to sit at his desk. “Take a seat. You have business matters, you say?”
“Well, matters concerning this business, to be specific. How do you feel about Acier being named owner of the company?” Taille allowed himself to smirk, he already knew the answer.
“That my decades of service to this company were overlooked so that boy could be made owner? I’d throw that upstart into the Castello if I could.” Marché snorted. Taille placed the letter on the desk.
“What if I told you that you could have him thrown into the Castello?”
“What is this?” Marché took the letter, reading through it. While his expression was unimpressed for the most part, his eyes went wide at reading the signature. “Doré Blé? How did you get this?”
“The old stallion has been spending his exile in Massilla, he gave it to Acier to deliver here in Maresailles. Imagine now, if a magistrate with ties to the recipient of this letter happened to be given knowledge of this event?” Taille took the letter back. Marché leaned back in his chair.
“You know this magistrate?”
“Him and his father. Légal Dossier is an acquaintance of mine, whom I’m sure would much rather this letter and the messenger disappeared.” Taille nodded, placing the letter back in his jacket. “I just require a third party to accuse Acier.”
“So I am named owner of the company, you get Acier’s most precious things in life, and this magistrate gets to preserve his family name…” Marché gave a toothy grin. “Well, you have your accuser then, Monsieur Voleur.”
Acier took a deep breath as he walked through the garden of his estate. He loved taking walks at night, looking up to the blanket of stars which hung from the heavens each night. He, like every Metalsmith, felt a kinship with the stars, a common story among the family being that every star in the sky was a Metalsmith that just had yet to be born. In his musings, he chose the brightest star in the sky to be the one representing the child he and Prairie would have together one day.
The tranquility of his walk however was shattered when the gate to his garden was bashed in, a number of Musketeers rushing in and surrounding Acier.
“What is the meaning of this?! I demand to know what you are doing at my home!” Acier shouted over the din, shooting glares at the Musketeers. One of the Musketeers pulled out a scroll.
“Acier de Lame Metalsmith, you are under arrest for conspiracy against the Crown and for collaborating with a known Revolutionary. Seize him.”
“What!? This is absurdity! Get off of me!” Acier struggled against the Musketeers as they piled around him, forcing him down. High above, hearing the commotion, Prairie opened a window, looking down upon the scene.
“Acier!? Acier! What’s going on!? What are they doing!?” She shrieked, her expression one of horror.
“Do not worry, Prairie! I will take care of everything! I’ll be back by morning! Wait for me!” Acier shouted up as the Musketeers dragged him off, before he was roughly forced into the back of a prison cart.
Wheeling through the streets of Maresailles, Acier was brought before a magistrate in irons.
“I apologize for it being this late at night, Magistrate.” A Musketeer apologized as Acier was hauled in.
“Oh, you were not interrupting anything of mine. Now then. Lord Acier de Lame Metalsmith. Are you aware of the charges laid against you?” The Magistrate asked, looking over his desk at the bound unicorn.
“No! Of course not! This has to be some kind of mistake, I’ve never had any interactions with a Revolutionary, I was barely a colt when Revolution happened!” Acier protested, looking up to the Magistrate.
“Hmm… Yes, I thought as much. You seem much too young to actually be a Revolutionary.” The Magistrate shook his head. “But, pray tell, have you any encounters with a stallion by the name of Doré Blé?”
“Yes, I met him while in a tavern in Massilla, he wished for me to deliver a letter to a friend of his.” Acier nodded slowly.
“Well, then I regret to inform you that you did indeed collaborate with a Revolutionary. Monsieur Blé was a member of the Revolutionary Committee for Public Defense and was in Massilla to serve out his exile from Equestria.” The Magistrate sat back as Acier’s face took on an expression of disbelief.
“I had no idea, Magistrate, you have to believe me. He said he was a friend of my family, one of their peasants from before the Revolution.” Acier tried to plead with the Magistrate.
“I do believe you, Lord Metalsmith. I’ve never known one of your family to be dishonest.” The Magistrate nodded. “Before I let you go home, who might this letter from Doré Blé been addressed to?”
“Oh, um… A Monsieur Doctrine, Magistrate.” Acier recounted the name Doré had given him.
“Monsieur Doctrine, you say?... Gentlecolts, please escort Lord Metalsmith to my… personal carriage. He has had an eventful evening, he deserves a gentle ride home.” The Magistrate got up, gesturing to Acier. Though Acier expected to be released, he was roughly taken by the Musketeers again, a magic dispelling ring sliding down over his horn.
“What! What’s going on! You said I was going home!” Acier protested, unable to move with the Musketeers holding him.
“Welcome, Lord Metalsmith, to your new home.” The Warden of the Castello di Tasso had been at the dock to personally greet his newest charge. While he spoke Prench, his voice carried a thick Neightalian accent. “I am your humble warden, Frusta Percossa. I can assure you that you’ll receive only the finest accommodations my castle can provide.”
Frusta and his prison guards burst out in a fit of laughter, none of them able to keep a straight face at the idea of treating Acier like he was still a noble. Even Acier knew the warden was lying. Castello di Tasso, a prison leased to the Prench from the Neightalians, was a desolate place.
“Monsieur Percossa, you must believe me, I am completely innocent in this whole affair.” Acier tried to reason with the stallion, only for he and his guards to again descend into laughter.
“Oh, of course you are, Lord Metalsmith. If you were actually guilty, there are many prisons in Prance where they could have sent you. But the Castello di Tasso isn’t where they send the guilty, it is where they send those they’d prefer to disappear.” Frusta gave a snarling grin. “And it is my solemn duty to carry out their sentences.”
Frusta and two of his prison guards led Acier through the cold depths of the Castello, down into the deepest parts of the prison, where a dank cell awaited. Inside was only the bare minimum of furnishing, just a simple recess carved into the stone wall to serve as a bed, and light coming from a single window, high above the floor.
“Now, get used to your cell, you’ll never be leaving these walls. But do not think it will go by uneventfully. Every year, we like to mark the occasion of their anniversary with something special. For you, I’m going to particular enjoy it.” Frusta had Acier strung up against the wall, his back exposed to the Warden. Taking hold of a bullwhip, Frusta began to flog Acier’s back, humming along to the screams as if they were a fine opera.
Acier was finally let down after 40 lashes, left lying on the stones of his cell as Frusta and the guards left. Struggling to stand again, Acier looked to the window, trying to see starlight.
He would make it through this, he knew he would. He had to, not just for himself, but for Prairie. Thinking of Prairie gave him hope, even in this most hopeless of places.
