A Time of Song and Sword

The dark green unicorn stood on the marble balcony overlooking the richer districts of Las Pegasus. Ponies scuttled across the cobblestones set into the sand, moving from doorway to doorway and from alley to alley. At this time of night, it was doubtless the less savoury elements of society that were prowling about. The moonlight glinted off the terra cotta roof tiles, glazed to a sheen that reflected the heat of the day’s desert sun, and caused the city’s rooftops to glitter like the sea in the moonlight. He smiled to himself. The city was beautiful. He frowned, correcting himself. My city is beautiful. However he could not stare at the rooftops forever, as matters required his attention. Very important matters.

Turning, he left the balcony and returned to his personal chambers, the wooden doors to the balcony gliding closed behind him as he worked his magic. He levitated a pile of parchment in front of him and skimmed them as he paced the floor.

“Arrest warrant, bill, royal proclamation, bill, death threat, bill...” he muttered to himself, tossing each item back onto his large rosewood desk until he’d recreated the stack in reverse on the surface. Scowling, he trotted over to the balcony doors once again, throwing them wide and glancing at Luna’s moon to gauge the time. They were late. They were always late!

He slammed the doors shut again as he paced his chamber, occasionally stopping to obsessively adjust or reorder some book or scroll. He spotted the heavy tapestry that hung on the far wall, a depiction of his ancestors being granted the city (then just a walled town) of Las Pegasus  and the surrounding area as a fief from Celestia herself.  While he magically levitated dust and hair away from the surface of the fabric intent on picking it clean, a servant mare cautiously opened the doors and poked her head inside.

“My... my lord? Can I fetch you anything?”

Startled by the interruption, he stiffened, his head slowly turning to face the doorway. He hoped his eyes did not betray the fear that this mare might know too much. He had gotten oh so good at concealing it, but it was late at night and he was nervous and antsy...

“Yes. Yes, Miss Sweet Tea there is indeed something you can bring me. Bring me a cup of your namesake please. Not too hot, but don’t let it be cold. I am expecting guests, and you are not to disturb me if you find me speaking to anypony upon your return, understood?”

The earth pony mare stepped inside to curtsy deeply, mumbling a subdued “yes my lord, of course my lord” before skittering off down the hallway to comply with her master’s instruction.

Shaking his head and calming his heart, he sat quietly at his desk, levitating a quill, his seal of office, and a tub of wax. The latter he melted over a candle. Signing some parchments and stamping others, he tried to bury his worry and fury at being made to wait in work. A lord of the realm, being made to wait on the likes of them! It was outrageous is what it was.

Before too long, Sweet Tea returned empty-hoofed with a unicorn beside her, also wearing the black uniform that the manor’s servants wore. “Lord Swift, may we assist you?”

He looked down his nose past his reading glasses at the mares, giving a disgusted snort.

“How long have you been living in Equestria? Commoners address the nobility with their title and familial name. Not Lord Swift, Lord Stroke. And the servant you’re pretending to be just came by you idiots.” Lapsing into his most condescending and disappointed tone of voice, he continued. “I do hope I’m not wasting my money. Remember that I am the only reason you have a paycheque. Do you want to go back to where I found you? Unemployed... in Vanhoover?”

The mares giggled to each other before shifting to their natural forms. Shapely furred flanks became black exoskeletal carapaces. Adorable doe-eyes became many-faceted orbs, and hooves and legs became crooked and twisted. The two changelings bowed mockingly before their employer. “Lord Swift Stroke, Protector of the West... our lord and tutor.”

Stroke rolled his eyes, levitating his glasses off his face and back to the surface of his desk. If they weren’t so useful, he would probably have done away with them himself.

Trotting urgently around to the front of the desk, he magically handed each changeling an envelope containing their orders. They were unsealed, of course. In the event the changelings failed (or worse, were captured), he did not want his seal to be on anything of theirs. That wax seal of the very same stiletto dagger that graced his flank and belt would undo decades of hard work.

Opening their envelopes and skimming their orders, the changelings’ annoyingly casual demeanour melted away instantly. The one to his left stood up very straight.

“....You’re joking? Or are these our actual assignments?”

“I do not joke about matters so.... delicate.”

The other changeling piped up. “I take it the pay for this job will be—”

Stroke cut him off. “Tremendous, yes. More wealth than your wretched homeland has ever seen, right in your own hooves. All you have to do...” he leaned in very close, “Is your jobs, and do them properly. I hired assassins, not back-alley thugs. Grace, professionalism, and above all, stealth and secrecy. Keep in mind that if you fail, it’s not just you who will die horrifying deaths at the hands of the state torturers.” Letting the implication of those last few words sink in, he inwardly giggled and clopped his hooves together at the changelings’ obvious discomfort at the thought of the imaginary torturers that somepony like Celestia most certainly did NOT employ.

Leaning back and out of the changelings’ faces, he spoke once more.

“Now go. If there is anything further you need, inform me or my... attaché and either he or I will acquire it for you. Money is no issue.” The changelings saluted awkwardly, clearly unnerved at the mention of first the state torturers and secondly Stroke’s own spymaster. Taking the forms of pegasi clad in the  emerald-accented black armour of Stroke’s household guard, they pushed open his balcony doors and shot off into the night.

The aging green unicorn sat back on his haunches. And so the die was cast at last. He ran a hoof through his quickly greying black mane and contemplated what he was doing. He even briefly considered sending his guards to hunt down and murder the changelings before scolding himself and remind himself just how much work had been put into all this. The shame from backing down now would be unbearable. Private and secret, but unbearable all the same.

His door pushed itself open to reveal a pale Sweet Tea balancing a tray with the beverage he’d asked for on her head. Levitating the tray away from her and onto a side table, he trotted over to her and caringly asked what had her so spooked.

She glanced left and right before finally whispering to him the cause of her trouble. Oh how she trusted him.

“Lord, I heard you mention the word.... assassins.... why would you want to kill anypony?”

He smiled sweetly, like a caring father reassuring his worried foal and brought the servant into a neck-hug. “Politics is a dirty business, my dear. Sometimes you have to play a little roughly, that’s all.”

She seemed to buy that as she trotted with him as he led her to his balcony to further reassure her that there was nothing amiss and that she should leave. He miscalculated. He watched, groaning as her eyes scanned the floor as she walked with him, settling on the letter one of the changelings had left behind. She stiffened in horror, eyes widening and looking to him for denial of the information contained therein. Instead, his reaction he knew broke the girl. Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things.

His horn glowed green as his magic wrapped itself around her muzzle, forming a magical seal. She tried to whinny in terror, but it only came out as a muffled, pathetic mewling. He stared passively as she fought the restraint that was cutting off her air. The candles and the soft green light emitted from her lord’s face cast an eerie soft light on her struggles, her half fighting and half gazing at him desperately begging him to spare her, to release her, to let her live and breathe. Her struggling slowed, her eyelids drooped, and tears began to well up in the corners of her eyes as her hooves slowly stopped flailing and her body lay limp.

He held her muzzle sealed for a good few minutes after that to ensure his faithful servant was dead. Releasing her at last, he sighed in disappointment. Why hadn’t he just sent her away when she’d first come to him that evening? Why hadn’t he lied and told her he wasn’t thirsty? Now he needed to find somepony else capable of mixing his favourite beverage. And he now had a mess to clean up and a death to explain. Seating himself in his desk chair and propping his rear hooves up on the desk with his forehooves crossed over his chest in thought, he levitated the sweet tea from the table he’d placed it on to begin sipping it. He could deal with the dead fool later, he was going to enjoy his tea, damn it. And, of course, analyse how this unfortunate development might affect the grand plan.