The Prince, the Mockingbird, and the Dreadful Twilight Sparkle

by Carabas

Rating: teen
Tags: Adventure, Prince Blueblood, Princess Celestia, Twilight Sparkle, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Original Character, Spike, Comedy
Length: 22247

A priceless painting has been stolen from the royal palace, and it'll take Canterlot's finest to retrieve it and bring the thief to justice. Unfortunately, Prince Blueblood's on the case.

A priceless painting has been stolen from the royal palace, and it'll take Canterlot's finest to retrieve it and bring the thief to justice.

Unfortunately, Prince Blueblood's on the case.

Cover art from the gallery of 90Sigma. Proofread by Infernus Noctis and MrNumbers.

Spanish translation, by SPANIARD-KIWI. Russian translation, by GrandCat.

Published 2020-09-14 20:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2020-09-16 15:12:53 UTC

In Which Twilight Sparkle Is Dreadful

“Don’t tell me you can’t get to Manehattan, you drooling oik. Getting to landmarks along the railway is your one and only purpose in life. Don’t tell me you can’t do it! Don’t brag about your shame!”

“Prince Blueblood, that’s, that’s not how trains work. That’s not even slightly how trains work.”

“Twilight, don’t talk to him. Don’t make it look like we’re associated with him.”

It didn’t take long after slipping out of the palace for civilisation to start going to the dogs. A scene of unparalleled infamy was taking place on one of the many platforms that Canterlot Railway Station boasted.

I was delivering stern instructions to the locomotive’s driver from on high — or from below, obliged as I was to yell up at the window of his carriage. At my back, though I was much too preoccupied to heed her, Twilight Sparkle was making unhelpful noises of dismay and confusion. Her dragon was being insolent, as seemed to be his one and only mode. An audience of various non-entities had gathered in the near distance and seemed to be snickering amongst themselves at some private joke.

And the driver himself, that wretched specimen of ponykind and an undoubted embarrassment to all who knew him, just laughed and issued opprobrious remarks at my expense from behind the safety of his glass.

“Prince Blueblood, that’s the Seaddle-bound train,” Twilight Sparkle said into my ear, a terse edge to her voice. “It doesn’t stop at Manehattan. It’s … you won’t find many trains that go further from Manehattan.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant. Our driver can simply detour along the right rails,” I snapped, my temper on the frayed-ish side. “And do remember to use our codenames, there’s a good sidekick.”

Sparkle took a moment to breathe deeply and acquire self-mastery. I took advantage of the moment to grant some frank character delineation and sterling life advice to the driver. The varlet received my generosity and returned an offensive gesture. The nerve of these lower orders.

“Azure Sanguine,” Sparkle eventually bit out. A jolly good code-name if I do say so myself. That brisk trot from the palace had been a great assistant to thought.

“That’s better,” I replied, and then remembered. “You’ll get into the swing of this eventually, Gloomy Twinkle. Though that ought to be Prince Azure San—”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Sparkle said. Her expression momentarily betrayed great turmoil, as if she was having to shift her whole mind to some other mode. “Because … because if I call you Prince where ponies can hear us, ponies might suspect you’re Blueblood and not Azure Sanguine.” She seemed to wince, as if the last two words somehow induced effort.

These intellectual types have trouble being efficient, I’ve noticed. Nevertheless, she had something approaching a point. I pursed a thoughtful lip. “Well, possibly,” I allowed. “So long as you maintain appropriate deference, some of the normal rules of courtesy can be relaxed, I suppose. Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

The dragon whelp coughed. “Twilight, I think that guard over there’s beginning to think she ought to do something about this.”

Sparkle sighed. “I should probably beat her to it.”

“I’m easy either way, to be honest,” replied the whelp.

This exchange went on at my back while I resumed my exchange with the train driver. I was of the view that he was Nature’s last word on the subject of odious scruff who’d have been whipped through the streets in some more halcyon age. He held some other, deeply mistaken view. All of a sudden, I felt Sparkle try to physically bundle me to one side. “I say, unhoof me! You’ll ruin this waistcoat!”

“Azure Sanguine,” Sparkle hissed. “We’re getting a train to Manehattan, aren’t we?”

“And this train will do nicely, now unhoof—”

“But you’re Azure Sanguine, not Prince Blueblood,” she said. “Why should Azure Sanguine, whoever he is, try to redirect trains? Only ponies who the Mockingbird will be suspicious of would try to do that.”

I opened my mouth to object, mulled over the exact form my objections should take, drew a blank, and then mulled further. Something of her meaning began to percolate through. “Ah,” I ventured. “She might be on the alert, then, if she catches sight of the wrong train trundling into Manehattan. Is that your meaning?”

Sparkle sighed. “Something like that.”

I apprehended immediately. This was the sort of small-details-thinking the mare earned her metaphorical bread for, and I was quite pleased with her in spite of her habit of waistcoat-mauling. Appropriate credit went to my own wit and attention to form, of course, in remembering to bring her at all. “Good thinking, Sparkle.”

“Gloomy Twinkle.”

“Twinkle, yes.” I eyed the other trains grousing to themselves at their own platforms. “Twinkle, discern which of these culprits will speed us Manehattan-wards without arousing suspicion. They all look equally suspicious to me, I might add.”

Sparkle trudged forth, and after something of a delay — perhaps finding an innocent-looking train was more difficult than I’d imagined — she returned with the knowledge in store, and to the right train we apparently went.

It didn’t strike me as especially innocent from the outside. A great, muttering, steam-dribbling brute like all the others, it seemed. But I took Sparkle’s word as her bond and into one of its carriages we went. The inside corridor was hardly prepossessing either. The walls were close and oppressive, the carpet always seemed to be toying with the idea of sticking to my hooves, and there seemed to be a great deal of noise and natter coming from compartments down the length of it. The rabble were out in force.

I could swear that ahead of us, one group burbled amongst themselves. “...And you’ll never believe it, but that was Prince Blueblood himself, yelling at that driver. I swear, Peach Blossom, while you were away, he just strode up and started yelling all sorts. Wouldn’t have thought royalty even knew that sort of language—”

“This one’s empty,” the dragon observed of one compartment, diverting my attention away. Some glorious isolation seemed just what the doctor ordered, and I led the way inside. Once inside, though, the prospect scarcely improved. ‘Velvet’ and ‘gilt’ and other basic furnishings were so many mere letters to whatever bounder had furnished the place, and the seats lining each wall looked shabby and well-worn.

Sparkle and her dragon parked themselves at one side happily enough. I begrudgingly perched at the other, trying to let as little of myself get in contact with the seat as possible. Roughing it may sound jolly in theory, but I was quickly learning that, in practise, one mitigates. Thank goodness for my fabled tolerance.

Eventually, as if the train had deliberated over the decision with all the agony its soul could muster, we began to trundle forth. I stiffened as the whole contraption lurched underhoof, and only slowly relaxed as the scenery slouched and then trotted and then cantered past the window, building to a gallop. The stout urban structure of the station, which I’d never thought I’d miss, was replaced by more rural greenery and cloudy sky than a stallion could need.

Sparkle and her bally dragon didn’t seem the least nonplussed, knowing, as they did, hardly any better. I opted instead to brood on the perilous adventure ahead and the immediate discomfort staring me in the face, as it were.

From one pocket of my waistcoat, I drew a packet of cigarillos, lit one with my magic, and had a mind-cleansing puff or ten. That helped draw me back to exactly the right frame of mind for concocting plots and stratagems. Once restored to being as merry an old Blueblood as I’d ever been, I was even of a sufficiently generous frame of mind to offer one to Sparkle. She politely declined. Her dragon whelp clutched forward for one, quite cheerfully, and it was Sparkle’s censorious look that flattened him before mine.

“Attend, Sparkle — Gloomy Twinkle, rather,” I announced, once the cigarillo was at half-mast and the rurality past the carriage’s windows had been reduced to so much blurry farmland. “I have a plan I would share with you.”

“Oh? Well, I’d … well, I’d be delighted to hear it.” She leaned hither to myself and looked properly attentive. Even her dragon glanced up from the comic he’d been furnished with at some point. “This should be good,” he said. Sparkle gave him another Look.

“Apprehending the Mockingbird and reacquiring Auntie’s painting. Those are our objectives. As a minor hurdle in our path stands the fact that we don’t know precisely where in Manehattan either may be. How do we correct this, do I hear you ask?”

Sparkle continued to look attentive. Her dragon rubbed his claws together, as if with anticipation.

“Why, it’s simplicity itself. As I’m sure we all know, Manehattan is the city civilisation forgot. To call it a vulgar hive of iniquity would risk insulting all other vulgar hives of iniquity. It has the occasional street or pony of culture, I grant, but only in the same sense that a bed of diseased molluscs has the odd pearl.”

Sparkle’s attentive look seemed to have frozen slightly, as if she was processing all this. To a sheltered academic, this sort of nitty-gritty knowledge would certainly be something of a revelation. “Oh, really?” she eventually ventured.

“Set aside all expectations that Canterlot may have instilled, Twinkle. Where we go, good class and taste go clear out the window, and all things grubby come cat-burgling their way up into said window to take their place. Imagine, a whole city chock-a block with ponies sufficiently vulgar as to have to work for their living.” I sighed, and puffed philosophically. “I suppose somepony has to do it somewhere down the great chain of society, but blessed if I can see the need to revel in it as Manehattan seems to.”

But back to business. “All this is background, you understand, from which we can extrapolate. We can deduce that with that sort of locale ever-present in their lives, the criminal class in Manehattan must be booming. You could start kicking at random in the city’s thoroughfares and be confident of concussing one if not several bank-robbers. Every serial I’ve read indicates the streets are heaving with gangsters and that the waterfront is where pirates gather for their weekly soirees. I’ve no doubt the serials ground themselves in the facts.”

With one more masterful puff, I laid down the last essential. “Consider now, that criminals oft flock together and learn from one another’s malfeasance. No pony comes into the world knowing how to wield a garotte or pick a lock, but rather must be taught it by their more worldly fellows. They all have dens, I understand, where they meet and scheme and cackle on a first-name basis.”

I drew the whole intricate web together. “Therefore, all we need do is decant ourselves into Manehattan, identify and apprehend a member of the criminal class — and that should not be difficult at all — and interrogate them as to the whereabouts of the Mockingbird. Elegant simplicity itself.”

You need my select sort of grey matter to unravel problems and conceive solutions like these, you know.

Sparkle appeared to be giving it a good, stiff mulling-over. Her dragon spoke first, a bright grin on his features. “Wow, that was good.” I favoured him with an avuncular smile. There’s hope for all of us, it seems.

Eventually, Sparkle spoke. “So just so I’ve got this,” she began, “you’re saying we find somepony who looks criminal. And then we ask them, ‘Where’s the Mockingbird?’ That’s the plan?”

“Succinctly put, Twinkle.”

She mulled things over more. I settled back with an easy smile, anticipating high praise, or perhaps some question begging elaboration on some minor point, or something of that nature.

Instead, Sparkle said, “And just to check, you’re certain that you were made responsible for retrieving the Harmony?”

“For the sixth time, Spar — I mean, Twinkle — yes.” This wasn’t the desired reaction at all. I gave her my sternest look. “Refer yourself to some brain specialist once this is done. This leak in your short-term memory badly needs corking.” Her dragon stifled a laugh, hemorrhaging the goodwill he’d cultivated, and I gave the little brute a censorious look. “And you kindly shan’t gargle.”

He coughed, and beamed at me. “Wouldn’t be caught dead.”

It was a pleasing image, but one couldn’t linger on it. Instead, I peered hard at Sparkle. “Come now, Gloomy Twinkle, I require your feedback on my plan. If you deem it flawless, say so. If you wish to interrogate a particular, lay on.”

She was silent for an interval. Then she rose and said, “I need to give it a little thought. Could I be excused?”

I blinked. “Whatever for?”

She hesitated for but a second. “Mare stuff.”

A gentlestallion doesn’t enquire. I waved her off, and off she trotted to attend to whatever. Goodness knows why she hauled the dragon along with her, but again, a gentlestallion doesn’t enquire. I turned my gaze to the window once more, where a distant line of mountains were trying and failing to enliven the view. I regarded them critically, finished my cigarillo, and withdrew another.

At one point, a flurry of green sparks flew past in the direction of Canterlot, like a little swarm of fireflies that had forgotten what colour they ought to be. The countryside just doesn’t know how to do things properly. I put them out of mind.

After however long, Sparkle re-entered with a thoughtful look on her face. Her dragon had come back with her, alas, and the smirk he flashed me was an odious one. He was consistent in his dreadfulness, I grant him that much.

“Your Highness,” she started auspiciously, “I think your idea would work perfectly.”

This was more like it. “Yes, I think so too,” I said cheerily.

“Though perhaps I could suggest one small addition?”

I waggled a magnanimous cigarillo. “Suggest away, my Clover.”

“Suppose we were to get lost or separated by, oh, some careless accident on my part,” she said breezily. “I could put a tracking spell on yourself and that would help me find you much faster if that sort of thing were to happen. Naturally, wherever you’d be would be the place to be, you being the leader in all this.”

Now take note. You’ll recall that previously, due to sheer kind presumption on my part, some perfidious mare took cruel advantage. I am unknowingly about to repeat this error. I assure you that I have learned from this whole experience, and a wiser, cooler-headed stallion narrates all this. Nowadays, were Twilight Sparkle to amble up and make the same suggestion, I would immediately raise my forehooves for battle and seek a wall to put my back against.

Alas, all I said then was, “Capital notion, Twinkle! Act on it, by all means.”

And she did, her horn glowing as she laid some intricate piece of spellwork upon me, the sensation akin to briefly being plunged into a warm bath. And at the time, more the poor dumb chum I, I distinctly recall nodding at her approvingly and making a mental note to praise her in my inevitable report to Auntie.

Little more to be said of the journey itself, with all the important chin-wag dispensed with. The train bloviated onwards, Sparkle drew out a book, her dragon returned to his comic, and I contemplated the infinite.

Time it ticked by, sinking ever-further into the afternoon. The rurality outwith grew gradually ever-urbaner. Out the carriage window, I could glimpse the far-off shapes of lofty buildings swaggering upwards, looking more smug with themselves than they had any right to be.

Manehattan awaited. I steeled my soul. Our platform rolled closer like the bells of Destiny.

“Now remember, Twinkle,” I said as to the dark towers we came, “you let me handle the actual interviewing of culprits and what-not. Leave the chancy work to your capable prince. Remain vigilant in the background and make notes and be prepared to abscond if need be. A feeble scholar like yourself has no business being on the frontline.”

Sparkle dutifully nodded.

“You,” I said, turning to the dragon about her withers, “attract no undue interest to yourself. Impersonate a particularly silent and ugly ornament.”

Dragons smile dutifully with rather a lot of teeth, I noticed.

And to Manehattan we came, and from the train we disembarked.

Truth be told, the initial impressions are all something of a blur — I’d never been quite this close to so many of the great unwashed, and my refined sensibilities reeled. There was a great deal of jostling and a great many bodies under a high, vaulted ceiling, shouts and laughs and grumbling carrying through it all like halitosis-tinged thunder. Sparkle smartly led the way and I mutely followed, past ponies and barriers and yet more ponies than the Creator had surely ever intended to exist, and then finally outside, where something like blessed fresh air greeted me.

I took my bearings.

I immediately regretted it.

Outside the train station, the broad streets of Manehattan forked seemingly everywhere, sporting crowds. A rank of yellow-painted cabs awaited by one edge of our sidewalk, their drivers in harness giving us expectant looks. Past them, carts and wagons blazed paths through the masses.

Those masses themselves were a mad blend — business-ponies and flocks of foals, couples marauding forth, labourers and couriers, grounded weather-teams, and representatives from all the known intelligent species, and perhaps some of the unknown and unintelligent ones too. Untold gangsters and muggers undoubtedly lurked in their midst.

All of it under Manehattan’s ghastly own sky-poking tower-buildings, their walls emblazoned with every sort of advert for every sort of product, each in more lurid colours than the last.

I didn’t quite swoon with horror, but it was a close-run thing.

“Come on. Shall we interrogate a criminal, Azure Sanguine?” Sparkle prompted me. She seemed to be quite enjoying the spectacle, the mad-mare. “What about her?”

She indicated a particular pony in the fray. I haven’t described the all-encompassing cacophony before now, so I shall at this juncture — a great ongoing thrum, gregarious and rumbling and punctuated by hoots from the wagon-drivers and distant honks from the ships in harbour — and I describe it merely to emphasise how this pony eclipsed it.

A unicorn newsfilly, the top of her over-large cap perhaps coming up to the base of Sparkle’s withers, with the apparent lung capacity of Auntie when she’s using the Royal Canterlot Voice at full steam.

“EXTRA, EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT!” she merrily bassooned, exploiting the plinth she stood upon. She brandished a newspaper in her magic and thwacked it atop of a stack of similar culprits. “MYSTERIOUS BREAK-IN AT CANTERLOT PALACE! PROGRESS IN THE ZEBRICAN BROTHERS’ WAR! SCANDALS OF EVERY ADJECTIVE! FEW IF ANY FALSEHOODS! ALL IN THIS AFTERNOON’S MANEHATTAN HERALD!”

Were newsfillies connected to a high degree with the criminal class? Not to my knowledge, though with this one’s calculatedly-oversized cap, I wouldn’t have put it past her. I inveigled my way hither.

“What-ho!” I ventured.

“HELLO YOURSELF, MISTER!” she rocketed right back at me, and I needed a moment to recover. “Whoops! I mean, copy of the Manehattan Herald? There you go! That’ll be one bit!”

“Wait, no,” I said, looking non-plussed at the newspaper that had been foisted into my forehooves while she stared unblinkingly at me, hoof outstretched. Then I considered adapting myself to my role. “I mean, ahem, wait, yes. Twinkle, pay this good yeo-mare, would you?”

With what I might have mistaken for a long-suffering mutter, Sparkle forked over the coinage, which the filly adroitly vanished about her person. “So,” I ventured, with subtlety and panache, “break-in at Canterlot Palace, you say?”

“Yup! Mockingbird at it again!” She seemed terminally incapable of finishing a sentence sans an exclamation mark. Even her question marks came with the implicit exclamation. I wasn’t sure how much of this my constitution could endure. “She’s great, ain’t she? Just pillaging all over the place, scarin’ the crust right off all them upper-crusts! I aspire to that level of moxie!”

“I say — I mean, well,” I corrected, past gritted teeth. “I’m sure some of these upper-crusts are rightfully disconcerted by the abstraction of their beloved heirlooms and would love to know of the thief’s whereabouts.”

“It’s a mystery, mister! ‘Scuse me, I’ve papers to sell!” She turned away and resumed bassooning. “READ ALL ABOUT IT! GOLEM-FIGHTING RINGS UNCOVERED THROUGHOUT—!”

“Blast it, listen!” I insisted. “WHAT?” she replied, and for a moment, the point-blank blast rendered me incapable. Strong stallions rallying round with brandy at that moment would not have been unwelcome. “Blark?” I feebly wheezed.

Somewhere past an unfathomable distance came Sparkle’s tones. “I beg your pardon,” she ventured. “My companion and I were just wondering if you might happen to have any more information about the Mockingbird? Any local knowledge about her usual haunts, anywhere she might have been seen or pawned something off?” Her voice dropped to a surreptitious octave. “Crime aficionados, you see, straight from Canterlot. Can’t resist a scandalous true story.”

There followed no immediate reply. Only the newsfilly sizing us up, for much too long a while. “Hey, you’ve got a dragon! Neat!” was her unpromising response.

“Darn right I am.” Sparkle’s dragon preened, as if he wasn’t loathsome enough.

“And from Canterlot, you say? Say, your pal there’s got a familiar face!” As my full faculties slunk back to me, the newsfilly insisted on persisting. “HEY, HE LOOKS A LOT LIKE PRINCE BLUEBLOOD, DON’T HE?”

“What? Prince Blueblood?” Sparkle glanced back at me and exaggeratedly shook her head. “Maybe a little around his ears, but otherwise … are you sure?”

“Positive!” The little demon’s eyes lit up. “This ain’t some undercover royal visit, is it? Gee, the Herald’ll be keen on a story like that! PRINCE BLUEBLOOD HIMSELF, INCOGNITO!”

What I wouldn’t have given for the nameless little fiend to have collapsed and arisen a mute. I would perhaps have settled for her not being able to be heard in different time zones. We were already getting some attention. “I’m not Prince Blueblood!” I desperately insisted.

“Sure you are! You got the face, and the blue eyes, and the kinda dopey expression! I sell papers with you on the cover all the time!”

I bit down the retort that came immediately to the lips upon the utterance of ‘dopey expression’. Mine is a noble countenance, I say. My teeth gritted again. “My resemblance to that worthy and pedigreed stallion is a lucky coincidence, and oft remarked on. I tell you, my name is Azure Sanguine.”

The filly’s eyes glinted with a little too much base intelligence for my liking. “‘Azure’ means ‘blue’, don’t it? And ‘sanguine’ means ‘blood’, right? That’s a lousy code-name you got there, PRINCE BLUEBLOOD!”

“I’ll have you know, you little blot on the landscape, that it’s a fantastic code-name!” It occurred that this perhaps hadn’t been an entirely helpful rejoinder. “Listen,” I hissed urgently, and scrabbled for my own purse. “I will give you these, er, ten bits to stop broadcasting in that vein.”

“Twenty,” she immediately said. “Also, you gotta sign an autograph for my friend Whirligig! She’s got a picture of you on her wall!”

I acquiesced, though not without whatever resistance I could sneak in (“Dear Whirligig, cordial wishes from your feudal superior, Prince Blueblood of Unicornkind. PS: I hope your friend’s trachea implodes.”). I shelled out whatever I could from my own purse when Sparkle’s proved insufficient and escaped down the street as soon as equinely possible.

Once at a reasonably safe remove, the dragon spoke up. “I liked her! We should have spoken to her more. ”

“Kindly belt it, you tiny excrescence.” I took a steadying breath and fixed Sparkle with my coldest look. “I recall the fateful words, ‘What about her?’ passing your lips, Sparkle.”

“Twinkle.”

“Whichever!”

“I’m very sorry, Azure Sanguine,” she said, looking all chagrined innocence. “I thought she might be one of those criminal classes you were talking about.”

The damndest thing was, Sparkle wasn’t altogether mistaken. The dictionary definition of ‘criminal’ ought to have that filly’s face appended. I sighed, thinking about all those bits from my stipend doubtlessly gone to fund future foul undertakings. And if in confirmation, siren tones fit to powderise any ear-drum arose in the distance.

“EXTRA, EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT! PRINCE BLUEBLOOD DENIES ENTERING MANEHATTAN TODAY! PRINCE BLUEBLOOD ABSOLUTELY DENIES HE WALKS AMONGST US! READ ALL ABOUT IT!”

I yowled the yowl of a stallion who was suffering. “I don’t fathom,” I managed, at last, “how what amounts to ten pints of concentrated blackguard-ness can be contained in a half-pint like her.”

“Perhaps, Azure Sanguine, we ought to forget about her and just keep going?” Sparkle suggested, and the familiar and superb code-name helped settle my nerves somewhat. “If we head down toward the waterfront, there might be ponies there who haven’t heard her yet. More criminals you could try to interview.”

There was some sense to that. Pirates and smugglers and scurvy types would practically be tripping over each other down thereabouts. I took a moment to try and orientate myself sea-wards, and a longer moment to give up and just consult a sign. “Tantivy, Twinkle,” I declared, and a-hunting we went.

The ground level sort of tips down as you head towards Manehattan’s waterfront, and the buildings shed a few of their compensatory storeys. Past the odd gap, you get a view of the ship masts that crowd the harbour and shipyards. All of Equestria’s pegasus-driven clippers and windjammers jostle for space with foreign vessels, steam-spouting brutes that came hammering through underneath. You get the salty sea-breeze as well, much as you may wish you didn’t.

I found myself forging ahead, taking one of the narrow streets that led closer to what seemed like the shipyard side of things. “Recall that I spoke of criminal dens, Twinkle,” I said, and squinted at the buildings on either side. “We now search for such an establishment. If whoever we interview in there proves as similarly unrewarding, we simply move onto the next table.”

“Could that be one?” she said suddenly, once again all innocence.

I looked where she had gestured. Ahead of us, set within and seemingly taking up most of one wall, such a criminal den appeared to loom. The Seahorse was emblazoned on a board outside, under a picture of a gormless-looking seapony, and past its long, dark windows, I heard chatter and laughing and clinking glasses.

I smiled wolfishly. “Well-spotted, Twinkle. As iniquitous a lair as I’ve ever seen.” I strode up and paused before the dread portcullis. “Keep alert, you two. Doubtless we’ll be exposed to debauchery and sordid scenes beyond anything Canterlot permitted in its environs. Remain strong, and let me do the socialising.”

Sparkle mutely nodded, as if shaken by my description and steeling her nerves. Her little gargoyle smirked insufferably. If we found some pirate captain in there, I thought, mourning his recently deceased and monstrously ugly parrot, we’d have just the replacement to offer. And with that, I opened the door and ventured forth.

Within was …

… well.

The Seahorse was fairly light and airy, plush at ground level and spacious up top, with big windows at the back that afforded a view of the harbour. A large bar lined with bottles and taps took up a decent-ish wallop of the floor. Behind its counter, an old, rangy zebra stallion polished glasses and looked up curiously at my entrance.

Before and around the bar, ponies had congregated, most of them looking like shipyard labourers bidding adieu to the daily grind and wetting their whistles, their manes still dusted with wood-shavings. At the counter itself, there chortled a nautical-looking trio — two mares and a stallion. Their own manes and tails were plaited with tar and their sinewy frames sported what were either badly-misplaced cutie marks or marine-themed tattoos. Past them, in a relatively sedate alcove, two younger stallions were massacring a game of pool. Under said table, at their hooves, two little colts had set up rows of toy soldiers and were cheerfully marching them to their glorious deaths.

I’d half-expected a rusty cutlass to be bunged at my head at this point, according to the form book. Instead, all I got were a few curious looks, some of which persisted as the lookers studied my face carefully. One of the sailor mares winked at me. A cutlass at head-height might have been preferable.

“I go forth to socialise,” I whispered to Sparkle, half-unnerved myself. Sordid criminality ought to wear itself plainly, I thought, not be spacious and well-lit and suffer colts to fool around with toy soldiers. I found myself distrusting the place more and more as I stalked to the bar.

“Good day, stranger,” the old zebra stallion said as I approached, still polishing a glass. “What’s your poison?” To my side, the sailor mare winked harder, as if thinking I’d missed the hint the first time.

“Ah. Er. Hmm.” I did my best to ignore her and cast a perturbed eye over the rows of bottles, huddled as if suspected by the constabulary. “One, er, drink, good barkeep.”

He turned a languid eye towards his bottles and then turned as equally languid an eye back towards me. “You might care to specify.”

“Well, I, er.” I hadn’t exactly planned for this, was suddenly wary of sloshing back anything that might be considered suitable swill for the scruff, and the whole bally place had me on edge. “Dash it, pour me something good.”

He crooked one brow, but made no further queries. Instead, he ambled towards one of the furthest taps and began decanting into a well-polished glass. I ogled the room, wondering who’d be the best-informed as regards to roguery, and just when I’d reluctantly concluded that the winking menace and co. would be the ones…

“Sorry, dumb question, but are you Prince Blueblood?”

Had I inhaled any part of my drink at that point, I’m sure I’d have moistened the scenery. As it was, I just choked and took a moment to realise I ought to stammer out some denial. If I’d remembered to wear an inconspicuous dark cloak and cowl, perhaps this sort of thing could have been avoided.

“What? No! Though my resemblance to that noble scion of the line of Platinum is uncanny.”

“Oh.” My interrogator, a young mare who was still sawdusty from her ship-building duties, gave me a curious look over the rim of her glass. I noted with some dismay that the rest of her table was listening in. “Do you know him, then? You sound like you’re from Canterlot.”

“Well, er, only from afar. As this sort of shining beacon, you know.” Sweat was beading on the old brow.

“You’re his spitting image,” said the sailor mare this time, in what was probably meant to be a friendly sort of growl. “Hi, by the way.”

“Well, of course he’d be, Anemone,” said the singular sailor stallion with a snicker in his tone. “Canterlot, eh? You don’t get family trees there so much as one great family thicket.”

It took me a moment to process this, as well as some minimal working-it-out on my hooves, but once I apprehended, I flared up like a sprightly volcano. “I say!”

I mean, quality needs must marry quality, and that maxim can sometimes lead to some entangledness, but I’ll have you know no member of the line of the Platinum has married so much as a close cousin in, oh, decades.

“Settle, all.” The zebra returned with something amber-coloured and foamy in the glass. “Be civil, Rock Salt. You ought to know better. Peace, stranger. I’m sure Rock Salt didn’t mean to imply consanguineous goings-on.”

The concoction was placed before me. I eyed it warily. “Is this grog?” I’d heard it mentioned often in nautical tales, but was still hazy as to whether it was animal, vegetable, or mineral.

“Looks to me more like a glass of Seahorse Amber beer.” The zebra’s voice was serene, like, say, a swan upon still water. “But you sample it and be the judge.”

I continued to eye it. I understood beer in theory. Perhaps this was an initial drink all must sample before the underworld would accept them as one of their own. With stateliness and purpose, I lifted it up and sipped.

Then came the scenery-moistening.

After I’d finished coughing and spitting and wiped from my muzzle the beer that had come rocketing up past my larynx, I surveyed the damage. Though there were protests from either side, it seemed that the zebra had gotten the worst of it. His somewhat sodden features were still fairly calm, considering. His voice had acquired a note suggesting a hostile edge to the serenity, like, say, a pony-eating swan. “Am I to take that as a review on the quality of my homebrew?”

“Take it however you please, but skyfire, blachh, take it with the intent of keeping it far away from me!” The taste lingered on my tongue. “I’d feed that to pigs, but only if I had some uncommon grudge against the pigs and relished the notion of their misery! What the dickens do you put in that? Distilled sadness? Unquiet ghosts?”

“Hops play something of a part.” The unruffled amiability the old zebra had displayed at first was at a quick ebb.

On all sides, public opinion didn’t seem to be entirely with me. “Dear Celestia, imagine just wasting Seahorse Amber like that,” muttered one discontent stallion. “Definitely Canterlot manners,” another vouchsafed. Others murmured assent. The sailors were now giving me a collective look that echoed rumbling on ship-decks.

I was not to be cowed. “I’m surprised anyone in this building is compos mentis — though that is, of course, eminently open for debate — let alone able to see if this is the sort of thing you drink sans any coercion. Still, let’s see if I can salvage something from the whole pack of you. I shall try to be optimistic, though goodness knows what cause I have.”

There was something approaching a silence. Then one of the ship-yard workers said, in an unpleasant tone of voice, “Three sheets to the wind already, are we?”

“The devil does that mean?” I looked around for terminological assistance, but none was forthcoming. Sparkle, confound her, had sequestered herself by the colts under the pool table, and was enthusiastically helping them recreate the Battle of Gorgonmela. Her dragon had joined the pool game itself, and stalked around the table’s rim with cue in claw and a sharpshooter’s eye. One could almost get the impression they were purposefully not looking my way, no matter that it was becoming the dominant trend throughout the rest of the bar.

Left bereft, I turned back to the zebra barkeep. “Why should I be three sheets to any bally wind? Explain your court jester’s ravings.”

“It suggests that you’re suffering the effects of strong drink, stranger,” he replied. “Perhaps it’d be wise to excuse yourself, rest it off and drink plenty of coffee, and come back to offer apologies once you’re your better self again.”

“I am my best self at all times, you malevolent ruiner of perfectly fine water, and frankly, I think the average quality in this room puts you all on decidedly shaky ground when it comes to discussing anypony else’s quality. There’s an expression regarding stones and glass houses that temporarily eludes. Regardless, I’ve not had a sip of anything before setting hoof in this establishment, and the sip I’ve had was a fine argument for temperance.”

I warmed to my theme. Enough of their games.

I turned my commanding gaze to the rest of the astonished bar. “But let’s leave this professional poisoner’s defects aside. I’m feeling generous. Let’s leave all your defects to one side as well. Otherwise, we’d be at it for the rest of the century. All I require is some simple, straightforward information, which I’m sure most of you will have gleaned from your foul lifestyles, fouller associates, and those tendencies that make you objects of contempt wherever honest, decent ponies assemble. Now tell me truthfully, and tell me plainly. Where can I find the Mo—?”

There was a motion at one side, cutting me off. I turned to find myself practically muzzle-to-muzzle with one of the sailor mares, the one who hadn’t been winking. “Don’t breathe on me, you revolting pleb—”

“Maze,” she said. She didn’t appear at all appreciative of my frank character study. Rather, she had the air of one contemplating a happy task ahead. “You still have that longliner tied up out back?”

Maze seemed to be the sobriquet of the barkeep, seeing as how he answered to it. “It was tied up out back when I got this place, and odds are good it’ll still be there when my grandfoal’s grandfoals run it. Honestly, I’ve always just thought it part of the city’s scenery.”

“Come on, chump,” said the mare cheerily, and before I could realise who she’d called a chump, she all of a sudden had one of my forelegs in a lock, and my other foreleg had been similarly bound by one of her fellow scurvy-sufferers. “A nice bath will do you the power of good.”

A nice bath hadn’t been requested at any point. I was perplexed. No interpretation of any of my words could possibly lead to that conclusion. “Unhoof me,” I demanded, and tried to shrug both sailors off with a casual flex of muscle-power. This availed little, and they started to drag me in the direction of a back-door. Approving looks and frequent cheers marked their passage. “Unhoof me, I say! What are you playing at, you drooling reprobates? Unhoof me at once!”

They continued hauling, deaf to reason, and I continued to shout and began to scrabble, rearlegs flailing at the floor and any surfaces that might arrest my procession. “Get your bally hooves off! Twinkle! Twinkle? Step in, would you!” I cast my gaze about for any sign of her. “Twinkle? Twinkle’s dragon, whatever your name was? Come to my aid, dash you!”

But of my supposed allies, there was not a sign, and I was bundled out the back-door in the vice that was the two sailors, my rear hooves skittering over a stone jetty. A general sloshing indicated the ocean was imminent. It was a sunny afternoon and fairly pleasant all-round, if you didn’t mind the salt-smell and the being hauled to an uncertain doom.

At the moment where I was pondering all the forms that doom could take, up to and including ritual cannibalism, I was abruptly spun around and left contemplating the water’s edge. Below me, there was tethered a boat of sorts, as old as the hills and as mouldy as a mausoleum. It sloshed as it rocked on the waves, and I noticed that it was half-full of some murky water. Murky, I say, when I really ought to say ‘pitch-black’, and soupy with unidentified seaweed.

There were bubbles.

I got a premonition of my destiny then, and I will say, there is something to be said for ritual cannibalism. I scrabbled back as boldly a pony ever scrabbled, and laid a curse on the family names of my captors without a time limit, and generally did all within my power to steer clear of my Fate. The old poets know what comes of ponies who try that sort of thing, and alas, I was to prove very much a part of the tradition.

Without so much as a sea-shanty or a kindly reminder to hold my breath, the sailors pitched me forwards. Freefall, all-too-briefly, and then a great and calamitous splash.

It was hardly any distance to drop, and all the weed padded my descent, but all my breath was driven out by the sheer repellant shock of it. I spluttered and thrashed and strove to rise, dimly aware that my waistcoat and cravat may well now be write-offs, and once I’d resumed a standing position, yowled unkind language in the direction of my tormentors.

“Blighters! Bounders! Brigands! Other b-words! I’ll thrash the whole bally pack of you! I’ll — glark!” My outpouring of invective was abruptly dammed when my hooves slipped on a treacherously slick timber and I flipped backwards into the primeval goop. Whatever parts of me hadn’t been submerged previously were now, and those that had were getting a surprise second outing.

“Gchk!” I trumpeted. “Blarchk! I’ll glawarchk! Pfft!”

Learn from my errors. Do not have your mouth open when engulfed by bilgewater. Especially do not attempt to enunciate when you have a mouthful of the same. As mentioned, I am a wiser stallion these days, and have taken much trouble not to repeat the above.

In any case, it didn’t have the desired effect, and the sailors just had a chuckle at my expense before turning on their heels.

“Stars, it’s a shame,” I heard Anemone sigh as the blighters wandered off. “Every time, without fail. I eye up a handsome face and firm haunch and there’s always a total twerp between them.”

“You’ll find the right one eventually, Anemone,” said her sympathetic confederate.

“Yes, but when—” came her reply before they abstracted themselves from my senses altogether.

I fizzed in silence and sogginess, a white-hot sentiment building in me that threatened to boil the water roundabout. I spat out a length of weed and thought dark thoughts.

There came a cough from up above. I sighted Sparkle, the mare looking down over the jetty’s edge, with her dragon in close attendance. My mood did not improve.

Wordlessly, she summoned a set of purple-glowing stairs by which a stallion might ascend. I mustered what dignity I could and did so squelchily. I alighted upon the jetty, nursing the storm within.

“Sparkle,” I ground out. My vision of her was obscured by my trailing fringe, heavy with bilgewater and weeds. No matter. “We were in the same interior space, were we not? Within easy hearing distance of one another?”

She confirmed that this had generally been the case.

“And when I was being escorted along the road that led to my present state of disadvantage, did I not call for you? Multiple times?”

There was a noise of assent.

“And was I rescued from my plight? Or was I, to use an appropriate and regrettable turn of phrase, left in the soup?”

Given the choice between the two, Sparkle considered that the latter described the outcome better.

“Explain yourself, Sparkle.”

She looked at me, an awkward smile fizzling about her features, and said, “Well, Your Highness, you insisted that I leave diplomacy in your hooves, and that I was merely to hang back and take notes.”

I goggled. Struck by a sudden inability to verbalise my deepest sentiments, I produced a yowl that could have come from an orchestra’s brass section having a nasty shock. The inability passed. “What the frabjous thump,” I stuttered out, “was diplomatic about what was happening at the end there? There is often nuance in this world, Sparkle, but the dividing line between diplomacy and brigandage is bally definite, and you should have had no trouble discerning which predominated.”

Her gaze was bright and, so it seemed, gormless. “I thought it was very subtle diplomacy, Your Highness. Your reasoning was far beyond my ability to understand, and I was sure you’d planned for that exact sort of reaction. Was I mistaken?”

It was a shade beyond the pale.

It was several shades beyond, in fact, bordering on black. Here I was, inviting Sparkle along on glorious adventure — and really, how many times in her scholarly life was she going to get the chance? — in a loyal Auntie-serving cause she ought to have rejoiced in. And in return … this was the ability she evinced? Is this what she considered Equestria and her Princess needed from her?

“I see I have made a mistake,” I said coldly. Even the pang that admission ought to have caused barely registered, so consumed was I with other thoughts.

“Not much of one, Your Highness. I’m sure they’ll let you apologise, and it’ll clean right off.”

I took a moment to breathe deeply.

“Clearly, you had no business being here in the first place, Sparkle,” I continued, as if she hadn’t spoken and I hadn’t needed to take a long pause. “I shall reflect upon my decision-making then, and the sum total of your use may lie in making a sadder, wiser stallion of me. But you serve no more use here. Go.”

Her face credibly fell, though her tone was a little flat. A more mentally settled Blueblood might have made something of that. “Oh no. Are you sending me away?”

“I wash my hooves of you, and I hope you know how to take yourself away. Abscond, Sparkle.” I turned my face to the sea.

After a few minutes, I was aware of her leaving. Her and her dragon both. I didn’t vent much more anger their way. I had mine at a good, steady glow, and was not about to waste it.

Eventually, I blasted steam out my nostrils, pawed the ground, and turned sharply. An alleyway snaked out of the jetty and led back onto the street. I stormed forth, and paid little heed to the passersby shrieking at the new sea-monster that had blundered into their lives. I simply made straight for the door of The Seahorse and slammed it open.

“Now see here, you horde of damned hooligans—!”

I elect to draw a veil over my second visit to the boat. I have that prerogative in this narrative; I choose to exercise it.

I elect to do the same for my third visit as well.

Suffice to say I was getting jolly tired of it by the time I found myself gargling bilgewater for the third time, and my erstwhile pack of amateur bath-attendants were getting a little tired too. “Not that this isn’t cathartic,” Anemone remarked as they sashayed off, “but I do have a drink that’s not drinking itself.”

“Tell you what, come back tomorrow,” said Rock Salt. “Make a once-per-day thing of it. You can be a part of our routine.”

I sprayed vindictive bubbles after them and was soundly ignored. Possibly for the best. They weren’t very good bubbles; my heart was no longer in it. Their voices had long faded by the time I hauled my way out of the boat. The afternoon was darkening overhead as I slouched forth, well-marinated in all things bilgey.

A night-time of the soul had descended upon me as I squelched through the streets of Manehattan, drawing only the occasional shriek. It was hard to know what to do for the best, and when the line of Platinum loses its certainty, it bumbles rudderless.

Attempting to interrogate a criminal-looking sort availed little, as they simply eluded my squelching attempts at pursuit while calling me opprobrious names. In a fit of desperation, I think I once asked a stray cat where the Mockingbird was. And the sight of a freshly-printed newspaper sporting an old photo of me and a headline to the effect of PRINCE BLUEBLOOD IN SECRET MANEHATTAN VISIT, WANTED FOR AFFRAY DOWN AT WATERFRONT, SOAKED IN BILGEWATER (and in a smaller heading below, PRINCESS’S FAVOURITE PAINTING STILL MISSING) had all the effects on my mood you might expect.

Even my cigarillos were denied me as a morale-booster. Bilgewater had mixed with the packet, and had not mixed well.

And so it was that I ended up squelching aimlessly through an unknown part of the city, where the narrow streets were quiet and the high buildings angled up towards an evening sky, when I heard the mare in distress.

“Help me!” came the wail from down a shadowy alleyway. “Muggers! They … they want my wallet! That’s all the money I have, please! Don’t wave that club around near my foal! Anypony!”

The fires of the line of Platinum may on rare occasion simmer low, but the merest outside spark’ll get it roaring merrily again. I looked up, eyes flaring, my vigour pounding back in waves. “Fear not!” I boomed, and squelched down into the darkened alleyway like a charger of old. “Help’s on the way!”

I mean, an obviously poor-but-honest mare in distress, a sole beacon of humble integrity in the midst of this dreadful city, being menaced by the city’s more notorious element? To the line of Platinum’s noblesse oblige, that’s as good as a war-trumpet. And, in a thought that only occurred when I was already pelting down the alley, knocking down the mugger would guarantee a concussed crook to pose sharp questions to.

I thundered on, seeking my quarry. And you’ll agree that I did in a sense, when a size nine cosh suddenly came whirling up out of the gloom and took me just behind my right ear.

All was suddenly very starry.

In time, the starriness abated and sensation returned. My head ached like someone had taken a size nine cosh to it. Something metal pressed about my fetlocks. I heard distant water rushing, as if a river was in high spirits.

I groaned and cracked my eyes open and found myself shackled between two statues. An upright marble mare who’d forgotten to put her forelegs on that morning, and another marble piece detailing Flash Magnus glaring off into the middle distance, presumably at the rotter who’d absconded with his clothes and barding.

And across from me, there stood the Mockingbird.

“‘What-ho’ is the phrase, isn’t it?” she said.

In Which The Princessbury Rules Are Found Lacking

I’m reliably informed that some would be thrilled to find themselves tied up and at the mercy of a creatively wicked mare, for whatever reason. I don’t much see the appeal myself. Current events were doing less than nothing to convince me of the situation’s merits.

“...the deuce is this?” I spluttered eventually, wrenching at the restraints tethering one forehoof tight to historical artwork. They held fast, the blasted things. So did the statues; the artists of yore had this equally-blasted habit of not working with any material that couldn’t induce a hernia.

“Looks to me like you’re tied up,” the Mockingbird herself replied breezily. “Take my word for it; it’s entirely my fault.”

Past my headache and a lingering grogginess of vision, I stared up at her. I found her whole manner decidedly odious; there was an aura of at-ease command about her one doesn’t like to see possessed by ponies who aren’t Auntie. She was an almost entirely different mare than the one who’d deceived me back in Canterlot. Almost.

There were no wings to be seen, her coat was now robin’s-egg blue, her mane a tousled teal, her eyes golden, and her whole posture seemed looser and lower and more casual. Her accent had shifted also, to something with a faint rurality to it I couldn’t have placed had my life depended on it.

One had to really pay attention to her cheekbones and muzzle to realise it was the same pony. There were some things makeup and dyes and prosthetics and stagecraft could only do so much about.

“Take a picture,” she remarked. “It’ll last longer, and another false face in circulation’s no great problem.”

She sported a voluminous dark dress, spacious enough for hidden wings, if she even had them, and possibly all manner of pockets with all manner of nasty little contrivances within. A side table at her back sported a bottle of something civilised, a wine glass, a thick book, and a half-finished cheeseboard.

“Don’t mistake this for my usual standard of decadent living,” she continued, observing the direction of my gaze. “I just like to treat myself whenever a big score’s secured. Mind you, two days in a row. You’ll get me used to this.”

Beyond her, the room we were in ran on, pockmarked with the odd door, studded with air-fresheners, and brightly lit by multi-hued alchemical lights set into the stone walls. Lining these walls, incidentally, was all of Equestria’s cultural heritage, or near enough to all of it to make no difference.

My awestruck gaze roamed over the Mockingbird’s assembled hoard, enough to make a dragon sit up respectfully. Age-old paintings crowded out the wall space, priceless statues scraped against the low ceiling, various renowned jewels and blades and barding sets occupied their own little makeshift plinths.

And at pride of place, at the centre of the back wall, I saw it. The Harmony.

My eyes widened, and I subjected my restraints to a damned good straining. There it was, Auntie’s favourite painting, in my sight at last after all my travails.

“Speaking of big scores, say hello to all my previous,” the Mockingbird said cheerfully. “You’re my latest, in case it wasn’t clear.”

The nature of this ghastly utterance passed me by. Initially, at least. The sight of both the Harmony and the rogue who’d upset Auntie and taken a cosh to my ear was enough to rouse me to a fighting spirit, and I deigned to address the scoundrel at last. “Free me at once, you villain!” I demanded.

“I didn’t hear either the magic word or a reason why I should do that.”

I considered my position, and then graced her with a haughty sneer. “Insufficient bottle to take me on fairly hoof-to-hoof, is that the way of it? Come on! Release me and put your forehooves up. You can learn a thing or two about sporting conduct for the first time in your life.”

“Hmm.” The Mockingbird appeared to consider this, and my hopes rose. “You know what? If I get bored enough and I suffer some traumatic head injury, I might just take you up on that.”

I stiffened my sinews and took a deep breath, and wrenched anew at my restraints, my thews rippling. The Mockingbird watched indulgently, and almost seemed like she’d pat me on the head once I started panting like a set of bellows. Then she returned to her dinner.

“I think I saw one move a millimetre,” she said kindly, after I collapsed wheezing and briefly insensible and aching all over. “Maybe if you try again?”

I tried to call her something unpleasant, though I suspect it came out as a meaningless string of consonants from the rear end of the alphabet. As I recovered my breath, I considered my position yet again.

I gathered myself and hoof-crafted my words. Pride demanded I give this rotter nothing but defiance, and by gum, defiance she would get.

“Listen, you blister, and listen well,” I said slowly, coldly, with all appropriate menace and dread authority. “I’ve no idea how you came upon me or what sort of —”

“The trail of bilgewater helped,” she interjected.

I thought dark thoughts and bit back uncouth verbiage. “Regardless—” I pressed.

“That, an initial stroke of luck, and the most trivial of investigation,” she continued, deaf to my pressing. “Some ponies fresh off the train wandered into my favourite bistro, and their chatter was worth eavesdropping on. Who had they seen trying to commandeer a train in Canterlot? And he was headed where? My stars. Put one of my charming faces on and made enquiries. And when I got to the station, Decibelle had some news I didn’t begrudge paying a bit for in the slightest.”

“Decibelle?” I didn’t immediately apprehend. Then, alas, I did. “Do you mean that little blackguard of a newsfilly?” When the Mockingbird nodded, I uttered a strangled groan. “I wouldn’t have thought she had a name. More a series of unearthly shrieks.”

“There’s a filly with a sparkling career and/or a lengthy jail sentence in her future. One to keep an eye on.” The Mockingbird looked approving. “Chased more chatter down to the waterfront, where I gathered you’d menaced the most odiously wholesome bar in the city and accused everypony inside of every sin under the sun. They let you know what they thought about that, and then you trailed off, leaving a trail as it were.” She spread one foreleg wide. “And now here you are. Just to clear up that first bit of confusion. What was your other question?”

I took a moment to reflect upon the whole blasted day, having it laid out like that. ‘Blasted’ seemed to just about encapsulate it.

“I do appreciate an easy day every now and then,” the Mockingbird said, as if she’d felt the silence needed filling, “and I don’t want to sound ungrateful ... but could you refrain from making all my scores so simple? Overcoming a challenge is part of the fun, you see.”

“To reiterate,” I said curtly, as if she hadn’t spoken. I’d crafted this monologue, dash it, and I intended to logue it all good and hard. “Listen, you blister, and listen well. I’ve no idea how you came upon me or what sor —”

“But I just told you.”

“— or what sort of foul intentions you have,” I pressed. “But I’ll make this plain to you, Mockingbird. Whatever torments or cruelties you’ve got planned for the near future, don’t expect so much as a whiff of satisfaction from me. You don’t merit much save scorn and defiance and unkind remarks by the wagon-load, and that’s precisely what you’re going to get. Do your worst. You bounder,” I added. And I meant it to sting.

Ideally, she’d have been cowed by my heroic resolve and hurt by my incisive assessment of her character, in equal and abundant measure.

Instead, she looked thoughtfully at something in the middle-distance and sipped from her glass. “Darn,” she said, in a sort of philosophical way. “I was hoping to get your input for the ransom letter I’m going to write—”

“Excuse you, what? Ransom letter? What?”

“—But I suppose I’ll have to take my own best shot at it. Ah, well.”

“Trot that backwards a step or two, would you kindly,” I said stiffly. “What bally ransom letter?”

She gave me a patient look. “Think hard, Prince. I’ve outright called you my latest score at least once by now, and I’m sure I’ve intimated it here and there. Of course, I can’t exactly stick you on a plinth and bask in you like I do with the others. Ergo, I’m going to write to the palace and ask them what they consider a fair going price for you would be.”

The sheer and utter infamy of the notion took a while to percolate in. My mouth opened and shut several times. The world seemed to reel a tad. Eventually I spluttered, “You … you can’t do that!”

“Why not?” said the Mockingbird. “I have expenses, you know. Tools of my trade, raw materials for my workshop, basic necessities, all the little luxuries that help keep body and soul apart… I shan’t give you a budgeted list, but you get the idea. A prince’s ransom should do very nicely.”

Conceive an image, if you would. I certainly did.

Auntie on her throne the next day, some staff member delivering her a letter on a platter alongside her mid-morning tea and scone.

Auntie reading that letter.

Her expression.

Words didn’t seem quite sufficient. I loosed a throat-rasping snarl and had another go at testing my restraints to destruction. “You fathomless cad! Let me go, I say! Undo these blasted shackles!”

“One day, he’ll learn the magic words,” she said to herself wistfully. “Not that it’ll do him a lick of good, but wouldn’t it be nice.”

“YOUR PRINCE CALLS FOR AID!” I called at the top of my lungs, for any friendly pony who might be in earshot. In that moment, hang dignity; I couldn’t let Auntie down again. “WHOEVER’S LISTENING, DELIVER ME FROM VILLAINY! What the dickens is the lower-class equivalent of noblesse oblige? Plebius oblige? PLEBIUS OBLIGE, DASH IT!”

“I can overlook the nasty names, but I’ll admit I’m insulted by this lack of credit. This den’s safely far below any prying eyes and ears. You’re at no risk of being heard, Prince Blueblood.” The Mockingbird turned back to her table. “Here’s how things’ll go. I’ll finish my dinner. I’ll share some with you, since I’m not a cruel captor. Then I’ll write up a first draft of that ransom letter, and if you change your mind, I’d welcome your editorial insights. How does that sound?”

I’d gathered breath for another round of bellowing. I opened my mouth.

“For the second time, though I’m not optimistic about it being the last,” she said, “there’s no need to serenade me. There’s nopony else around to hear you.”

There was a sudden rattling to my left.

The Mockingbird and I looked its way.

It came from one of the solid-looking doors set into the stone wall. Somepony’s magic was at play; a raspberry-coloured aura had enveloped the handle and rattled away at it, and the same colour glowed in the keyhole. There came little clicks, as if the same magic was fooling around with the lock. Then there came a decisive-sounding click.

The door swung open. And through it stepped Sparkle.

Her dragon was perched on her withers. Both of them had spectral clothes-pegs about their noses, and triumphant expressions past said pegs.

The Mockingbird boggled, as if somepony had taken a size nine cosh to her scalp. I did something roughly similar.

In that moment, no matter her catalogue of sins and character failings, I could have forgiven Sparkle anything. Had she checked her tracking spell, even as she’d slunked homewards, and perceived that it was time for all good ponies to rally to the aid of their prince? Whatever her methods, I endorsed them. Indeed, had she entered brandishing a freshly-made body, I could have been induced to help her hide it.

“Told you we’d find her lair in the sewers,” Sparkle’s dragon said, his tone smug if somewhat nasal. You’ll understand the state of my emotions if I say that in that moment, had I not been shackled, I would have embraced him as a brother and given him the key to my cigar humidor.

“I shouldn’t have doubted you for a moment, Spike.” Sparkle kicked the door shut behind her, dispelled the clothes-pegs, and took a moment to savour the air. She took the room in with a glance and turned to me with a perfunctory nod. “Your Highness.”

“Sparkle! Good show!” I said, as merry and high-spirited a Blueblood as was ever shackled. “All’s forgiven, old sprout, and let us say no more about our last exchange and the events prior. Free me and I’ll deal with this bandit.”

Sparkle didn’t immediately free me, or answer me, or much of anything regarding me. Instead she turned to the Mockingbird. “Hello there.”

“Sparkle?” I prompted her. This new streak of usefulness in her had to be encouraged and coaxed along gently. “Eyes on the prize. No getting distracted. Free your prince, come on.”

The Mockingbird, for her part in all this, seemed utterly nonplussed, which I much preferred to her prior demeanour of assured command. She goggled wide-eyed at Sparkle and her dragon, glanced briefly ceiling-wards, her mouth opening and shutting, and at several points seemed on the cusp of gargling heated queries.

But when Sparkle addressed her, she cleared her throat and gathered herself. The unflappable noxiousness came over her manner again.

“Well,” said the Mockingbird, at long last, “that’ll teach me to make statements that all but invite the universe to kick them up the rear. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure…?”

“Twilight Sparkle. And you are?”

“The Mockingbird, if you don’t mind remaining on pseudonym terms.” The Mockingbird’s jaw worked for a moment. “Am I to take it you’re an associate of the prince?”

“Let’s put it in those terms, yes.”

“I’d heard that he’d been seen in the company of a young mare and a dragon, but witnesses told me he’d apparently sent you packing after the bar...” The Mockingbird broke off, studied a wall, and then turned back on Sparkle with a frown. “Forgive my continued nosiness, and also my Fancé, but how the peeve did you find me? We’re right in the middle of the Manehattan sewers.”

“That we are!” said Sparkle’s dragon in his eminently kickable way. “I like that you’re here, though. It’s classical, you know?”

“Thank you,” said the Mockingbird distractedly. “But I repeat, the Manehattan sewers. I have it on good authority that a series of tragic and improbable miscommunications led to the original architect reading ‘sewage system’ as ‘labyrinth’. The city authorities have only the vaguest notions of the layout, and even my knowledge gets a bit fuzzy around the edges. Heck, this is a barracks they built specially when they were trying to curb the alligator problem decades back, and I only found it by happy accident. How on earth did you—”

Sparkle was trying to conceal her pride and failing abysmally. “Just a tracking spell.”

“A tracking …? Ah. Ahh.” The Mockingbird looked my way and breathed deeply. And then she turned back to Sparkle with an appreciative smile. “Well. Nice and straight-forward and thoroughly underhoofed. You’re a mare I could probably have a conversation with.”

“Thank you! I think.”

“Excuse me,” I said, a smidge tersely, quite perplexed as to what was going unspoken here, “I’m sure this is fascinating in every particular, whatever it is. But Sparkle, may I prevail upon you to bally well get on with freeing m—”

“Not now,” Sparkle replied, distractedly, out the corner of her mouth. “Having a conversation first.”

I reeled. Stars spun. Sparkle’s stock, which had enjoyed its high ebb all-too briefly, was now burrowing down at a clip that’d embarrass Diamond Dogs.“‘Not now’? What the dickens do you mean, ‘Not now’? Sparkle, I order you to—”

“You must be from royal intelligence, then,” said the Mockingbird, as I wasn’t there, and she kept talking even as I wound the spluttering up to a high pitch. “This one of their plans? Whoever runs the show there has been trying to draw a snare around me for a while now. They’re cunning enough to have had a few good goes at it, though not enough to ever succeed. Using the prince as bait is a step up for them; I approve.”

“I’m not one of theirs. I’m just one of mine. And it wasn’t much of a plan either, to be honest. Pretty simple, and I improvised most of it as I went. I didn’t even expect I’d be trying to track you down till this morning.”

“Oh, I’ve got to hear this.”

“No, you bally well don’t! Sparkle, cork the pleasantries and free me at once!”

This last interjection of mine went unappreciated in its time, as all great things must be, and the gruesome twosome maintained their dialogue.

“You see, when your break-in at the palace was discovered, the prince drafted me to help find you and the Harmony. He said he’d been assigned the task.” So far, so fair a summary. “I was a little skeptical. So I checked with Princess Celestia, and she said he hadn’t been assigned that task at all. But since I was already on the train to Manehattan by then, I thought I may as well see how I could help the princess with what I knew and what I had.”

In between my indignation at Sparkle’s blithe revelations and my chagrin that my plan had been revealed to Auntie before I’d had the chance to return crowned in glory, I found the space to briefly wonder where she’d found the time and means to communicate with Auntie.

I was distracted from that thought when her dragon hiccuped a little puff of green. I gave him a look of disdain. You couldn’t take the little savage anywhere.

“So I thought, how were we ever to find you? And after thinking it over and a quick chat with Spike, I realised that was the wrong tack. We just didn’t have enough information for that. What we could try and do, though, was lure you out.”

The dragon seemed to take this as his cue. He pointed at me. “And we had Prince Chump to help with that!” he said. I told him all about himself in return, but he wasn’t listening, the little wart.

“See,” Sparkle continued, “you target high-profile treasures and works of art, stuff that’ll get you in the papers and single you out for attention. That doesn’t sound like the sort of thing a pony would do if she was especially cautious, or if she didn’t relish the uproar afterwards.”

The Mockingbird clicked her tongue. “You reckoned that I just couldn’t resist rubbernecking a train wreck of my own making. And that I couldn’t resist taking advantage of an easy, high-profile mark. And a combination of the two would have seemed like an early Hearthswarming.”

Sparkle looked odiously triumphant. “And I was right! You didn’t.”

“Hah. Guilty.” The Mockingbird gave Sparkle a rueful look even as she chuckled. “Should have known better, but sometimes the bait can seem too obvious to be bait, you know?”

“I wondered whether we were coming on too obvious,” Sparkle admitted. “I wanted to be sure you’d hear about him. So I might have nudged him towards ponies and places where he’d be sure to excite comment and get your attention. And when the chance came, I excused myself so you’d be likelier to swoop in.”

I produced little but incoherent indignation. Every pony I’d had the displeasure to run into throughout this whole escapade had this sheer nerve.

And the intimation that I’d amounted to a blundering distraction with Sparkle’s cheerful puppeteering was … well, it didn’t even merit consideration.

“You ever considered a career in crime, Twilight Sparkle?” the Mockingbird said.

“Not at much length, no.”

“Well, do so. That sort of evil brain would make you a credit to the profession.”

“Thank you!”

A moment of silence, blessedly. “So, ah,” the Mockingbird started, “here you are, and here I am, and the Harmony’s over there. What now?” She gestured towards the exit to the sewers. “You got a posse there ready to wrestle me into custody?”

“Not exactly,” Sparkle said. “I’ve got another surprise for you, though.” Her dragon preened.

“Care to spoil it?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Alright.” The Mockingbird nodded. One of her forehooves slipped up towards her dress, as if to tug and straighten it.

Her forehoof descended, and I caught the briefest glimpse of something shining. She’d slipped on some strange shoe. Her other hoof snaked up, and the trick repeated.

And then the Mockingbird’s eyes glinted maliciously and she stepped towards Sparkle. Her new shoes clinked on the stone in a somewhat muffled way. “Then tell you what. We’ll make a sporting contest of it. You try and spring your surprise, and I’ll try to subdue you and truss you up and ransom you alongside the prince there. And we’ll see who finishes first.”

“Er.” Now it was Sparkle’s turn to be momentarily nonplussed, and she took a hesitant step backwards and glanced briefly behind her, as if expecting somepony. ”Conversation’s done, then? You don’t want to keep it going a little longer?”

“Not at the moment, no.” The Mockingbird continued to prowl on Sparkle, her stance lowering in a manner that intimated imminent and entirely professional violence.

“I could tell you more about, um, how exactly things went in the Seahorse?” Sparkle ventured. Poor move, thought I. Why would that be a topic bound to fixate and entertain?

“Tell you what, I’ll ask you when you’re trussed up. For now, though, I think I’ve disadvantaged myself enough already.”

With that, the Mockingbird sprung forwards at Sparkle with apparent intent to dent her features, and Sparkle scurried back in turn, her eyes wide and her dragon lurching athwart her withers. Her horn lit up, and she aimed over the Mockingbird’s own withers, straight at me, and let fly with a beam of raspberry light which connected with the shackles about my person.

Locks clicked, and cuffs slithered open, and metal chains fell down around my hooves like so many sleepy serpents. It had taken her bally well long enough, and it had involved appalling amounts of insolence along the way, but she’d done it at last. She’d liberated her prince.

The Mockingbird galloped off in hot pursuit of Sparkle, and flashes of magic and the general clamour of a merry skirmish marked their trail. For my part, I rose, rubbed my fetlocks where the cuffs had chafed them, and gathered myself as I shot a look of deadly resolve in the direction of the Mockingbird.

She harried Sparkle down the room’s length. Sparkle would teleport and reappear and volley off stunning spells at the Mockingbird with every flash. The Mockingbird sidestepped them as they came, or would slap them out of the air and blast them to the floor, those dashed shoes of hers seeming to turn the magic when she caught it.

Sparkle’s dragon yelped advice, Sparkle yelped back, the Mockingbird advanced in grim silence, and spellfire crackled and whistled. A jolly symphony all round, I say.

In I came, contributing my own warcry to the noise, and my headlong gallop quickly outpaced the Mockingbird’s steady onslaught. As I plunged within spitting distance of her, I rose precariously up onto my rearhooves and reminded myself of the Princessbury Rules.

Strike with the forehooves firmly and straightly. Strike not towards one’s opponent’s back or rearmost. Do not grip or strike with one’s magic. When one has downed one’s opponent, step back and heed what the referee has to drivel on the matter. Other rules, possibly. Really, when in doubt, apply common sense across the board. Thus reminded, I issued my challenge to the back of the Mockingbird’s head.

“Hold there, I say! Turn and fight like a proper Eque—”

Like lubricated lightning, she spun and slammed a forehoof into my trunk. I barked like a tuba and collapsed breathless to the floor.

Underhoofed and deplorable, I call that blow. How, I’m as yet unsure, but it undoubtedly was.

I rolled about and wheezed, and I willed my midriff’s nerves to stop reporting in, the pain had been noted and taken into consideration, thank you. Resuming verticality seemed a long way off, but I endeavoured to make progress.

In the background, events seemed to have escalated. Sparkle had gotten a sight more aggressive and creative with her magic; upon my momentarily distracting the Mockingbird, she’d summoned a spectral cage about the crook, glowing bars swooping down in an instant.

The Mockingbird scrambled out of the way of the oncoming bars, stepping right onto a section of floor that glowed raspberry and tried to suck her in like a friendly puddle. She stamped down with one of her odd shoes, discombobulating the puddle, and sprung forward at Sparkle. There came the whistle-crack of teleportation, and the Mockingbird took off in pursuit even as more raspberry magic blazed across the air.

Sparkle was certainly giving it billy-o, as best she could, and I daresay some of her academic malarkey was coming in useful at long last. But the Mockingbird, under her dress, seemed to be built along the same lines as a steel spring, and had mastered the art of not being where Sparkle’s spells were landing. There seemed a rather pronounced risk that she’d wear Sparkle down if I didn’t resume my leading role in this scuffle.

Flash and thunder asserted itself seemingly everywhere in the vicinity. A lesser pony would have hesitated to rise up into it.

I rose up into it, only faintly wheezing for air. I resumed my look of deadly resolve and fixed the back of the Mockingbird’s head with it.

You know, the unbelievable thing was how she wasn’t even paying attention to myself. Here Bluebood stood, as formidable an opponent as ever warranted unconditional surrender to, and the Mockingbird was letting herself get distracted by my poxy sidekick.

Perhaps she’d had the notion that I was something to be easily dismissed, that some time in captivity would have dampened my spirits and rendered my good self some mewling damsel to be saved by Sparkle of all ponies. Perhaps she thought one good kick had proven her clear advantage over I, for all that she’d only landed that kick by subtle yet inarguable cheating.

She was monstrously mistaken.

For the line of Platinum yields to nothing. Not to dreadful odds, to base fear, to the path of least resistance, to base self-preservation, to common sense, not to anything in all the world. We don’t know when we’re beaten; we don’t know when we’re at risk; we don’t recognise the possibility of defeat; by gum, we’ve no sensory apparatus recognisable to wider ponykind, and it’s gotten us where we are, atop the whole bally pile.

I trumpeted my most terrible battle-cry and hurled myself after the Mockingbird again. “En-garde, you rotter!”

She spun to me, and then back round to Sparkle, who was gathering another spell’s energies about her horn — rather a lot of energy, it seemed. The Mockingbird found herself rather pinned between us, between my charge and Sparkle’s growing maelstrom of magic. As I rocketed at her, it seemed to me that there was something like apprehension in her eyes.

On reflection, it was probably calculation.

The Mockingbird held her ground as Sparkle let fly with her spell — a rather basic stunning blast, albeit one sloshing over with sheer power — and I stepped smartly in to dispense a preliminary jab.

That was my plan, at any rate. I kicked and suddenly found there was no Mockingbird to connect with. She’d swept to the ground, and I glanced down just as her legs came walloping round to sweep me right off my hooves.

I tumbled wildly, uttering startled exclamations. I barely had time to reflect on what a rank bad show that had been, her striking below the sporting area — before, aided by a little extra shove from the Mockingbird, I found myself flailing right into the path of Sparkle’s spell.

Have you ever had occasion to be struck by a stunning spell? The sensation is rather like being slung into a tumble-drier alongside a couple of untethered bricks for ten minutes, compressed into a single instant. One can’t help but come out the other side of the instant feeling as if a stiff brandy and a lie-down are just about what the doctor ordered.

In the case of this one, coming from Sparkle, it was rather closer to a whole hod’s worth for ten years. Everything went very starry, and I was dimly aware of my limbs going everywhere and every nerve straining itself to register both ghastly numbness and a great deal of ache. Some statue loomed over me where I’d come to rest, some bronze chappy resting his chin on his hoof and having a good ponder.

“Aagh, shoot!” came Sparkle’s yell, from a star-studded remove. “Sorry!”

I tried to give her the response she deserved. Unfortunately, my vocal apparatus in that moment wasn’t up for expressing any sentiments more developed than “Thththhpptllplrk,” which didn’t have the wounding quality one might hope for.

Hooves shuffled round about me. I blearily attempted to take stock of what was happening up above. The Mockingbird seemed to be zig-zagging at Sparkle, dodging or batting aside the rapid-fire stunners Sparkle desperately volleyed her way.

Consider events. Not only had I been struck well below the sporting area to strike at, but the Mockingbird had also taken an unscrupulous advantage of spellwork to render me incapable. One could come away with the impression that she’d never even heard of the Princessbury Rules if she wasn’t disregarding them altogether, which struck me as just the sort of infamy she’d go in for.

It’s jolly tricky to know what to do with an opponent like that. Honour prohibits one from sinking to their level. Observe the form-book and play the game, and all that.

But other motives also compel one to subdue said opponent, no matter what, in order to get Auntie her painting back.

These are the sorts of ethical dilemmas that drive philosophers to drink.

With an almighty groan, I stiffened every sinew, flexed every thew, and poured every spare ounce of my not-inconsiderable will into rising once again. The approximate eighth of an inch I managed wasn’t a terribly auspicious start.

As I imitated a beached fish, the Mockingbird neared Sparkle, who let fly with one last stunner and then seemed to hastily prepare the magic for teleportation once again. But Sparkle was flagging, and the Mockingbird put that little bit of pep into her performance, and she rolled right under Sparkle’s spell to come leaping right up at Sparkle’s features. The little dragon shouted a warning too late, as something black glistened in the Mockingbird’s hoof. That hoof descended, Sparkle was lost from view with a muffled yelp, and I poured my all into another attempt to rise.

A quarter of an inch represented jolly good progress, if not quite so much as I might have wished for.

Sparkle stumbled back from the Mockingbird, affording a view of her current state of dismay. I saw what the Mockingbird had done. Sparkle’s horn no longer thrummed with the glow of her magic, as it had been doing continuously for the last however-long. A squat black magical inhibitor had been jammed down on it, like a block of coal worn as a horn-ring. At a momentary loss, Sparkle pawed at it with her forehooves.

“I’ll help!” her little brute squawked, much dismayed, and leaned past her withers to try and yank off the inhibitor.

“Ow!”

“Does it unscrew?”

“Ow! No!”

The Mockingbird, who stood in easy distance of reaching out and concussing the pair of them, took a moment to breathe heavily and revel in her apparent victory. The air of an assassin departed her, and in came that assured command I knew and loathed so well. She trotted forwards, as if intending Sparkle and her dragon further mischief.

A stallion learns things about himself in times like these. He looks into the fire stirring at the core of his soul and in its shape he divines profound truths.

Does one abide by the honour of the line of Platinum and play fair amidst an unfair world? Or does one do whatever it might take to not let Auntie down?

And you’ll agree that put that way, it’s barely a question at all.

Against all rules of conduct set out by the form-book, I stirred my horn to life.

I reached out with my magic.

And I set the Mockingbird’s dress on fire.

Well, one corner of it at least; I’ve never practised the trick past what’s needed to ignite tobacco and miscellany. She stopped and blinked round at myself when she noticed my horn glowing, sniffed when the smell of smouldering wafted up, and then frowned down at the tongue of flame fooling around the hem.

With a frustrated harrumph, she yanked the dress off and slipped free of it in one motion, revealing the unadorned frame of an earth pony, and kicked her smouldering apparel to one side. The look she directed at me was on the un- side of friendly. She began to advance my way.

I desperately reviewed all those hazy hours I’d spent making my magic tutors bite through their pencils with frustration, searching for anything I might have learned with more of an ordnance quality to it, and came up short. I tried to rise again and managed an exceedingly respectable half-inch before the Mockingbird came to loom over me. Irritated golden eyes gave me a good once-over.

“Ththgllk!” I said defiantly. What else was there to say?

She leaned down, hooked me about the throat with her foreleg, and hauled me up — along with what seemed like an entirely gratuitous dunt of my head against the bronze stallion pondering where he’d left his keys. She tightened the crook of her leg about my throat, and I gurgled stertorously.

I looked to Sparkle for aid, so desperate was I. But none was forthcoming. She and her dragon had assumed a sort of posture where he, down off her withers and on the ground before her, gripped the inhibitor about her horn and pulled back with all his might. She in turn pulled back also and with no little desperation. The vast difference in mass and strength between them meant that this accomplished little more than waggling her dragon around a bit.

“Is it getting looser?”

“No! Ow! Brace on the ground!”

“I’m trying — aagh!”

“I’ll knock you out first,” said the Mockingbird conversationally. She tightened her grip about my throat and the blackness came inveigling in. “Then them. And I’ll throw in the cost of that dress to the ransom bill, I might add.”

The world gradually dimmed, all its contents blurring into much of a muchness — all the art pieces, sections of wall, the distant door to the sewers from which Sparkle had entered, Sparkle and her dragon themselves — and as unconsciousness threatened at the last, I could think only defiant thoughts and wheeze defiant wheezes.

The door creaked open, and a light flamed within. I muzzily regarded it as the darkness consuming my vision threatened to consume it last.

The light took the shape of Auntie.

She emerged from a flickering gold-framed portal, padding quite casually onwards and stooping to get through the doorway. She rose and straightened and spread her wings. A sunny ambience seemed to engulf proceedings.

I boggled once again. The vice about my throat relaxed, the Mockingbird boggling in her own right, and I took the chance to suck in the vital oh-two. The darkness diminished a tad.

Auntie quietly took in the entire room with a single sweep of her gaze, her fathomless magenta taking in myself and the Mockingbird and the assembled art of Equestria and Sparkle and her dragon. From far away, I heard Sparkle exclaim, “Princess Celestia!”

“Ththk!” I halooed, not to be outdone.

When Auntie’s gaze finally settled, it was on the Mockingbird, who seemed to have frozen in place where she held me.

Auntie spoke at last, and her tone was like an eclipse. “Blueblood.”

The Mockingbird immediately shed her grip about my trachea and I collapsed to the ground, and though the noise of my frantic inhalation at that moment had something of a rubber-duck quality to it, that seemed only a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things.

Auntie said, in a manner less reminiscent of the End-Times, “The Harmony.”

Overhead, I was dimly aware of the Mockingbird pointing with her forehoof. Something came drifting over in Auntie’s magic, and the eponymous brute itself came floating over to her in its frame. She studied it for a moment and then sighed with relief, as if a decent-sized mountain range had been lifted off her withers.

I felt something of the same. The expression on Auntie’s face was something I could have undergone a thousand rotten days in Manehattan to see realised.

Then Auntie said, “Fleur.”

A moment’s pause, and then the Mockingbird said with a faintly plaintive edge, “I, um … Your Majesty, I don’t have a Fleur—”

At which point, Fleur stepped out from the portal behind Auntie, smiling the same way wolves don’t. A couple of her more solidly-built detectives lurked behind her, hovering by the portal’s other side.

From the sigh the Mockingbird heaved, one could gather that this was not the way she wished the day had gone. “I wasn’t expecting to host this many visitors all of a sudden.”

“Good day, Mockingbird, I presume,” purred Fleur, advancing. Her gaze roamed over the artistry crowding out the walls, and she nodded as if consulting some internal list. “Forgive my forwardness. I am something of a keen follower of your work and have long desired an interview on the matter.” She stopped before the Mockingbird and leaned in close. “In particular, I’d like to talk about alternate career paths you may wish to consider. Trot this way with me, if you please.”

There seemed to be a momentary hesitation about the Mockingbird’s manner, as if she was contemplating some last bold escape even when in the metaphorical jaws of Auntie and Fleur themselves. I swear she thought hard for an instant and eyed various exits.

But that instant passed, and as co-operative a pony as I’ve ever seen meekly fell into step with Fleur as she was led towards the portal.

Off she went, and I might add that there are few ponies I’ve been gladder to see the back of.

But before I could dwell on her too much, I felt a warm aura of magic engulf me, and I became aware that Auntie had gently lifted myself right up off the floor. My legs flopped towards the ground, tottered somewhat as the effects of Sparkle’s stunning spell refused to disperse, and after a near-miss, Auntie seemed to decide it was for the best to keep me in her grasp. I might have uttered thanks; it might have come out incoherent.

No matter. She seemed quietly pleased as punch, and she had the Harmony in her possession, and all was right with the world again.

Auntie had turned on Sparkle, and there was a faint susurration of her magic that popped the inhibitor right off of Sparkle’s horn. Sparkle heaved her own heavy sigh of relief. “Thank you, Princess Celestia,” she babbled. “Thank you. I tried to keep her talking as long as I could, just after I’d sent the letter and came in here, but she cottoned on, and things, er ...”

“I beg your pardons for the delay, Twilight and Spike,” Auntie gently replied. “My paperwork was more onerous than usual this evening; I assumed your letter could keep for a minute. You’re both unhurt?”

“Yep … I mean, yes, Princess. We’re both okay, though I think Blueblood got a knock or two.” An honest streak which I wouldn’t have thought Sparkle possessed asserted itself, and she abashedly muttered, “He was knocked into the path of one of my spells. Though even when he was downed, he was still trying to distract the Mockingbird and keep her off Spike and I.”

‘Distract’ nothing, I was bally well trying to thrash her soundly. “Ggtht,” I said, clarifying.

“I’ll take him back to the palace,” Auntie said, and was a sweeter sentence ever uttered? “He’ll recover there in short order, I believe. And I will say now that I am deeply grateful to all of you for your efforts, whatever they may precisely have been, in retrieving the Harmony. There are few objects with a greater sentimental value to me in all Equestria.”

In my head, a thousand ancestors cheered my name. Had I briefly been forced to not live up to the exacting honour of the line of Platinum? Perhaps, but many of them knew Auntie too. I didn’t doubt they’d approve of any deed done to assist her.

Well, except possibly for Iridium, but we don’t hang that blot on the escutcheon’s image up for a good reason.

Sparkle seemed to glow, as did her dragon — and dash it, despite their combined and brimming ledgerbook of sins against my person and gravitas, I supposed they’d both been of some minor assistance in a couple of capacities. Let them enjoy whatever laurels were doled out to them. I’d simply be sure to not invite them along on future adventures. I daresay they’d had their fill.

“Though I do feel I should remind you, Twilight,” Auntie said, still softly but with a certain educational firmness, “that in the reply I sent your letter when you were aboard the train, I did ask that you do your best to keep Bluebood out of too much trouble, to the best of your ability.”

Sparkle froze, opened and shut her mouth a few times, and otherwise dithered. For my part, still slung in the air athwart Auntie, I couldn’t quite grasp why such an instruction had been issued. Dash it, you’d think Auntie would know her own student’s limitations.

“I can’t help but feel that request was subject to some creative interpretation,” Auntie pressed.

“Yes, Princess,” Sparkle admitted at last, and hung her head. “I’m sorry. I just had the idea for the plan to catch her, and I didn’t think he’d get into actual danger, and … I ... ”

She trailed off, apparently lost in the weeds of pure mortification, and Auntie didn’t harry her with more critique in that vein. She just leaned forward and gently raised Sparkle’s chin with her forehoof. “Perhaps there are lessons to be learned,” she said conversationally. “On how to engage with and properly treat one’s fellow pony and similar avenues of interest. I’m sure an opportunity will present itself, perhaps some time this summer.”

Past the rapt attention Sparkle was giving Auntie, her expression became somewhat dubious. She still nodded, though in a somewhat bemused manner. “I was … well, before Prince Bluebood recruited me for all this, I was planning on asking you what you thought my summer project ought to be.”

Auntie didn’t immediately answer. She just smiled one of her enigmatic smiles, looked briefly towards the floating Harmony, and then turned to the portal. “I’ll consider the matter, my faithful student.” And then she said, in a voice so low only I could hear, “I may have something of a notion already.”

And on the whole rummy matter, there is not much more to be said. I was abstracted back to the haven of Canterlot Palace, and true to Auntie’s word, my recovery there was swift. Indeed, a long bath and a slap-up supper and two full goblets of brandy and a casual game of poker and, at last, a full night’s rest were enough to render one as fit and cheerful as a fiddle and thoroughly ready to re-join polite society

In the next couple of days, I had the chance to lay the facts of the case before Auntie, much as I have related them just now, and she made for an excellent and properly attentive audience.

I saw mercifully little of Sparkle and her pet boil, and generally wished them a long and productive life very far from myself, and far from all innocent bystanders for that matter.

Of the Mockingbird, I heard nothing, not at first. I hoped Fleur and she were getting their fill of each other and that neither was relishing the experience. Her hoard, as I understand, was parcelled off to whoever had looked up one day and found a frame or plinth unaccountably empty. Possibly the newspapers had a field day with it. Possibly Decibelle broke her diaphragm alerting Manehattan to it all. A stallion can but hope.

And amidst it all, I found the time to smoke a cigarillo or two and get some heavy self-reflection done. What had I learned? What refined metal had sloshed out when good old Blueblood met his crucible?

Well, as a start, I discerned that good old Blueblood ought to be jolly wary of any courteous stranger marauding up to him in the palace and trying to get into his good graces. They too would probably be intent on theft or assassination or jay-walking or what-have-you, and I’d be too wise for them. They’d have to have their dedication tested beyond all hope of preserving a pretence before I’d suffer their company, and I swore I’d stick to that.

Furthermore, the Princessbury rules might need to have some sensible exceptions edited in, to allow for the possibility that one might need to set one’s opponent on fire in the sporting ring. If I ever found out who managed that sort of thing, I’d write to them and let them know. No reason others shouldn’t benefit from my hard-learned wisdom.

Lastly, Twilight Sparkle and her associate were a hazard to all known life, and ought not to be allowed to cast spellwork or conceive of plans or otherwise interact with anything or anypony important. This lesson seemed especially important, and I underlined it thrice in my notebook.

Next time, I’d find a rather better sidekick, that was a certainty.

And that just about wrapped up the introspection and all the lessons I felt had required learning. A wiser stallion had been made of me, and it was now a dead cert that the line of Platinum was going from strength to strength.

There was one last incident, though, a few days after all events had wound down.

I bring it up only because we’re such good pals.

It was a clear and starlit evening, and I was blundering back to my quarters, a half-bot sloshing about in me and my purse nicely lightened after a jolly evening’s baccarat with the cronies. The lock to my room took some fumbling before it begrudgingly allowed me entry, and I stumbled in with a hornful of light.

Something seemed amiss. I frowned round at the various images of the dynasty, at my own drinks cabinet and wardrobe and nightstand, as if any of it had any clue to offer. My night-light brightened a touch as I tried to make out what had me on edge.

Eventually, I put my hoof on it, and when I did, I let loose an involuntary squawk.

The ancient tapestry of Platinum herself that hung in my quarters had hung. In its place, there now rose an expanse of bare wall, upon which was affixed a hoof-written note.

I groped forward to read it.

And at this point, old bean, I’m sure you can imagine how I reacted upon completion.

To my ex-mark, Prince Blueblood of Unicornkind,

Fleur was civil enough to offer me semi-honest work in government, by way of redeeming myself for my crimes. Upon giving the matter solemn thought over the last few days, however, I have concluded that semi-honesty and redemption just aren’t my aesthetic. Please make Fleur aware of this upon receipt of this letter, and invite her to contemplate the flaws in her holding cells.

In light of the recent seizure of my hoard (for which I hold no grudge against you for your unwitting part) I have elected to start work on a new one. The contents of your bedroom made an excellent starting point. As a sportsmare, I limited myself to one item only.

I wish you the very best of luck in our next meeting. Keep your hooves up! But aim below the belt.

Your acquaintance,

The Mockingbird

In Which Some Blighter Absconds With Harmony Itself

There are many, many reasons one might seek out my company. I have an excess of excellent qualities that beckon the multitude. My superlative talent for conversation is amongst them, as well as my dashing good looks, if one does say so oneself.

But, if I were to wager, you’re here to hear about the rummy events concerning my good self, Prince Blueblood of Unicornkind; the master thief known as the Mockingbird; the manifold failings of the Princessbury Rules; how Twilight Sparkle was the worst pony; and Auntie Celestia’s favourite painting.

It began — to the very decimal point — one afternoon when I was sashaying about the palace corridors. Auntie insists on opening the palace and its collected artwork to the hoi-polloi for so many days out of each week, a dismaying decision made for reasons she’s explained but which I’ve never quite wrapped my noggin around.

Thankfully, today was one of the quieter days, with scarcely a hint of rabble to offend the senses. Thus one could sashay about the place as if one was born to sashay, and one soaked in the cultural treasures of Equestria lining the walls as if one had any idea what exactly they all pertained to.

And it was during this that I met the mare.

I rounded a corner and found her, a pegasus with her wings tucked in at her side, ambling down a stretch with seemingly nary a care with the world. Her coat was silver, her mane auburn, her eyes — when she glanced towards me — a soft blue-grey, and her red dress impeccable.

Clearly a noblemare of some vintage, though I couldn’t recall ever meeting her before. Had I ever seen her at court? I didn’t think so, and so I put my best hoof forward. “What-ho,” I said. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure …?”

She turned and after a second spent taking me in, her hoof flew to her mouth. “My word,” she breathed, “surely you’re His Highness, Prince Blueblood?” She dropped immediately into a bow.

Well, that sort of reaction always warrants a certain degree of graciousness, and she did seem to have a proper pedigree and bearing. I’ve a keen eye for these things. I thus deployed appropriate mateyness. “I am indeed, for my sins,” I replied and smiled. “But for sterling new acquaintances, I can answer to just Prince Blueblood. Jettison the Highness.”

Top-notch mateyness, I dare say.

“This is an honour, Your Highness,” she gushed, preserving my proper form of address, which, to be honest, is just what I prefer in my matey acquaintances. “Your quality is known far and wide. I confess that I hardly dared, when I came to Canterlot for the first time, that I’d ever be so fortunate as to … as to meet you.”

I liked this mare more and more with every syllable. She had the proper and all-too-rare attitude. “Oh, well,” I said, brushing off the front of my waistcoat. “Sometimes dreams come true, eh?”

“Oh, indeed.” Her grey eyes lit up.

When unsure how to proceed in a conversation, do the gentlestalliony thing. “Perhaps I could offer you a tour of the palace? As it is your first time here.”

Her forehooves clapped in fillyish excitement. “Oh, how gallant!”

That it was, and so I did. Taking her foreleg, I proceeded to lead her hither and thither, pointing out the art pieces that crowded out the walls and plinths, and extemporising on them in my own inimitable style.

“...And that there’s a portrait of Thingumy, painted by What’s-Her-Face whenever ago,” I believe I was saying when the fateful moment came. “See her watchimaflip? I’m told that’s a jolly good display of perspective, or shading, or whatever these artistic types call it. And this is —”

“Oh my,” she said suddenly. “Oh, that is beautiful.”

I ogled whatever had just caught her attention. There, between two wide windows that afforded an excellent view of the horizon, a painting hung upon the wall. The Harmony. It showed a landscape at dawn, with a high-up moon and a sun peeking over the horizon, as if waiting for its cue. The landscape was supposedly the same one viewable through the windows, but before it had all been built on. Trees and other distressingly rural things marauded over the bottom of the canvas rather than any jolly cityscape. A stylised L lurked in the bottom right.

Harmony was apparently a well-known piece and old to boot. Couldn’t tell you how old or who it was by. Auntie Celestia was very fond of it, and whenever the hoi-polloi were allowed to befoul the air hereabouts, they gurgled at it approvingly. Dashed if I could see why. I mean, I’m as partial to a nice dawn as the next pony, but well, one has actual dawns for ogling purposes if one stays up sufficiently late and remains sober enough.

The artist, whoever they might have been, hadn’t even bothered to paint the Mare when splashing her Moon down. Hard to get a sillier oversight than that, I say.

“Yes, quite,” I said, humouring the strange noblemare. “Very, er, dawny. Quite well-known, so I’m told. Artist’s a bit of a mystery.”

“So I’ve heard,” she replied, apparently quite entranced by the thing. Each to their own interests, however inexplicable they may be, I say. “It must be heavenly, getting to enjoy this thing all by yourself some days.”

“Well, yes,” I said, for want of anything more profound. “Well, not entirely alone. The guards potter up and down here, even when it’s closed off. But too often, they and the staff only really bother with this stretch at dawn, dusk, and midnight, so it’s largely nice and solitary. Benefits of a big palace, you know?”

She was quiet then, as if contemplating the painting. Art aficionados. What’s one to do? I hoped she wouldn’t start speaking in jargon. Once jargon starts drooling out someone’s mouth, any decent stallion has the urge to find them a bib and a padded room to go with it.

“Yes,” she said, mercifully unjargony. “That must be pleasant.” She shivered a little. “It’s chilly here, isn’t it?”

“Ah.” I tsked. “That window on the left doesn’t quite shut properly. Haven’t been able to secure it or lock it for months. I’d mention it to the household staff, but they should be on top of that sort of thing without my having to mention it, what?”

The mare nodded, still quite distracted by the painting. “What indeed,” she said dazedly. “Well, ah, thank you very much for showing it to me, Your Highness. It’s lovely to finally see such a historic piece.”

I took her word for it, glad of the excuse to move on, and not long after that, she apparently remembered an appointment she had in the city.

“It was so lovely to meet you, Your Highness,” she said as she shimmered off, and that whole encounter quite elevated my mood. A valued and obviously noble guest had been given a glimpse of the culture and treasures of Canterlot Palace and had been as jolly polite and appreciative as she ought to be. I’d done my proper and chivalrous duty in good company. All was right with the world.

It wasn’t until I waved her off that I realised I hadn’t asked her name.

Bit of an oversight, but surely a mare of that quality with her interests would be back soon. I could just ask then. I retired to baccarat my stipend away with the usual cronies and decimate the palace’s port cellar and thought little more of her that eve.

Eventually, night tapped me on my withers and meaningfully coughed, and I staggered in the direction of my bed-chambers, possibly only knocking over two suits of armour along the way. Soft sheets received my toppling frame, and I slept like a sleepy log.

The next day dawned, and even from past a closed door, I woke up to the distant sounds of no small amount of babble and panic.

It might not have been my usual rising time of sometime in the wee hours of the afternoon, but verticality was quickly assumed. Of course, I took the time to dress. I buttoned my waistcoat and donned my cravat and made my coiffure immaculate. All the likenesses and heirlooms of the line of Platinum watched me as I did so.

Pride of place went to Platinum herself, looking stern and regal in an ancient tapestry that ran from ceiling to floor, her very own blade and her fetching red scarf carefully preserved in a case nearby. Other age-old images of the ancestry shared the wall space; from both before and after Platinum’s day and Equestria’s founding. A faded painting of Argent, a woodcut of Cobalt, fresher portraits of Cyprium and Plumbum, and umpteen personal effects and treasures.

I gave all the old ancestry the cheery nod of a diligent scion and floated forth to make them proud and resolve whatever needed resolving.

Out and about in the palace, I found the central point of the ruckus around where the Harmony hung. And once there, I got an inkling of the reason behind the ruckus.

The Harmony hung no more. Its frame was now empty, and the actual painting had been replaced with a little hoof-written note stuck up in its spot. Embarrassed-looking guardsponies ringed the scene, household staff gawked, and by the empty spot, there stood Fleur.

Fleur’s classical good looks bely a mare with the same quality of mercy as might be found in your common-or-garden shark. By night, she earns her bread as Auntie Celestia’s Head of Intelligence. By day, she unwinds by cheerfully draping herself over Fancy Pants, that excellent stallion. But here she was, marauding in the sunlight sans a Fancy, deep in furious discussion with the new guard captain, Shining Armour.

“...It would have had to have happened between the midnight and dawn patrols,” I heard the latter say as I drew closer. “Dawn patrol reported it missing. Patrols in the lower floors in that time range report seeing nothing. We’ll check whether anypony outside might have seen anything during these hours.”

“Between midnight and dawn. Pah.” Fleur’s Fancé-marked tones lashed out like a whip. “What sort of window of opportunity is that for us to work with? That’s all the time in the world for things like this to happen.”

“With respect, we’ve never felt the need for anything more regular. This is the first time—”

“Are you feeling the need now?”

“What-ho!” I chirruped, ambling up to shift things to a slightly cheerier mode. “What’s the commotion? Has the Harmony been removed for cleaning or repainting or what-have-you?”

Captain Armour turned a weary look my way, though not nearly so weary as the one Fleur fixed me with. “Ah, some comic relief,” she said, her tone flinty as per norm. “No, Prince. The Harmony is not away for cleaning. It’s been stolen.”

A theft? From the palace? “Eh? What and who and what and how and what?”

“Read,” Fleur said, gesturing at the note on the wall. “I charitably assume you know how.”

And I do, I’ll have you know. It read as follows:

To Her Majesty,

My apologies for the trespass, my gratitude for the painting, and my heartfelt advice that you tighten up palace security hereafter.

Your loyal (if not law-abiding) subject,

The Mockingbird

I didn’t quite follow and felt the world needed informed.

“I don’t quite follow.”

“Sacre bleu, stop the presses,” Fleur replied. “The prince does not follow.”

Fleur is prone to these uncharitable remarks. But I am a generous soul and overlook most of them, as I did this one. Besides, I had a puzzle to distract me. “It’s been stolen by a… mockingbird. How the dickens is that meant to have transpired? You know, they’re not awfully big birds, and it’d have a devil of a time trying to carry it off. Not renowned for their burglary skills, either, I believe.” I squinted at the note again and had an ingenious realisation. “Do they even know how to write? I don’t believe they do. Suspicious, I say. Somepony make a note.”

Fleur groaned. “It’s like watching a dog trying to comprehend colour theory.”

“You’ve not heard of the Mockingbird, Your Highness?” This from Captain Armour.

Why they were pronouncing it with a capital M, I was none the wiser. “Songbirds, aren’t they?”

“She is a thief, Bluebood.” We all wheeled on the new voice entering proceedings. “A master thief. And I see she’s paid us a visit and left her calling card.”

Auntie herself. She came at a steady trot down the corridor, her barding-clad guards cantering to keep up with her trot. Her gaze was high and steady, as gentle and remote as the sun.

“Princess Celestia!” Fleur and Captain Armour and everypony around immediately bowed to Auntie. She didn’t seem to notice them. She only had eyes for the empty frame and the note.

When she drew close, and stopped to regard the space where the Harmony had once been, Auntie’s expression changed. A peculiar tightness came to her mouth. She closed her eyes for a second, and when they opened, they’d lost something of their shine.

Auntie, I realised with no little dismay, was very upset.

“Everything alright, Auntie?” I ventured.

She seemed to have ears for no other.

“Sometime during the night, correct?” Auntie said, her voice steady and quiet.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Captain Armour replied. “Between midnight and dawn. Guards and trusted staff are investigating as we speak.”

“Excuse me,” I interjected. “I still don’t quite follow. This Mockingbird’s a thief? Has it big wings?”

A silence followed.

“A telling observation, your Highness, but in this case, the Mockingbird is a pony and a most notorious thief.” Fleur grimaced. “Burglar, con-mare, false-facer, highwaymare ... you name the regrettable vocation, she has practised it. She’s recently been cutting a swathe across noble estates out in the country, art galleries, museums, and the press has been all-a-twitter over the last year or so whenever she’s struck. How have you not heard of this?”

“Well, I don’t really keep myself plugged into current events, as it were,” I replied airily. “Oh, the tabloids beg the odd interview and photo, and I glance at them after the fact to be sure that the quality shines through, but other than that, the broadsheets and I are happy to keep clear water between us, if you follow.”

“Regrettably I do. The reprobates you gift your stipend to every evening via the medium of cards have never mentioned the Mockingbird? One or two of them must have been her victim.”

“Well, possibly. But we’ve other things on the old minds than conversation.”

“Imagine my surprise. In any case, a team of my own hoof-picked detectives has been on the hunt for her and found little.” Fleur sighed. “She’s most likely a mare, she may be based in Manehattan, and little else. We can’t even be entirely sure of her tribe. She makes ample use of dye and prosthetics.”

Auntie spoke, her tone still steady and quiet. “Escalate any investigation you have, Fleur, as much as you can.” Her gaze detached from the empty frame for just a second to fix on her Head of Intelligence. “I’d dearly like the Harmony back.”

“Every sinew shall be strained, Princess Celestia. The Mockingbird has shot too high this time.”

“Your Majesty, I can offer no explanation for how this happened. I can only offer my resignation and deepest regrets,” Captain Armour said. The poor stallion looked in a self-flagellating mood. “I take full responsibility for—”

“That’s alright, captain,” Auntie replied. “Perhaps there are lessons to be learned.” Captain Armour, stopped short, nodded. Auntie turned back to the empty frame, her gaze somewhere far away.

My heart went out to Auntie. You could tell that this had cut her to the quick, and though I couldn’t conceive of why she should be so hurt due to the loss of a fairly poxy painting, one doesn’t like to see hurt done.

I had to assist. I sought a silver lining to try and uplift the mood.

“Well.” I looked back to the empty frame and tsked. “Just as well that that pegasus mare came yesterday when she did. Why, if she’d held off just one more day, she’d have found a vale of tears and frustration instead of the desired art piece. Good luck for some, what?”

A long, long pause ensued.

I was being Looked at.

I’m not fond of Looks; they seldom bode well for the rest of the conversation.

“What pegasus mare yesterday?” Captain Armour asked.

“A … a mare? You know, the mare. Floated by the place, was jolly polite, and I offered her a personal tour of the palace.”

An uncomfortable suspicion dawned.

“You gave a strange mare a personal tour of the palace?” Captain Armour said, with the air of a pony also joining dots in his head and disliking the picture they formed. “And you showed her the Harmony?”

The look in Fleur’s eyes was that of a pony this close to challenging me to a duel, and I hastily clarified. “She seemed a decent sort! And it’s not as we stayed here for long. That window wouldn’t shut properly, and neither of us liked the draught. Pointed it out to her, and we left shortly after.”

Fleur now looked as though she’d forego the formal challenge and just get straight to the kicking and biting and trampling. Captain Armour was regarding me with a kind of frozen disbelief. “And did you give her a detailed breakdown of the patrol schedules as well?” he said.

I opened my mouth to strenuously deny that I’d do anything so plainly silly.

I closed my mouth upon realising.

“Hmm,” I said eventually.

“Oh stars, I was joking,” Captain Armour moaned.

“A query, Your Highness,” Fleur said with a sort of frozen calm. “Do you often have headaches? It must be such a strain for you to remember how to breathe and trot at the same time.”

“I … but dash it,” I stammered, “any pony might have done likewise—”

Fleur growled. “Might they? Might they? Why might they? Most ponies, if they were not trotting catastrophes, have brainpower beyond that of a brick. They can master tricky concepts, like chewing with their mouth closed, or differentiating between their left and right hooves, or not drooling details of palace security to every passer-by—”

“Enough,” Auntie said, immediately hushing the conversation. One couldn’t help but be thankful. When caught in one of Fleur’s creative streams of invective, even the strongest ponies wibble and try to hide behind thin air. “Captain Armour, if you could review palace security and make any changes that need to be made, that would be for the best. Fleur, see to it that investigation into the Mockingbird continues apace. And Blueblood ...”

She looked my way, and I looked back up at her.

There’s not many ponies whose opinions I give much weight to. Most ponies amount to so much chaff. But a select few merit heeding, and Auntie ranks foremost amongst them.

She didn’t shout, or look angry, or anything of the sort. She just looked quietly disappointed.

And wasn’t that just the sort of look to make a stallion want to curl up and hide under a rock where he jolly well belonged.

“Blueblood,” she said, “give any details you remember about the mare to Fleur. The Mockingbird may have been disguised, but I’m sure Fleur and her detectives can winkle out some information they can act upon.”

Even as she spoke, and as Armour and Fleur chattered in response, it all seemed a great distance away. I was deep in my own head, and though shame had flattened me, a roaring ancestral pride insisted on rising, right from the hooves up.

Had I inadvertently made a complete hash of things and helped the Mockingbird steal the Harmony? Apparently so. That sort of thing happens even to the best of us — indeed, it just had. But the best of us proceed to gather ourselves and correct our errors.

I was going to hunt down the Mockingbird and retrieve the Harmony, and return the latter to where it belonged.

Would it be difficult and perilous? Without a doubt.

But I am of the line of Platinum. And not a single Prince or Princess of the line of Platinum ever so much as blinked in the face of difficulty or peril.

Did Platinum herself blink when she personally battled a dragon for the sake of the early Equestrians? Did Argent blink when he, alongside each other Triumvir heading the old tribes, willingly granted his authority to Auntie Celestia and made the monarchs of Unicornkind so many handsome ornaments?

Did Larimar blink when she did valiant battle with her entire drinks cellar and came an honourable second-best? Did Vanadium blink when conducting unspeakable experiments in his secret laboratories that he may make use of foul dark magic — wait, no, scratch that, we needn’t discuss Vanadium. Did Iridium blink when, nigh-on a thousand years ago, he turned foul traitor and raised his banners in rebellion against Auntie — actually, scratch him too.

Closer to home, then, to the events of one’s forgotten infancy. Did one’s own mater, Princess Calamine, blink before whatever unspecified event it was that prompted her alleged final words? (“Hold my whisky and watch this.”) Did one’s pater, Prince-Consort Thoroughbred, blink before he issued his own last words a moment after? (“Hah, daft mare. Hold my whisky while I do it properly.”)

Audience mine, they did not.

“Worry not, everypony,” I announced. “What I may have inadvertently wrought, I shall amend. I shall fix this.”

Dead silence oppressed the conversation. For a bit.

“Ah,” Fleur said, “so this is what fear feels like. I’ve long wondered.”

“What do you mean, Blueblood?” Auntie’s gaze had briefly lost its sadness and disappointment, I was chuffed to see, and instead betrayed wary calculation. Her gaze gets that quality around me a lot, I’m not entirely sure why.

“Why, I shall go to Manehattan, find the Mockingbird, and retrieve the Harmony. She may have briefly got the better of me in a battle of wits, but rest assured, she shan’t a second time.”

“A battle of wits?” Fleur said. “Doesn’t that require both parties be armed?”

With typical honour, I overlooked the unkind remark. Now that I was unleashed and eager, Fleur inevitably would need condiments for her words. “Tut,” I said. “This mare may be able to avoid your detectives with ease, but now Prince Blueblood is on the case.”

“Beg pardon, Your Highness.” Captain Armour had the distracted air of a pony trying to get up to speed with events. “You’re going to Manehattan.”

“Exactly so.”

“And you’re going to find the Mockingbird there.”

“In the name of retrieving the Harmony, yes.”

“How, may I ask?”

Admittedly I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but there’s information that needs to be divulged and then there’s other sorts. “Ah,” I said as I smiled enigmatically and leaned closer. “I have my ways, you know.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Dull stone,” Fleur breathed, “you shan’t find her. You haven’t got a prayer. I have a team that’s been on her case for months, and they’ve made little headway. And they’re competent. You, on the other hoof … Ponies that need to be minded around sharp objects and can’t be trusted to put on their saddles without collateral damage have a clarity of thought to which you can only aspire.”

“I say,” I said indignantly. I wasn’t altogether sure what I’d say or entirely what Fleur had meant for that matter, but by gum, it probably needed saying.

“Blueblood.” Auntie spoke again, and whatever she says has this effect of cutting short conversations, no matter how scintillating they may have been. “Your offer is gallant, but I won’t have you risking yourself. Leave this to Fleur and her team.”

I turned on Auntie, becoming the very figure of dismay as I did so. “But … but dash it—”

She fixed me with a Look. Not the austere, soul-piercing kind of Look, but the sort of Look that just sort of compels one’s whole attention. “Blue,” she said gently, and blast it, she’d deployed the diminutive. Only she gets to do that. “Promise me you won’t go after the Mockingbird.”

What can one say to that? ‘No’? Don’t be silly. Courtesy prohibits. I could only gawk up at her, and look appropriately wretched as the ancestral memory of all the line of Platinum cursed their present lot. The wretched words wriggled towards my lips by sheer force of etiquette. “I … I … I pro—”

I had a notion.

I paused.

Nothing in that promise about not going after the Harmony itself.

Keep up.

You may well notice there was nothing in there precluding going after the wretched painting. Some might call that interpretation at cross-purposes with the promise’s spirit. But promises must expect their spirit to be somewhat fudged when both Auntie’s happiness and Platinum’s honour are on the line.

“I promise,” I said, suddenly quite cheerful. “Ah-ha, yes. Quite right. Leave the Mockingbird to Fleur and cronies. Sensible, now you mention it. I’ll leave it in their august hooves. Er, excuse me. I need to … to thing. Cards and gallivanting and Harmony and whatnot.”

And before anypony could quiz me on that last series of what in hindsight were maybe inadvisable utterances, I turned on a hoof and whizzed off.

At my back, I was aware of silence, and then Auntie sighing. “He doesn’t break his promises. But alas, I think he’s had an idea.”

“Egads,” Fleur replied. “Call the royal chronicler. Surely the End-Times cannot be far.”

“Practise more kindness, Fleur.”

“I delegate that to other ponies, Your Majesty. Besides, some of us remember when he was left alone with the Asinian ambassador for five minutes. Some of us still wake screaming from the nightmares.”

“Regardless,” Auntie replied, and then I heard no more. I rounded a corner, and they were gone.

I plotted as I trotted. How would one retrieve the Harmony? Presumably it’d be wherever the Mockingbird was in Manehattan. Ergo, one had to get to Manehattan. How was one to get to Manehattan? Well, perhaps via airship or train or what-have-you. Were there particular airships or trains that performed the task?

My brain began to fizz faintly with the effort of mulling over these minor details. The dynasty bred rather for looking at the big picture, you know, as well as good looks and exceptional sturdiness of skull. I was half-tempted to press the old forehead into a wall and groan, but just at that moment, I nearly stumbled over somepony in the corridor.

“Careful!” somepony said from somewhere below me, a young-ish mare. “Watch where you’re … oh. Hello, Prince Blueblood.”

I blinked down at whatever lower order had crossed my path — unicorn, dark purple mane, mulberry hide, studious expression, Auntie’s own student, dah-dee-dah. The one Cadence, that most decent of old eggs, had foalsat. Name of Sunset … no, Starlight … blast it, Twi-something. Something like that.

A dragon whelp on her back gave me a cheerfully insolent look, which I ignored.

Twilight Sparkle, that was her name. I’d glimpsed her often enough and we’d crossed paths once or twice or often, possibly, but one had no reason to enquire into her further, you know. Academia’s rather outwith my remit. She could occupy that sphere, and I’d occupy mine. She remembered my proper terms of address, and I occasionally remembered she existed, and all remained well with the world.

“Yes, yes, hello, cheerio,” I replied distractedly, trotting on past her and her dragon, but then I stopped myself. I turned back.

I’d just had another notion. I studied Twilight Sparkle. I mulled the notion over.

You might not think it to behold the current strapping figure of a stallion, but I wasn’t the healthiest of foals. Fairly sickly, truth be told. Much of my early years were spent coughing desultorily up at a dark ceiling, being fed soup and medicine in careful doses, and of nurses speaking softly to me. Voices telling me stories in the darkness, including Auntie whenever she could spare an evening, and when I could read, pressing the books holding said stories into my hooves.

And those stories were jolly good, I might add. More educational than a thousand frustrated tutors. Rollicking adventure aplenty. More than a few members of the dynasty accounted for themselves admirably in their pages, providing sterling examples of ponykind to live up to. And what a lot of them had to say was this, there was usually a second.

To elaborate, you’ve your dashing and handsome hero, a paragon among ponykind, competent in innumerable ways but with an especially keen eye for the big picture. And under them, you’d have a capable underling with an eye for the fine details. Ensuring the big picture could trundle on unimpeded, as it were.

Platinum and Clover the Clever. Dam Canterote and Shire Pasture. Vanadium and Snively. You get the idea. If I was to embark on a grand venture like this, perhaps somepony in the same mould might come in handy. Lowly but loyal, able to attend to the base-level thinking without the base backchat.

In addition, thought I as I studied Twilight Sparkle, wasn't she Captain Armour’s niece or cousin or something of the sort? Capable sort of stallion, that guardspony. Keen eye for detail. Those sorts of qualities were probably hereditary, like sterling good looks or a piercing wit or royalty. And Cadence had foalsat her as well, so I understand. Cadence dispenses good qualities like a merry bartender in a world of cherished regulars.

I gave the matter deep thought.

“Prince Blueblood, are you alright?” Twilight Sparkle ventured. “You’ve been squinting at us for about half a minute now.”

“Bit cross-eyed as well,” said the little dragon. “Do you think he’s sick? I think he’s sick.”

I blinked and continued to ignore the dragon’s studied insolence. “Right-ho. Well, ahem. Twilight Sparkle, is it?”

“Yes?”

“Princess Celestia’s personal student and all that rot?”

“Yes,” she replied, apparently coming to terms with the situation.

“Good show. The princess needs you.”

She grew more alert. “I was just on my way to speak to her right now, to consult on what I ought to study during the summer. If you tell me where she is, Your Highness, I’ll get to her right away —”

“Wait, no,” I said hastily, seeing she’d gotten the wrong end of the proverbial. “I mean, a great matter has arisen that she requires your help with.”

“She does?” Twilight Sparkle’s eyes widened past the point biology ought to have allowed, and she seemed to practically stand at attention. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll go see her and ask how I can help.”

“No, dash it, talk to me.” One couldn’t have her getting sidetracked by Fleur or other ponies who weren’t on board with my grand endeavour. “Listen, you know of the Harmony? It’s been stolen. Some pestilence of a pony calling herself the Mockingbird came plundering during the night and made off with it.”

“Oh, no.” Twilight Sparkle’s face fell. “The Princess’s favourite painting?”

“Precisely so.” Her dismay on behalf of Auntie did her great credit. “I’ve been tasked with retrieving it from wherever the Mockingbird’s squirelled it away in Manehattan, and I’d like a capable sort to assist me. I’m given to understand that you're a capable sort.”

“Me? I, er ...” A medley of emotions flurried across her features, too many and too quick for me to make out. “...you’ve been tasked with bringing it back, Prince Blueblood?”

Her concern for Auntie had greatly elevated her in my estimation, though the note of dubiousness in her tone dropped her an iota. “I have,” I said, a smidge frigidly. I’d certainly tasked myself, hadn’t I?

“Well … I guess if the Princess tasked you …” She still seemed dubious, and down another iota she went. The dragon leaned towards her ear and muttered something which smacked of skepticism. I bet Vanadium had never had this problem, at least up until the pitchfork-wielding mob had put paid to him.

“Never you worry about why the Princess makes her decisions,” I said testily. Sometimes the lower orders need reminding. “Just you put your mind to restoring Harmony to her possession. For that, we must venture to Manehattan.”

“Manehattan?” Twilight Sparkle looked thoughtful. “That makes sense. That’s where the Mockingbird’s been speculated to have her base, from what I’ve read about her.”

“Ten bits says she’s in the sewers,” said the dragon whelp.

“Spike!”

“Just saying, if you asked me to set up a secret crime base? Sewers. Sewers every time.”

“Well, regardless,” I said, realigning the trailing thrust of the conversation. “I’m sure we’ll ferret her out. Under my august direction, we cannot fail. First things first, my able sidekick—”

“Your able what?”

“First things first,” I pressed, testily, “we must get to Manehattan. Happily, I have a plan to achieve this.”

I paused to come up with said plan.

By train or by air? The eternal question.

Airships might be exactly what the Mockingbird would expect, if Canterlot’s finest were sure to be on her tail. Even now, her wary gaze would be on the heavens, expecting an airship to come descending through the clouds with some regal and strapping figure at its helm.

Perhaps one shouldn’t give her what she expects.

Call it a train, then. “To the railway station, Sparkle!” I declared. “We’ll go forth to adventure astride the old iron horse.”

I’d never actually taken one before then, you know? But I fancied I knew the theory.