Courtly behavior was a multi-tiered series of lessons, demanding exacting precision from unspoken instructions. Even basic introductions and casual acquaintanceship required perfect poise as well as perfect speech, and a single misplaced inflection or miscalculation on how long one should stare made the difference between a pariah and a diplomat.
Anypony off the street might, with enough study and practice, be able to practice rudimentary etiquette - rudimentary for the demands of the royal court, anyway. But only a particularly talented or focused outsider would be able to pick up the intermediate cues, hints and appropriate reactions, and advanced techniques required a cutie mark or - for all practical intents and purposes — being “born into” the aristocracy.
Which is why, after twenty-eight minutes of re-grooming himself, Blueblood dreaded having to leave his second-story private bathroom.
Not that he was scared of performing social functions, no - that was what he was born for. It was the more utilitarian problem of unexpected burdens and unwanted functions waiting on the other side of his door. It would be beyond gauche to interrupt a pony keeping to their royal affairs, obviously, which left his various other companions in high society with the polite alternative of waiting for him to open the door. It was more than likely that there would be somepony outside of his suite, with another task at hoof thinly veiled under extraordinary circumstances or emergent situations, which meant yet another day of not being able to retire with a copy of The Three Brothers of Starneigha. At this rate, he’d likely have forgotten every page by the time he had an extended moment to peruse it, and he’d have to start the novel all over again.
Still, there was no helping it. Determined to keep a metaphorically stiff upper lip, Blueblood adorned himself with a casual smile as he opened the door and—
Not again.
“Good afternoon, Diamond Dowry.” Blueblood said, his smile growing to the appropriate width.
“Oh! Prince Blueblood, what a welcome surprise!” Diamond Dowry replied, forehooves resting elegantly on a thick oak hoofrail overlooking the castle’s main conservatory. As usual, her proximity was flawlessly calculated - not too far away from the bathroom door but not too close, body language suggesting that she had simply been lost in thought the entire time. On a lower-class pony, Blueblood might have entertained the notion that they simply were lost in thought, but the plausible deniability of this meeting was too perfect to be accidental.
“It’s delightful to see you too, Your Grace.” Blueblood said, silently congratulating himself on the carefully cultivated warmth in his voice. “I apologize for the interruption.”
“It isn’t your fault in the least, My Lord.” A lock of platinum mane drifted down towards her dandelion eyes, smooth rosy coat almost gleaming in the light as she slid off the hoofrail and gave Blueblood a faint curtsey. “I’ve simply let my mind overburden itself with concerns outside my control. But I know I shouldn’t dwell on such things, of course.”
“Of course you shouldn’t, Miss Dowry! Such a fine young mare shouldn’t have to be troubled by concerns at all!” Blueblood dipped his head in a brief, customary bow. “Do tell me what’s on your mind?”
“The affairs of the country, Sir Blueblood. Our international affairs, as it were.”
Blueblood’s veins iced over in an instant. He tried to keep his face calm and collected as Diamond Dowry continued.
“I’ve only just been informed that the courtly official in charge of keeping company with the ambassador from The Land Beyond the Waves has been taken suddenly ill. There must have been something in last night’s dinner that didn’t settle well.”
She didn’t.
“He’s liable to rouse himself from his, ah...the curious sleeping exercises that their kind of ponies do? I can’t recall what the name of that is.” Dowry cast her gaze upwards at nothing in particular, as if trying to remember a name.
Blueblood knew better. Even a mere initiate to the affairs of the court would likely have noticed the smirk that Diamond Dowry was struggling to suppress. Perhaps she knew it, too, and simply wasn’t bothering to put in even a teaspoon’s worth of extra effort.
“But yes," she continued, "he’s liable to rouse himself soon, and now there’s no dignitary to entertain him. I shudder to think of the impression he might develop of the Court of Celestia if he was forced to remain idle until he was to discuss business with us. He might have to wait for hours with nothing to do! And I simply have no idea how to mitigate such a catastrophe, so I’ve been out here.”
Wickedness bubbled up in Dowry’s irises like brine in a witch’s cauldron. A lesser pony might have blanched, and Blueblood once again silently thanked himself for being born into good graces and a proper constitution.
“I don’t suppose you might know what to do?” Dowry asked Blueblood, tilting her head a little more, her platinum wisps of main drawn over her eyes like threadbare gauze.
“Well, it’s my duty to make sure that every pony is given just treatment, isn’t it? As a pony of royal blood, my duty is nothing less.” Blueblood nodded, trying to keep his upper lip stiff. Perhaps this would be the beginning and end of it. Perhaps this would be, while a gross inconvenience, not a difficult or dangerous one - exacting, perhaps, but manageable.
“But Blueblood, what of the Tea Ceremony?”
Silence fell.
“...What?”
“You don’t know of the Tea Ceremony, Blueblood?” Dowry raised a hoof in front of her mouth in mock horror. “It is the social exchange between ponies of high standing in The Land Beyond the Waves! They use it to value —”
“I’m aware of what it is, yes.” Blueblood cut in, overlooking his necessary faux pas. “I simply wasn’t aware that it would be a function of our meeting.”
“Oh, but of course it is!” Diamond Dowry pressed. “It’s the function of every meeting with a representative of The Land Beyond the Waves, even for the most minor affairs! Perhaps especially for the most minor affairs, My Lord.” Dowry tucked a lock of her mane behind one ear in one slow, unhurried sweep, eyes locked on Blueblood the entire time. “Goodness, I hope you weren’t planning on keeping our guest company without knowing how it is done!”
“Not in the least.” Blueblood grinned. “Actually, I look forward to showing him exactly what I’m capable of.”
For a second, Dowry visibly faltered, clearly caught off-guard.
“I...marvelous.” She finally replied. “I’m glad to hear of your confidence, Blueblood. I hope it reflects well on the rest of the court. As you were, then.”
Tilting her head upward and gracefully readjusting the hem of her dress, Diamond Dowry turned to leave.
“And where will I be meeting our fine guest, Lady Dowry?” Blueblood said.
“Pocket Partner!” Diamond Dowry called out.
It always unsettled Blueblood to see the court servants slide out from behind objects and stand to attention. When he was younger, he thought they simply appeared and disappeared via dark magic, the sort ponies couldn’t do without communing with otherworldly spirits. Even now that he knew that wasn’t the case, and that the servants were simply very good at avoiding attention unless called for, the childish part of him still cringed in fear whenever he saw them come and go.
Thankfully, he was able to conceal his apprehension as one of the court servants slipped out of an alcove in the hallway and bowed respectfully to Diamond Dowry.
“Yes, Your Grace?” Pocket Partner replied.
“Give Blueblood instructions on where to meet our guest, as well as any other materials he may require. And do it quickly. I’ll not have shame come to us all by your laziness.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Pocket Partner replied. Sniffing, Diamond Dowry walked crisply away from the two of them, and Blueblood neither moved nor spoke until she slipped around a corner at the end of the hallway and disappeared from view.
Blueblood sighed. “How long have you been waiting for us, Pocket?”
“Not long at all, My Lord! I assure you, it was no trouble at all.” Pocket said, head bowed.
“I didn’t ask for a reassurance, Pocket. I asked for a number. And raise your head and look at me, there’s no reason to drag your brow on the marble for my sake.”
“I...yes, My Lord.” Pocket raised his head and looked at Blueblood, though he took care not to directly meet Blueblood’s gaze. “Half an hour, My Lord.”
“She does have a way of making other ponies uncomfortable, doesn’t she?”
Pocket Partner remained silent.
“That was rhetorical, don’t worry. Where will I be meeting our esteemed guest?”
“The fourth floor tearoom, My Lord.”
“When will he rise?”
“In approximately half an hour, My Lord.”
“And his name?”
“Kagami Kori, My Lord.”
“How well does he speak High Equestrian?”
“Fluently, My Lord.”
“You do know that you can call me “Blueblood,” right?”
“Of course, My Lord.”
Blueblood sighed and rubbed his brow. So I’ve got thirty minutes to walk there, make myself presentable and perform a ceremony I don’t know in front of a guest who will be expecting it done to exacting detail. Thirty minutes to accomplish what an ambassador took months to prepare for.
There are no words to describe how impossible that is.
And there aren’t any words to describe how thoroughly screwed I am. Though I suppose I was to be screwed either way, just in a different fashion.
“You seem discomforted, My Lord.”
“It’s a bit of a headache. Nothing I can’t manage.” Blueblood sighed. “Nothing at all.”
“Is there anything I can fetch you, My Lord?”
“I’m not sick, Pocket. I doubt medicine will be necessary.” Blueblood shook his head. “Or did you mean something else?”
“It’s...ah.” Pocket Partner trailed off. “It’s conjecture, My Lord. Not an official diagnosis.”
“I’ll happily take conjecture at this point.” Blueblood took a deep breath and let his eyelids flutter closed, bracing himself. “Do tell.”
“My mother used to assume that headaches were sometimes caused by not having enough to drink. Dehydration, as it were. She’d...hope...that she’d have the opportunity to be...offered...a leftover or unfinished glass of water, a cup of tea, the dregs of the coffee, a sip of wine, or so on. She said that it did wonders to a thirst-addled constitution, My Lord.” Pocket Partner gulped. “I hope that’s not cause for consternation, my lord.”
“It isn’t, don’t worry. I don’t care what your mother did or did not get into, Pocket. As long as she didn’t cause any trouble, I don’t see any reason why I should think about reporting either of you. But I’m not sure that a drink would suit me well, since it’s not as if I’m not going to be drinking...”
Blueblood trailed off.
“My Lord?”
“...Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.”
“Is something the matter, My Lord?”
Blueblood beamed. “Pocket, you’re a genius!”
“I am?” Pocket Partner faltered. “My lord, I don’t — ”
“It’s okay. I do. Listen, I’m going to need you to bring the following…”
****************************************************
Twenty-eight minutes later, on an audio cue that had no apparent significance to almost anypony else in the castle, Prince Blood calmly opened the door to the fourth floor tearoom and walked inside.
While he had never previously been there, he was fairly certain that the floor hadn’t been covered in expensive-looking straw mats before. He was sure that the wall scroll was an affectation, too, and that the interior charcoal fireplace - laden with kindling and located slightly off-center in the room - hadn’t been erected more than a week ago. For all the arrangers of the fourth floor tearoom had tried, the reconstruction was clearly an attempt at authenticity rather than authenticity itself.
And judging by the expression on the foreign official’s face, the reconstruction wasn’t fooling either of them.
If one thing surprised Blueblood, it was that the visiting official looked young - possibly as young as he was, even. Blueblood had been expecting a mighty, muscular stallion covered in scars and with an elegantly styled beard that flowed almost to his hooves. But the colt’s face was smooth, his coat an unmarred pale rose, mane a long, thoroughly-combed charcoal ribbon. An indigo robe sat almost limply on his body, as if affecting masculinity that wasn’t quite there; but the sash tied around it was tight as a corset, if not a garrote.
“Ohayo Gozaimasu,” Blueblood began, bending his forelegs in a bow so deep that his forehead pressed gently against the straw mat beneath him.
“Greetings,” the colt replied. Blueblood waited the customary three seconds before raising himself upright again, and the foreign colt did the same with synchronized precision.
There was nothing for it now. Only courtly grace or a catastrophic fall awaited Blueblood. Trying not to think of the potential consequences, Blueblood walked to the middle of the mat and knelt down. As the colt did the same, Blueblood tried not to look him in the eye too forcefully; just enough to acknowledge the colt’s presence, but not enough to appear intimidating.
The door opened behind Blueblood, and Pocket Partner walked in. The foreign colt’s eyes flicked towards the intrusion, then widened slightly. Wordlessly, Pocket Partner put the tray to the side of them and left, shutting the door behind him.
Blueblood slid the tray towards him and began to risk everything.
In a small basin, Blueblood washed his hooves, and dried them carefully with a similarly small towel. Flint and Steel came next; keeping his hooves visible, Blueblood made one smooth, sharp stroke and lit the kindling. Washing and drying his hooves again, Blueblood took an ornate glass pitcher and poured some of the water from it into a smaller, silver-plated kettle. A series of carefully balanced rods on the tray fit themselves together with barely any guidance at all, and with remarkable alacrity Blueblood set the kettle to heat over the fire.
He didn’t dare to look at the colt. Even if he didn’t find something judgmental in there, it might be interpreted as weakness or uncertainty, and he couldn’t take the risk of appearing unsure of what he was doing.
Instead, he procured a marble mortar and pestle and a velvet bag, which he opened with slightly unsteady hooves. Magic would have been better for undoing knots and laces, but magic was terribly gauche and a sign of taking the “easy way out,” and Blueblood couldn’t afford to reinforce that point of view. At last, the bag opened freely, and Blueblood emptied its contents out into the mortar.
While he hadn’t procured the utensils, Blueblood took pride in the coffee beans that he had selected, and greater pride in the spices to accompany them. Tea ceremonies were something else, but coffee was the language of morning affairs at court and social outings that were as rigorous and demanding as “casual occasions” ever were. Coffee he could manage.
And, hopefully, it wouldn’t be seen simply as a sign of taking the easy way out once more.
As the water boiled, blueblood crushed beans and spices alike quickly and efficiently, rendering the luscious browns and flecks of green and tan into dust. This he swirled, and swirled again, rearranging the powder into something more homogenous until he was positive that the water was ready.
Drawing a steady and imperceptible breath, Blueblood used a small spoon to scoop some of the grounds into two porcelain teacups — the last unused vessels on the tray. Setting mortar, pestle and spoon aside, Blueblood took the kettle and carefully poured water into each cup, then lifted one cup and a saucer into the air and towards the foreigner.
The foreign colt was doing an admirable job of attempting to suppress his surprise. It wasn’t flawless, of course, and alarm dilated his pupils and creased the corners of his mouth as he accepted the cup and saucer. Blueblood paused for a moment or two before taking his own cup and saucer, in no small part because his hooves ached; he hadn’t expected to use them so much, much less performing tasks that a servant would normally be called upon to perform.
But there was trepidation, too. He had failed, in all likelihood. The diligence he had shown in preparation aside, his offering had simply been too exotic to be acceptable, and a break in tradition to demonstrate skill was ultimately still a break in tradition.
Holding in a resigned sigh, Blueblood sat back and brought the saucer and cup up to his chest. The foreign colt did the same, and — as if sensing an unspoken cue - lifted the cup to his lips and took a drink.
Then he set the cup back on the saucer, as if waiting.
Blueblood took a sip, then returned his cup to his saucer and waited in reply.
Now was the time for the youth to set both things aside and express the sort of weak enthusiasm that clearly implied a deep disdain. That or remain silent, passively waiting for the ordeal to be over and discretely shaming Blueblood for —
Wait, why was he taking another sip?
Wait, what?
“I, representative Kori of the noble family Kagami…” the colt trailed off.
And then the colt broke into a faint, inexplicable smile.
“...do find this a most curious concoction. Could you tell me more about this?”
***************************************************
“...and so my father, he spluttered like he had just swallowed a frog and said “Dear boy, what have you done to my drink?”
“What did you tell him?” Kori giggled.
“I told him that I heard that he wanted a heartier undercurrent to his drink! And I thought that bread was hearty, but he wouldn’t want to find little lumps in his cup. I mean, the grounds alone were enough of a mess to get rid of!” Blueblood added, gesturing to a towel now thoroughly smeared with coffee grounds cleared out of the bottoms of teacups.
“So what did you add? Flax? Barley?”
“I thought rice was like bread. But I didn’t want it to be solid. I thought he wanted something liquid-”
Kori held a hoof up to his mouth. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Rice Wine?”
“I thought it was a perfect idea at the time! It was rice, it was liquid-”
Kori erupted into a fit of laughter, doubling over slightly as his face flushed.
“I tried to tell dad that...th-that, h-h-heeeee…”
The dignity and grace of the fourth floor tearoom dissolved as it was overtaken by two shrieking, gibbering peals of laughter. Kori caught his breath first, though his face was still splotched red and his mane was still slightly askew from hysteria.
“Th-that...aheh. That made sense. Clearly.” Kori wheezed. “You...Sir Blueblood, you were a strange child.”
“Adulthood seemed so strange to me as a kid. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.” Blueblood giggled, wiping a tear out of his eye.
“Seemed? It is strange, Sir Blueblood. It is simply a strange I am used to.” Kori relaxed, still sporting a large and informal smile. “Becoming used to strange things is simply part of growing up, yes?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it really is.” Blueblood sighed. “I...do you know, I thought this meeting was going to feel strange. Strange and terrifying.”
“Oh?” Kori replied, cocking his head to the side.
“I didn’t know what to expect, except for the worst. The most rigorous standards, really. Did you know that —”
“You weren’t supposed to be here.” Kori finished, raising an eyebrow.
“...I wasn’t. There was an illness.”
“I see.” There was barely any liquid left in Kori’s cup, but he drank anyway, discretely licking the grounds off of his lips. “And you had not anticipated this meeting.”
“Not in the least. It was pressed on me. In the manner in which responsibilities are pressed on in court, anyway. And since nopony else knew about or could do anything about the situation —”
“Except for the pony that informed you.”
“It.” Blueblood gritted his teeth a little before he continued. “Was not her place to accompany you.”
Kori fell silent for a second or two, then set his cup and saucer aside and bowed. “I apologize, Sir Blueblood, but I have a question of personal affairs.”
“Go ahead,” Blueblood replied as he set his cup and saucer next to him.
“She does not like you.”
“She doesn’t. At all. It’s not a specific hatred, just...social competition, I guess.” Blueblood tucked a lock of his mane behind one ear. “None of us like each other all that well, generally.”
“And you do not like her.”
“I…”
Blueblood fell silent for a second or two.
“...I don’t. Even among the other nobles, she’s poisonous.”
“Have you thought about becoming like her?” Kori asked, head bowed.
“Uh?” Blueblood blinked. “What? Why would I want to do that?”
“Exactly.” Kori lifted his head. “I...enjoyed myself, Sir Blueblood. I doubt we’ll see each other again: that is likely not the way of your courts, and certainly not the way of mine. And I enjoyed myself because this was not the social function nor the drink I was expecting.”
“Ah.”
“I...If I may wish you well, Sir Blueblood, it is for a life where you do not become like other ponies of the courts. A world with this Blueblood is a happier and more delicious world. And I am thankful that I met him.”
Blueblood exhaled. “I...I can try to keep that in mind, Kori. I...thank you.”
“You are welcome, Blueblood.”
Silence overtook them. Outside a room, a clock ticked, a groundskeeper at the Canterlot Gardens ran face-first into a trellis while daydreaming, Diamond Dowry “had a talk” with Pocket Partner about her afternoon cucumber sandwiches, and the world carried on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Then Kagami Kori spoke, and the tearoom’s peace shattered like a palisade under cannon fire.
“I suppose it is time, then.” Kori said. “The official meeting should begin shortly. Are you part of…?”
“I’m not, sorry.” Blueblood shook his head and stood up. “I wish I was, though. Or at least, I wish I was now, since...you know.”
“Mmm.”
Without another word, Blueblood left.
*************************************
Three hours later, the servants cleaned up after the two of them, removed the affectations, and returned the fourth-story tearoom to its original state.
Four weeks later, Blueblood took a timely opportunity to publicly humiliate Diamond Dowry without thinking much about it afterward.
Two years later, Blueblood - who had now taken to being addressed as Prince Blueblood - thought briefly of a foreign colt whose name he couldn’t remember, but was distracted by an annoying young unicorn who would later be responsible for getting cake all over his clothing.
