External Audit didn’t believe in the word “humility.”

Humility, she had once surmised, was fundamentally for losers. There were those who had things to be rightfully proud of, who were winners like herself, and there were losers, who did not, and who chastised the winners over their display of achievements with their invented virtue of “humility.” This was because losers, above all, hated that winners existed, that there were ponies better than them, and thus that they should be put down to the level of losers.

Well, she wasn’t falling for any of that crap. After all, she had plenty to be proud of. A direct commission out of the Haynapolis Guard Academy, four years in Panamare (and the scars to prove it), two years busting smugglers over mountain passes into Griffonstone, eight years in the Revenue Service, two saber fencing championships, an immaculate mane, strong wings, and an astonishingly perfect ass – by any set of metrics, she was just objectively better than the common slime, and to pretend she wasn’t was lunacy, and she hated lunacy. She even hated the moon by virtue of association, that’s how much she hated lunacy.

Catching an express liner to Bitaly three days after she had her jaw broken was almost lunacy. It’s a good thing it wasn’t lunacy, because she hated lunacy, but it was almost lunacy. But she had two jobs to do here, real jobs, and so it wasn’t lunacy.

The first was financial, and therefore mundane. Some idiot donkey had tried to write a check for twenty four bottles of liquor that drew upon a Royal Account he was obviously not privy to. The check quite happily went through, but the magical systems put in place to catch such things did their jobs and the local police had been dispatched to seize him. A Revenue officer was needed to question in such cases, and while it would have usually fallen to a more junior officer, she was going to be present anyway – might as well take care of that as well.

The second was the important one, which was that she was going to get that blue bitch from Fillydelphia.

Now, strictly speaking investigating an assault on a Crown officer was a job for the usual Crown-Level police – in Bitaly, the frankly goofy-looking Carabinieri, as she understood it. But External Audit was absolutely not going to let that sucker-punching coward get off so easy as to avoid further contact with herself. Not when there was a score to settle, because External Audit didn’t lose fights, and she absolutely couldn’t let somepony so pathetic change that.

And she was going to relish taking her down a peg or six. “Elements of Harmony,” what a load of absolute horseshit. External Audit had fought in wars, kicked in doors, and, in doing so, had seen all kinds of impressive spellcraft. She’d seen magic that would make one shit oneself, both figuratively and literally, the kind of stuff that burns off eyebrows at thirty paces and gives its targets and casters tumors, and all of it had been done by regular old ponies – all of whom were a hell of a lot more impressive than those two morons she met in Fillydelphia who monopolized the Canterlot newspapers (worthless rags all of them anyway, whose constant focus on insipid politicians and feckless monarch rendered them only useful for emergency toilet paper.) Of course, that was because she wholly disregarded the obviously bullshit stories told about those six fuck-ups – there was absolutely no way that some kind of ancient war-mistress alicorn had been defeated by, or even summoned by, said fuck-ups, and frankly she was convinced that the little blue alicorn she had seen once or twice milling about the palace was just another one of Celestia’s love-children like the little harlot she sent off into the frozen tundra. That wasn’t even to mention the ridiculous snake-thing that Celestia had apparently made up out of thin air in order have another defeated villain – she had never seen a “Discord,” nor had she ever heard of a “Discord” before the aforementioned events, which more or less confirmed for her that it was all a bunch of propagandic hooey. Why Celestia et al. had decided to go to this much effort was still something of a mystery to the Revenuer, but she figured her current task was probably a pretty good way to get a handle on things.

Still, she was getting ahead of herself. Well before any bullshit-scrubbing from the official narrative could take place, there was the matter of un-fucking whatever gods-awful situation awaited her in Bitaly (she had received no information as to the state of the investigation insofar as they had received advanced warning of the fugitives’ arrival, but she had a sixth sense for imminent fuckery which did not often fail her) and commanding around various provincials into something resembling a coherent posse.

To that end, she had made sure to arrive in her finest, most authoritative apparel. A freshly-shined badge sat atop her crisply-pressed forest green Revenuer formal uniform, the breast studded in campaign ribbons and a single set of silver pegasus wings (mixing medals and ribbons like this between her Guard and gendarmerie duties was strictly a little tacky,) and her waist was festooned with her noticeably well-used service saber hanging from a sword belt, with additional weapons for wingtips and hoof-to-hoof work secured on the other side of the belt. And those were real medals too, not some cushy time-in-service crap. Most of her Academy-mates had a third of the rack she did, and most of them were still in the Guard. But that’s what happened when an exceptional mare like herself threw herself at whatever post she could find that was at least halfway entrenched in The proverbial Suck – well, that or death, like her first captain, a plain-gray earth pony from Ponyville, of all places, who had caught a bolt to the head on his last patrol in Panamare. She had still been cheated of a few, of course – that worthless slut Spitfire had literally swooped in at the end of a protracted airborne melee that External Audit’s squadron of cuirassiers had died for; fashionably late for the danger, but just in time for a photograph and a letter of commendation from the brigadier. That the Wonderbolt’s poster girl had managed to steal that Distinguished Flyer’s Cross from Audit, her squadron lead Firefly (Spitfire’s considerably thicker sister), Spitfire’s other sister (who had actually headed the charge but whose name nopony could ever recall), and any number of other deserving ponies was almost endearing in its sheer self-serving brazenness, but not enough that Audit wasn’t still raw about it years on. Still, absent but deserved decorations aside, there was still more than enough metal on her uniform that, with her hooves shined and mane put into a mean-looking bun, she cut exactly the kind of magnificently hard-assed figure necessary to wordlessly communicate to the peons around her that she was well and truly in the business of getting shit done.

Well, except for the misshapen brass-and-wire monstrosity which found itself parked atop her head. That kinda hurt the look.

Unfortunately for External Audit, Rainbow Dash’s expert application of hoof to face had rendered her rather unable to use her jaw for, well, anything. There was enough wire in her mouth to construct a decent chain-link fence; the missing teeth had presented a useful hole for a straw for her miserable “meals,” but speaking coherently was very much out of the question.

Thus, the helmet. Her boss had repeatedly refused to allow her to go on this little expedition, seeing as she could not speak, but she had finally relented once External Audit had agreed to “speech assistance.” She hadn’t known what that meant at the time, but she had assumed it involved a unicorn following her around to cast some kind of spell.

Well, she was half right. There was a unicorn – a curious one, with the athletic, large build of a pegasus of Lipizzan heritage but a distinct lack of wings. His other characteristics were equally as unusual; a set of non-break eyeglasses sat firmly attached to his face, and his outfit was, despite the circumstances, something more like business wear than anything else, without any clear sign of what force or agency he represented. He had provided his name – Quiet Enabler, though it was clearly a nom de guerre – and no further information. She wasn’t going to pry; the rapier on his waist and the sword-scars on his muzzle were clear enough signs of his competence, and that was what mattered.

She didn’t know what his real reason for being here was, but his stated job was to charge her helmet. The geeks who provided it to her had enthusiastically described the complexities of spell-crafting necessary for it to work, but she really couldn’t care less about the specifics – she thought the words, and the words came out. It was almost as good as talking, except that carrying around a metal salad bowl on one’s head was really fucking uncomfortable, and the tinny, monotone little voice that came out of it would have been hilarious if it wasn’t her own voice, and she had spent the last three days practicing her thoughts in order to not say something embarrassing (though her already-weak profanity filter had become basically wet tissue) but it was good enough.

And if it wasn’t, a sword point probably was.

She started down the gangway, her unicorn and scant luggage in tow. There was a smattering of locals at the bottom, all looking oddly perturbed at her presence. External Audit wasn’t unfamiliar with having ponies be perturbed in her presence – it was no small part of the job – but she hadn’t even introduced herself yet, so either she looked worse than she thought, or there was something else at work here. Whatever the case, it would have to wait -she had caught a view of agroup of swiftly approaching Carabinieri (all rather short, she noted) who had obviously been tasked with meeting her here and whose alacrity was encouraging insofar as it hopefully pointed towards success, or at least enthusiasm.

Her unicorn spotted the problem before she did. “Two of them have batons out, ma’am.”

So they did, and another one of the unicorns (there were no pegasi, she noted) in the little bunch of Bitalians had his field around the hilt of his saber. She wondered if she appeared to be violating a law on the public carrying of arms; she had been supplied with a primer on Bitalian social mores, but she hadn’t been in much of a reading mood on the journey over, as no pegasus could refuse the magnificently aimless flight around a ship in transit. Still, with her obvious uniform, her status should have been clear.

The leader of their bunch spoke up first with a ridiculous accent she was sure she would begin to despise swiftly – but her words were far more disturbing. “P-please, ah, remove your weapon and–”

“Excuse me?” The helmet had sparked to life.

The unusual source of dialog momentarily confused the local, but she continued nonetheless. “Signora, it is proibito for a pegasus uncovered to bear–”

“A pegasus un – do you know who I am?”

No flash of recognition passed across the faces of the Bitalians, so maybe they hadn’t been expecting her. Two of the batons raised higher, and one of them had unfastened the snap on his scabbard. “I am, ah, unaware of your–”

Well, that did it – remarkably, her helmet managed to let off a few real sparks. Her attached unicorn eyed it in mild concern and moderate interest. It would be bad if it blew up, but it would probably be pretty funny for a little while. “Then let me make you aware. You currently have the pleasure of speaking to Special Agent External Audit of her Majesty’s Revenue Service, badge number sixteen, formerly captain, Canterlot Household Cuirassiers, Third Squadron. Does that help refresh your memory?”

It didn’t look like it did; they didn’t even look particularly impressed. “I, ah, do apologize ma’am, but I am unsure of what your credentials are indicating, and beside you are forbidden from carrying of arms with–”

“This isn’t a discussion. Are you all just constables, or gendarmerie?”

The mare in charge didn’t appear to be familiar with the term, but one of the ponies behind her was. “The second, signora.”

One word. “Rank.”

The leader, a unicorn mare with a coat of dilute ultramarine, responded. “Tenente.”

External Audit was perfectly content to wait for that pony to say a real word, but her attached unicorn spoke up first. “Lieutenant, ma’am.”

Considerably below Audit’s rank-equivalent from the Crown Service, then. “Then stop fucking talking. Did you somehow miss the ‘Special Agent’ in my introduction? That means I’m a major for your purposes. I will ask for your input if required.”

One of the Carabinieri, a mud-green earth mare, seemingly figured it out. “Ah – the poster, Tenente, and the donkey!”

Well, it wasn’t shutting up, but she was content to let that one through for the purpose of actually getting this excruciating conversation somewhere. “We found the bright one. What’s your name?”

“It – my name is – well, in your tongue it would be Spri–”

“Too long. Your name is … Spring Roll.”

An unfamiliar term. The mare hoped it was at least not denigrating. “What is that?”

“Stop talking. Where is the donkey?”

The lieutenant spoke up first, visibly confused. “The jack has been taken to the post up the road, but…” She shook her head. “You are the agent reale? But you are–”

“Stop. Fucking. Talking.” She turned back to the bright one. “Second question. Where are the fugitives from the poster, the ones from the ship? Fat white unicorn, scrawny blue pegasus?”

None of the Bitalians present looked up to volunteering the information.

“I have better things to do than sit around sweating in this uniform. Where. Are. The. Fugit–”

The bright one was also the brave one, apparently. “The fugitives, ah, were not apprehended.”

“What.” She might not have been able to emote directly with her voice, but the flicking tail and rising wings gave a pretty good guess as to what was going on under that helmet. A spark flew off it, even; her attached unicorn idly wondered if that was a cause for concern. “One more time, Spring Roll?”

“The fugitives, ah–” a gulp “were able to make it from the ship onto the pier, and from there–”

“Are you fucking serious? ”She punctuated with a stomp.“They were on a ship. On a schedule, with a time and a place, in your own city. There is literally one way off a ship. It is the easiest possible stakeout.”

“Well, I was not present at the time of the attempt, but as I have heard the pegasus did take to the air and lead away much of the attention, but–”

Her attached unicorn spoke up, almost revolted at the apparent ineptitude of this failure of an ambush. He was something of an expert on these things, although his targets usually ended up dead; it came with his line of work. “What about the other one? She could have only gone down the gangway or jumped over the side. Did your top cover not see her?”

His vocabulary did not seem to hold any familiarity to the earth mare. “… Top cover?”

He spun around an illustrative forehoof. “Fliers. Surveillance pegasi?”

“I do not understand. There are no such things here.”

“Pegasi?” She hadn’t seen any, but that still seemed … impossible.

Spring Roll (there wasn’t really anything to suggest the name and the mare was really quite well-built, but assigning nicknames was a matter of phonetics more than anything) shook her head. “No, there are three squadrons of pegasi in total in the Carabinieri, and one is available in Marelan, but…”

“But?” Audit’s wings had begun to rise, increasingly sure that this was either utter doctrinal ineptitude or straight-up tribalist nonsense. Frankly, the former was the more offensive.

The mare’s eyes followed the wings. “In the doctrine, a detachment of pegasi is … not for policing, signora. It is to bust up a riot, or to combat a skirmish with griffons.”

Leaning more towards the first, it would seem. “And why is that?”

The lieutenant quite literally threw herself between the mares. Audit’s unicorn took a step closer, horn sparking to life. “Because it is unsuitable! A pegasus – an uncovered pegasus – full of wing-burn and feather-brained impulse, is not correct for an apprehension – an assassination, maybe, but to take in una criminale is a task most ill-suited!”

Audit didn’t have a chance to say anything, but her wings, now firmly aloft, did her talking for her.

“As can be seen! Even if you are, as you say, an agent reale, it is apparent that you are the unable to control your impulses for violence, and you flaunt the laws of decency most flagrantly!” The lieutenant turned around, babbling something in her own tongue to a subordinate as her horn lit.

The subordinate, either as a warning to Audit or as a result of not catching the lieutenant’s choice of discretion, responded in a manner which the non-Bitalians could understand “…on Crown’s agent – wing shackles?”

Well, that wasn’t going to happen. The lieutenant was right about one thing – there was going to be violence, though it was controlled. Audit had managed to slip the connection between her scabbard-clad saber and her sword belt during the lieutenant’s first statement, and, now that her back was turned and her horn lit, Audit quite forcefully swung it into the side of the unicorn’s corona-coated horn. The unicorn crumpled, likely knocked unconscious from the blow (she loved fighting unicorns – so predictable, so fragile) and Audit added to her indignity by promptly stepping on the back of her head in a full mount, pressing the lieutenant’s jaw into the paving stones. Seizing the opportunity, Audit raised her head to address the other gathered Carabinieri, noting with satisfaction that her own unicorn had stepped back out of sword range and had a spell prepared on his horn. “Let me make it clear. I do not know what kind of psychotic bullshit you, this place, or both have about pegasi, but if a single one of you limp-dicked fucking barbarians even mentions ‘coverings’ or ‘wing-shackles’ or ‘feather-brains’ or any other manner of nutjob shit, I will have my partner break all your legs and then I will cut out your tongue before mailing it to the Canterlot Academy of Sciences, where it will be tested to determine why you are all such failures. Am I understood?”

None of the Bitalians responded for a while, tea-saucer eyes going between their prostrate captain and her assailant, wings fully extended in challenge. Eventually, the bright one (whom Audit was beginning to view as an exceptionally competent specimen insofar as she could answer a question correctly) responded for the rest “… ah, yes, you are understood sigonra.”

“Great.” The revenuer pulled her hoof off the back of the lieutenant’s head, simultaneously reaffixing her sword to her belt. “And stop calling me ‘signora.’ You may call me ‘captain,’ ‘agent,’ or just ‘ma’am,’ but that is it.” She pointed at the remaining five Bitalians. “Two of you take your officer out of my fucking sight. Two of you go deal with the donkey–”

“What are we to do, sig-captain?”

With her other task far more important, she didn’t need to talk to some dumbass … ass, and so she decided to leave his fate to the whims of the locals. “I don’t care. Beat him with a stick and throw him into the next ship headed to Fillydelphia, that seems about right for you. I will sign the paperwork afterwards.” She turned to the final mare present, the bright one. “And you, as you seem the least inept, are coming with me. We’re going to go on a little walk, and you’re going to make this shithole make a little more sense.”

Little was the imperative word.

Despite the efforts of her selected Bitalian, Audit’s understanding of the situation was rudimentary at best. She didn’t have any mind for history, and so Spring Roll’s descriptions of battles and soldiers of old and raids thereof slid off her like a hayburger wrapper down a Manehattan storm drain in a rainstorm. Still, she thought she had gotten the gist of what she had told her – at some point, bands of roving pegasus marauders had terrorized this place, and ever since then pegasi had been deemed as universally social menaces. To be “uncovered,” a concept so completely alien to Audit that it had taken a couple of explanations to stick, was to have one’s wings exposed, which was a serious, aggressive social faux pas. To do so with a slung weapon was criminal. Audit, of course, had no intention of abiding by this such an utterly ridiculous social code, but she had been curious as to why she had experienced the reaction she had; the persistence of such a thing in Equestrian lands was yet another mark against the Crown’s benevolence, or at least efficaciousness, but that was a discussion for another time.

Any pony who wished to arrest her was more than welcome to try.

Much more pertinent to the issue at present was that she had a lead. A local in this depressing little seaside town had told the Carabinieri that the fugitives had stopped by, and spent a decent amount of time in, a clothes shop. The owner of that shop had been away for two days and so Audit was prepared to simply kick the door in and have a look around, but, as if on schedule, the little tailor, a stallion in tow, had returned to the shop just as Audit had turned the corner onto the street, which meant she was knocking on the door, rather than kicking it in.

Audit turned to Spring Roll. “Stay outside.” Whatever information she got out of this tailor was going to be for her purposes first, not the Carabinieri. “Let nopony inside.”

She looked a little confused, but took a post beside the door.

Satisfied at her obedience, Audit gestured for her attached unicorn to follow as she knocked authoritatively on the door of the tailor’s shop. Some rustling was heard inside, but the door’s opening wasn’t delayed enough for Audit to consider knocking again.

A latch was thrown, then the face of a stallion appeared. “Miss Thread is not taking custome–” he stopped himself mid-sentence, eyes going first to helmet, then to wings, then to medal-coated uniform “–uh.”

“Crown Special Agent External Audit, Revenue. I am coming in.”

The emphasis seemed to work. The stallion, wide-eyed (both because of the circumstances and because the mare had just spoken without moving her mouth), opened the door, allowing the two crown agents inside. The interior bore clear and telltale signs of having been ransacked – in this case, to quickly pack for travel, judging by the trunks in the middle of the room.

“Where is the owner of this business?”

A trunk held aloft dropped to the ground. The mare behind it was small enough to have been hidden by it. She managed to stay up, but her fear was evident, although Audit noticed that unlike her fellow Bitalians she hadn’t locked her eyes onto her wings.

“You, then.” The revenuer took a step closer. “I have some question–”

“If you are to mutilate or kill me, do so already.” The little mare took a step closer herself, obviously terrified but nonetheless a remarkable sense of bravery. “I will not bow to a contessa’s thugs. Not after what I have seen.”

Well, that threw the agents for a loop. Unsure of quite what to say to that, the unicorn spoke up first. “I am afraid you are mistaken. We are agents of Celestia, not locals.”

“Oh.” The tailor breathed a sigh of relief, which Audit noted – clearly, if she had been more scared of the agents of a “contessa” than those of Revenue, she either didn’t have the proper understanding of Audit’s position or the local goons were seriously gnarly. The tailor cocked her head. “Then what is it you wish of me?”

After a moment to compose herself as she finished her thought, Audit went into her prepared questions. “Do you recall, from a few days ago, two foreigners who visited this store? A white unicorn and a blue pegasus?”

“Of course I do. The contessa and her companion. What of them?”

Either she didn’t know the gravity of her statement, or she was really dumb. “Those were fugitives. My fugitives. Aiding a fugitive is a serious crime.”

“I was not aware of that, your hon–”

“Just ma’am.” She had rapidly begun to hate these insipid honorifics. “You were not aware? Did you not see the posters?”

The tailor looked a little more nervous, but no obvious tells of a lie yet. “I did not see them. I was working in my shop and saw nothing outside, and the Carabinieri did not come around to show them to me.”

“Right.” She wasn’t convinced, and to not go around with the posters would be a serious sign of ineptitude, but, from what Audit had seen, betting on the ineptitude of the locals was a pretty good bet. “So you were not, and are not, aware of who those ponies are?”

“No, I know who they are. They did introduce themselves to me; Rarity, the contessa, and Rainbow Dash, the pegasus. Just not their relationship to you.” She cocked her head. “What do you want them for?” A furrowed brow. “And what did happen to, ah, your face?”

“Nothing serious for both,” she lied, “and they aren’t related,” she lied again. There was no reason to spook the witness. “Just needed for questioning. But your cooperation is mandatory.”

The stallion who had opened the door spoke up first. “Signora, I must warn that I will not assist you if you aim to do to the contessa or Miss Dash harm, for–”

Audit’s friendly mask slipped a little as she flared a threatening wing, but she kept herself under control for now, even if that stupid ‘signora’ creeping back into conversations did irritate her. “Your cooperation is not optional, but I do not mean to do – well, that’s next. What are your names?”

The stallion pointed to himself, seemingly not particularly frightened by the display. “Empty Ledger. The tailor’s name is Thrift-Thread in your tongue.”

“Right.” Audit examined the young stallion; good health, probably about twenty years old, with good diction and only a slight accent – he was clearly of an educated caste. “Denying a Crown Agent’s request is a lot of loyalty from somepony who only met the mare three days ago, Ledger.”

“It is-was my duty.”

“Duty?”

“Signora Rarity is the Countess of Mareanello, madam. My family watched over the estate for a century in lieu of a contessa. When she arrived, I did return to her service as steward, as my family had done in the past.”

Well, that at least answered what a “contessa” was; a countess, which External Audit remembered had been awarded to the eminently un-noble Rarity in the very recent past. She, in the mildest terms, had never thought much of nobility – in other circumstances, she would have thought the arbitrary elevation of such a peasant to the peerage to be pretty funny. “Ah, her title. You do realize that Miss Rarity Belle possesses not a single drop of noble blood in her body, correct? I’ve read her files. Her father was a hoofball player, and both he and her mother were from dirt-eating hill-pony stock. You and I probably have bluer blood than she; her title is as flimsy as they come.”

“So?” The stallion took a step closer; evidently, there was something else at work to account for his loyalty than just long-forgotten occupational obligation. “Fair Cadenza was from peasant stock assolutamente, with not even in a knight in her family tree.”

So that’s the story over here, mused Audit, who was quite sure Cadence was not just produced from the very noblest of bloodlines but had been literally expelled from the noblest possible stock, presumably in a secluded closet. Still, it made for a nice story for the commoners. “A countess is not exactly a princess.”

“And besides, it matters not her origin, signora. Contessa Rarity is the noblest pony I have ever met, and of a finer moral fiber than any other supposed pony nobiliare in this realm.”

That was quite the endorsement. “Based on what?”

“Her generosity and selflessness. Her willingness to put ponies she did not really know before herself. Her refusal to abuse her new title. Her–”

“Enough.” Audit cut him off with a wave of her wing. The stallion seemed unbothered, but the little tailor did jump just a little bit. “I’ll have you get into particulars later. Which one of you met her first?”

“I did, mistress.” The tailor this time. “When they arrived here.”

Audit and her unicorn stepped closer to the tailor, who was in the back of the store, away from other Bitalian. “Describe your interaction. What did you do?”

“It was nothing of importance, signora, really. At first, with her companion’s wings uncovered, I did think naturally I was under attack, but–”

“Naturally?” Audit raised an eyebrow, still visible under the helmet. “Would you mind explaining that to another vicious pegasus?”

“Ah, si, signora, I did mean no offense, but – well, it is the custom here, and she did violate it so flagrantly. But all they did want was a set of clothes and some cosmetic treatments, mistress, nothing else, though there had been some … misunderstandings, you see.”

“Go on.”

“Well, of course, once I had been informed of her title I naturally believed I had offended her greatly and that I was soon to be … disciplined, but the Contessa di Mareanello is not cruel and petty like her other contessas, as you know.”

“Sure.” She definitely didn’t know, but that could be explored later.

“And then her companion, the mercenary Rainbow Dash, did not, ah, take to the local dresses well.”

“Why not?” As Audit recalled, the unicorn was the prissy fashionista, not the pegasus.

“Because of the, ah, wing … treatments.” The tailor eyed Audit’s wings, both bigger than Rainbow Dash’s. “As I suppose you would not accept either.”

She didn’t know what the hell a “wing treatment” was, but no, she probably wouldn’t accept it based on the other barbarisms of this godsforsaken shithole. Still, she was curious. “Can you bring such a dress up here?”

The tailor nodded, then turned to her right, spotting such a dress. Audit noticed there were no wingholes. The tailor’s horn lit, a cornoa oddly struck through with–

Audit’s attached unicorn gasped. This was deeply shocking to Audit, as she was not aware that spooks like “Quiet Enabler” actually possessed emotions, but apparently he still did – and that something he had just seen was so shocking as to drag them out. “Celestia, what happened – tailor, cut your field and walk over to me.”

The tailor, confused as to who this stallion was as he had not introduced himself, followed his instructions. With unexpectedly gentle hooves, the stallion pushed a lock of her mane out of the way, inspecting the little mare’s horn. He saw exactly what he though he had seen earlier; regular, deep scoring around the perimeter, and he didn’t look happy to be right. “When did you spend time in Saddle Arabia, ma’am?”

“Saddle Arabia? I have not ever left Bitaly, sir.”

So shocking was that that it took even him a few long seconds to respond. “Then who–” he shook his head “–horn scoring is a punishment I only know of from Saddle Arabian thieves. How did this come to pass?”

Horn scoring? Audit hadn’t been expecting that to be the next barbarism. She had seen it once, and only once, performed upon captured Equestrians by an enemymilitar in the wider Panamare conflict she had participated in. She, of course, had no idea what kind of emotional weight it bore upon a unicorn to see or, worse, experience such a thing, but she distinctly recalled that upon that enemy’s capture a tribunal of unicorn lieutenants and captains had quite swiftly sentenced him to death by electrocution spells. Regardless of whether or not it had been conducted by officers or not, a kangaroo court like that was very much not allowed by Equestrian military codes, but upon description of the matter to the higher brass, mostly unicorns themselves, no further action was taken as regards to the junior officers.

It had taken a while, as she recalled.

The tailor, ears dropping, didn’t look eager to volunteer the information as to who was responsible; Quiet Enabler decided to alleviate some fears “We are not locals, so if it was for some kind of crime we aren’t going to pursue further action. I just need to know.”

“No, it – it was not a crime. I did once not give to a contessa the … correct amount of deference, and so as was her right she had done to me, ah–” she waved a hoof around her horn.

Audit interjected first. “Protected right?”

“As a contessa, if so desired against the actions of a contadina as myself, it is.”

“And this was–” Audit gave a few slow blinks. Nobles and peers had their own silly little exemptions from such and sundry things back in Equestria proper, but that? “And this was done by the Countess Rarity?”

Both Bitalians looked horrified.

“Non! Assolutamente non! This–”

“–the contessa would never–”

“–long ago, when–”

Audit held out a hoof. “Stop. Who, then?”

The tailor continued. “It was the, ah, Contessa di Galloparte, signora. But this was long ago, when I was a filly, not–”

Her attached unicorn cut back in, once again blank-faced in practiced control. “How old?”

The tailor thought for a moment. “This was after the death of my father, so I was … quattordici – four and ten years.”

Her still stone-faced spook did not say anything else, but she heard his horn ignite and his sword being fiddled with like a morbid security blanket. Audit decided to get the conversation back on track – not that hearing about the culture of this unforgivable shithole wasn’t illuminating, but she was here for rather more targeted questioning. “The both of you seem to have quite a lot of sympathy and loyalty for a mare you two barely know. What did you do for her, anyway?”

The tailor’s face visibly lifted, ears returning to an upright position – clearly, she didn’t enjoy speaking on the matter of her horn. “Non, ma’am, it is not what I did for her. All I did was supply her dresses and a wig – and a dyeing of the mane and tail for them both. She paid well over what was required for all that.”

“So, loyalty from … tips?”

“No, that was nice, but…” she shook her head. “It was from actions later, signora. The contessa and her companion did save us both.”

“Really?” Now that was interesting, and worthy of further questioning; namely, in what way had those two losers managed to save anything. Still, a question first. “First, though, the dye job and wing; done as a disguise?”

The tailor shrugged. “It is possible. The contessa Rarity is without mane, so the wig was necessary, and the dye to match. The other one, it was, ah, not clear.” She shook her head. “But I did not want to ask questions after her reaction iniziale to my reaction to her wings, and her experience with a dress.”

“What, did she threaten you or something?”

“A little, but signora Rarity did calm her. It was my fault.”

“Explain.”

“Well, of course when I saw her wings initially, it was … I did take it as a threat most severo,as would be the expectation here.” She cocked her head, looking at Audit’s conspicuously uncovered wings. “Have you been, ah, told of the culture, signora?”

“I figured it out.” Audit raised an eyebrow. “I noticed you have not reacted quite so severely as the goons outside. Do you have pegasi in the family?”

“No, I would have, signora. But time spent around the contessa’s companion has,ah,made it normal, to a degree.”

“I see.” If the tailor’s opinion of pegasi had improved since first contact, Rainbow Dash was a much gentler pony than Audit would have been about such things. “Back to the questions. What did she do?”

“She reacted most angrily when she figured out the custom of wing coverage, then she … lost composure during a fitting for a dress which had been done in the Bitalian fashion.”

“Which means?”

“Ah, sleeves for wings, signora. No openings.”

As much as she disliked her fellow pegasus for, y’know, breaking her jaw, she certainly understood Rainbow Dash’s actions, and even, unbelievably, felt something resembling empathy; she was not aware she could do such a thing. Then again, when she had spent six weeks in Manehattan General after getting shipped back from Panamare a final time with a double compound wing fracture and had her wings cast and bound, she had found herself dreaming about throwing herself off the roof most of the time, so basally unpleasant the sensation. “I suppose I would too.” An understatement – forced into such a garmet, Audit would have killed somepony. “Keep going. They came here, she overpaid for dresses, and then …?”

“They left, for Mareanello. I brought dresses the day after next.”

Satisfied with the little Bitalian’s cooperation, she pointed to her presumed companion, the stallion. “But before, the fugitives met you, right?”

“Yes, at the-her castle.” The stallion cut the next question off early. “Do not become too excited. It is not much more than a pile of stones.”

“That’s still one more castle than Celestia ever gave me,” thought Audit, who realized too late that she had thought it aloud. All present eyed her oddly. Oops. “Never mind. What then?”

“Nothing much,” the stallion shrugged. “They slept there and took a few things: a sword, a tiara, a breastplate for a pegasus. Nothing of great value.”

Armaments, then. Audit wasn’t particularly scared of either of the mares she was chasing even if they were armed, but it was something to keep in mind – frankly, she wouldn’t want to be an unarmed pegasus in this place either. “And the next day?”

“They went to Marelan to see another contessa, but, ah, they did misunderstand my directions and simply walked in the front door.” He shuddered. “I am not sure what happened next exactly, but that night they returned with the unicorn pulling her sister in a cart; the pegasus had taken a crossbow’s bolt through the haunch and the wing very seriously.”

A bolt through the haunch and wing left a completely immobile pegasus, which, while not very sporting, was, for a fugitive, exactly the kind of – wait, sister? “You said her sister?”

“Yes.” The stallion cocked his head. “Is that odd?”

Audit had looked over the files and was very sure they were not sisters. Was this intentional misdirection to throw off a tail? Was this a joke played on this stallion? Was this stallion simply a moron? The world indeed wondered – but it was a mostly useless tangent anyway. “Never mind. Why would she go to Marelan anyway?”

“To contact another contessa, as said.”

“Why do that?”

“As part of her job as given by your crown, no?” The stallion cocked his head, confused. “I would think that, as you are also from the Crown, you would know, yes?”

She didn’t, really. She had had plenty of explanation as to who the unicorn and pegasus she was meeting were, and to their background, but the whys of this particular operation had not really been explained. “Just want to confirm. Enlighten me.”

“To be elected the Duchess of Marelan by her fellow counts and countesses, signora. For what reason, I was not told, but that job’s first step was to take the ascendant position.”

“I see.” Audit thought for a moment. “And why would a noble of the same rank elect another to a leadership position? Especially a foreigner?”

“In the past, because the realm required leadership, and favors could be curried for support of a well-regarded noble.” The stallion shrugged. “But in these days, that is a good question, and one without an answer: nopony has occupied the ducal rank in decades, and the discord between comital ponies from far fetched schemes to the ducal throne is now open conflict by means of mercenaries and assassins.”

“Which explains the wounds, I suppose.” Audit nodded. “From the other countess.”

“Her servants, I would think. But yes, that is correct.”

“Right.” It was certainly seeming like the two “national heroes” had been sent on an unlikely, if not suicidal, mission – a fuck-up from the Crown? Or was Celestia colder-hearted and more jealous than Audit thought? “And that was yesterday, yes? What about today?”

“I had been given tasks to do for the contessa, and so I returned to the castle in the afternoon with the tailor and her goods in tow. As we ascended the remaining tower to see the two of them, we were beset by assailants.”

“Assailants?” Maybe things were pointing more towards the second hypothetical; an easy way to cover a killer is to make it happen in a place where there was more than one way for it to happen. “From who?”

“Assassins sent by another conte or contessa. I was not told from which, but there are several who would do such a thing.”

“And then they … were killed?” That would make apprehending the fugitives easier, insofar as corpses don’t run. Though considerably messier.

“Killed?” Wide-eyed, the stallion shook his head. “No, signora, the assailants were defeated!”

“Yes!” cut in the tailor, who had walked up to join her fellow Bitalian. “Miss Dash, the pegasus, put herself between an awful mare and the two of us and k-killed her with a strike of sword!”

“And the contessa,” replied the stallion, preempting the question, “though I did not see the event, used a device of steel and wood with sparking–”

Audit’s attached stallion tensed, clearly surprised. Audit, though not knowing of what the Bitalian spoke of, did not miss the cue, and filed it away to be asked about later.

“–device to smite most utterly out of the air a pegasus!”

A pause followed as Audit evaluated the information. She had known that the blue one had some training – despite her cowardice, the chickenshit’s application of her hoof to Audit’s mouth had been done with fine form – but she had read nothing about the unicorn’s apparent skills. More importantly, it pointed to one of two things – either Bitalian hired blades were inept (not impossible, especially in view of the Carabinieri she had met) or her fugitives were more dangerous than initially suspected. Either way, she was, bizarrely, almost glad to see that these “heroes” she so reviled were both less pathetic than she had thought and that they had been forced to get some proverbial blood on their hooves – a mare with a legitimate body count had much more of a claim to heroism in Audit’s eyes than a mare whose title came only from the whim of Canterlot’s most decrepit resident. “And where are they now?”

The stallion shrugged. “I do not know. The contessa, in a scene of generosity most spectacular, gave us enough coin to sail to, ah, Manehattan, I think it was called, and sent us away.”

“How much was that?” Audit mused that those coins had very likely come out of the Purse she had issued earlier, and that it was much easier to give away somepony else’s money than one’s own. Still, sending anypony out of this shithole was, as much as she hated to admit it, a sign of good character, at least for the unicorn.

“A few hundred bits, signora.” He thought for a moment. “I suppose, if I had to guess, the contessa would already be headed to Marelan. Where exactly I do not know.”

“What for?”

“To kill the contessa who crippled her friend, of course.” The stallion cocked his head. “Why else?”

“Right.” Audit waited a moment, then addressed her attached stallion. “We should speak outside.” She pointed a wing as the Bitalians as she exited the shop. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Okay, What do you think?”

“I’m just the escort, ma’am. I’m not here to think.”

“Don’t be coy, spook.” Audit lightly reprimanded. “You’re obviously not just ‘some guard,’ and there’s a certain air about you that I recognize. Guard Espionage Service?”

The stallion said nothing, but allowed himself a thin smile.

“What I thought.” Audit, satisfied with her correct prediction, nodded. “Go on, then. Time is of the essence – we shouldn’t keep them waiting in there.” Audit didn’t care much about their comfort, of course, but the more time spent on relying on Carabinieri to hold a perimeter the better.

The unicorn raised an eyebrow (that almost sounded empathetic, and Revenue didn’t believe in empathy) and acquiesced to her demand; wordlessly, a hitherto unseen notepad and quill appeared in his hitherto unseen field. His corona, fittingly, was a nearly invisible smoke gray.

“That’s a neat trick. Can you do it for a whole pony?”

“For a little while, but there’s no point.” The unicorn flipped his notepad to the first page. “A pony is not threatening. A pony with a camera or dagger is. So you hide the camera, not the agent.” He shook his head. “Besides the point – yes, I have some thoughts. Would you like to hear them?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“Okay.” He moved the notepad into his field of view. “A few important points, then what I think we should do. That’s up to you, of course, and I will defer to your–”

“I get it.” Audit spun a hastening wing in a circle. “Go on.”

“First off – as I’m sure you’ve noticed – we are on our own out here. And I don’t expect that to change, nor should we try.”

Audit raised an eyebrow.

“If this place looks like this, and things go on here like that, I don’t expect that there is much in the way of real Crown assets here, and there are definitely not any assets we would want hanging off our tails. A small team is a good team. The Carabinieri are even worse than that – keep the one you like around if you would like a cultural aid, but I would rather not have to coordinate with gendarmes who failed at fugitive apprehension off a boat.”

“No disagreements.” Even if the locals hadn’t been violently repulsed by Audit’s mere presence insofar as that presence included feathers, Audit had swiftly decided that they were both loathsome and useless, neither of which were qualities she liked in partners. Though she had kind of taken a liking to the intrepid Spring Roll.

Not enough to learn her name, of course. But a liking. Perhaps she could keep that one.

“And, of course, we’d never get anypony from the real Equestria here in time to help. Good points. Next.”

The stallion raised a forehoof, pointing at Audit’s wings. “We need to get those covered up.”

An idiot would assume the worst. Audit was not an idiot, and so one chance was to be provided. “Hmph! Brave of you to say out loud. Explain?”

“Not like they do here, with socks or bindings or whatever else they can dream up. Just a rain shawl or cape would be fine.” He grimaced in seemingly mostly-real sympathy. “But you draw too much attention like that, especially for observation.”

“Might as well ask you to cover up your horn,” grumbled Audit. She couldn’t actually grumble, per say, as all of her thought-speech came out at the same even tone of voice, but she had made a sort of humming-gurgling as the talk-spell did its thing, so it kinda got to the same effect.

The stallion in front of her gave a small smirk as his almost-invisible corona lit, then disappeared – taking his horn with it. The rest of his coat had also dropped a few shades. “If necessary. Do you prefer Cemetery Wind? Or–” his coat once again changed, this time visibly greener, as obscuring complications appeared around his Mark. Audit vaguely remembered that she had no idea what his mark looked like in the first place, probably due to its dullness, which was frankly a stunningly lucky draw for a pony in his profession. His horn stayed hidden. “– Titrant Ranger? Mixing and matching can be done, of course.”

Momentarily lost for words, Audit, after a moment of thought, punched her partner in the sternum. Despite evidence to the contrary, he wasn’t a super-pony; he backed away, rubbing at his chest. “Ma’am?”

“Checking for carapace.” Audit’s desk neighbor in the Canterlot Revenue office had had his throat cut by a stray Changeling shard during the attack. They weren’t friends, but he had been a supremely competent accountant; yet another talented pony, lost preventably, to tally onto the Princesses’ list of failures. “Anything that changes like that positively chatters to me.”

“Ah. No ma’am, no bug here. You can check my blood, spit, whatever fluid you want.” He resumed his natural characteristics – well, probably natural. It wasn’t like she was really sure about that. “Just a Talent, normal talents, a strong horn, and a lot of practice. A changeling can do all that effortlessly. I can only hold it for a little while – it’s a continuous spell of illusion.”

“Uh-huh.” Officially too deep into the weeds of nerd shit for Audit, but good to know her partner’s limitations. She had a thought. “Could you do my wings, too?”

“Not long enough for it to matter. A lot more wing than horn, ma’am.”

“Right.” Worth a shot. “If we’re laying low, what about–”

“The helmet? It is just as big of a problem.” He shook his head. “I will look at it when we stop for the night. I only sort-of get how it works, and I’m no Twilight Sparkle, but I can try and make it smaller, or at least split it up where some of it can be hidden under a jacket.”

Audit chose to believe that was a lucky guess as opposed to him reading her mind through the helmet. She didn’t know if that was possible, but it wouldn’t surprise her. She really hoped it wasn’t, mostly because her thoughts were embarrassingly unorganized, but also because she had spent a not insignificant part of the pre-departing waiting time on the ship’s deck checking out his rump. It wasn’t like she was leching, just idle, unserious glances, but even Revenue mares had needs, as unbelievable as that sounded. Besides, there was a more important question to ask. “You know Twilight Sparkle? The little ‘princess’ of nothing?”

“We’ve never met.” He shook his head. “But I graduated the Academy with her brother. Nice guy, and talented, but too handsome for his own good.” A shrug. “Why do you ask? I know she’s capital-f Friends with our fugitives, but I don’t think that's really important right now. Do you have something else to say?”

She had quite a lot she’d like to say about one of her most fundamentally despised (in a theoretical sense; she had never met the mare and only barely seen her) creatures, but she supposed that would have to wait. “Anything else?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat, turning the page in his new notepad. “Our fugitives are significantly more dangerous than I had expected.”

“Surely you don’t mean to tell me you’re afraid of a pair of cripples, agent.” She smirked. “I thought you types were supposed to be the scary ones?”

“Hubris, ma’am,” he warned. “What did you do in the guard again?”

“Cuirassier.”

Heavy shock troops not typically known for their caution. He internally congratulated himself for another correct guess. “Makes sense.” He continued without explanation. “The pegasus should not pose a problem if we can get to her quickly enough, but the unicorn is–”

A scoff. “Oh, come on. She’s a tailor. Even if she hadn’t done … that to her face, you mean to tell me a stallion like you couldn’t beat her horn to horn?”

“If that were all to it, I could, ma’am. Quite handily.” He let the shadow of a frown cross his face. “And please do not interrupt me. I know we aren’t equals by rank, but I’d like to keep this professional.”

It had been a little rude of her – not normally a problem for External Audit, who, of course, had once taken a foal from his mother with ten words, but the stallion was awfully menacing. “Go on.”

“Firearms, ma’am. Are you familiar with the concept?”

No, but she had learned to never admit ignorance if feigned familiarity would do. “Not specifically.”

He saw through it. “Griffon made weapons, ma’am.” He turned the notepad around in his field, showing what looked like pipes strapped to boards. “We don’t know how they make them, but we know that they accelerate pieces of metal at speeds well over a crossbow bolt. It’s inferior to a good war-spell, of course, and the Guard at-large doesn’t have any interest, but they’re plenty to get through an unprepared unicorn’s ward, and it gives a non-magic user a lot better chance against a unicorn.” A pause. “Or alicorn. It’s a concern we have. Either way, it makes a lot of sense why a griffon would make such a thing, although how one ended up with a small town’s unicorn tailor is a mystery to me.”

Well, now she wished she really had known what they were – there was something delightful to Audit about the idea of a device which would even up the notoriously difficult fight of pegasus against a good unicorn. That the height and cloud advantage would further ensure pegasi superiority over ground-bound ponies was just a little bonus. “So how cautious should we be?”

“That depends on how many she has, more than anything. If those two–” he gestured towards the tailor’s shop “–told the truth, she is obviously good enough with it to take out a local assassin on the wing.”

“I think you have a higher estimation of the competence of a ‘local assassin’ than I do. Or she got lucky.” The mare she had met didn’t exactly exude an air of martial prowess.

“She only has to get lucky once, ma’am. Which leads on to my recommendation for our course of action.”

She had her own ideas, but everything else he had said so far had been valuable. “What’s that?”

“We don’t do anything to interfere. Watch from a distance, shadow and track them, but don’t try and take them into custody any time soon.”

“Absolutely no–” The stallion raised a hoof. Audit remembered his previous admonishment. “… Sorry. Continue.”

“Firstly, our fugitives are currently embroiled in lethal combat, which is sure to only intensify as they enter Marelan. This is important for two reasons: one is that they will probably die, in which case it is no longer our problem; the other, more pertinent, reason is that they are both going to be armed and wary, which is the worst kind of pony to try and abduct.”

Audit noted his usage of the verb “abduct,” but decided that some questions were better unasked.

He continued. “Worse, it would be all too easy to look like we were a party in a noble’s petty dispute, which would make us targets of the other nobles. That’s an unnecessary risk, ma’am.”

All good points. “That was firstly. What’s the next reason?”

“Timing. I still don’t quite understand exactly what our Ponyville contessa’s “path to victory” is, but in the unlikely event she is successful it would be much easier to swoop in after all the excitement is done. Less likely we’d face violent resistance.”

“I faced ‘violent resistance’ in a Fillydelphia park, agent. Consider me less convinced.”

“As I understand it, you stole a foal from his mother in front of them and subjected the pegasus to a tamper-deterrent electrocution spell from either malice or ineptitude.” He shrugged. “The first is a practical matter, but you can see how it would generate some ill will. The second is plainly offensive, ma’am, and were I ten years younger I probably would have done the same as she.”

He had good points, but she wasn’t going to admit it. Though she did not exactly regret it, it had not exactly been her finest hour. She blamed the city; Fillydelphia had that effect on ponies. “Anything else to add, agent?”

“Yes. The last reason why I’d like to play this passively is that I will not collaborate with the local nobility, and as such a capture is impossible.”

“Explain?”

“Which part?”

“Both.”

“As you wish. Two ponies cannot capture two other ponies – well, it can be done, but it shouldn’t be done unless there’s no other option, which I just stated to be untrue. That means we would either have to cooperate with the Carabinieri, which I think we both agree is ill-advised, both because they don’t impress me with their skills and because they seemingly do not want to take orders from a pegasus like yourself, or with the local nobles against or fugitives, which is obviously not going to happen.”

“We’ll have to cooperate with them eventually, agent. It’s not like we can drag prisoners all the way back to the Old Country by ourselves, and I’m sure there’s processing to do here. Besides, them ‘not wanting’ orders is irrelevant – it’s not an option.”

“It’s always an option, ma’am. You can’t go around slamming scabbards into horns all the time.” She really could, and probably would if given the chance, but she saw his point. “But would you want to work with them repeatedly?”

“I–” a scowl. “I guess you’re right. The last thing I’d want is for one of those fuck-ups to blow a stakeout and get me killed.” She shook her head, which she had to be careful about insofar as she didn’t launch her bespoke talking hat to the paving stones. “And the other thing? The ‘obviously not going to happen?’ Explain.”

“What, besides the fact that they’re all apparently backstabbing murderers?” He had raised an eyebrow, and Audit noticed that his tail had begun flicking back and forth in either irritation or rage. Hopefully it wasn’t targeted towards her. “Morally, I cannot cooperate with any pony who has, or who would do, what we saw inside there. Horn-scoring a filly is the kind of thing we get issued licenses to kill for, ma’am.”

“They can’t all be like that.” I mean, it seemed unlikely, at least. “Besides, since when do you guys have morals?”

“Guess I found the limit.” His tone indicated that wasn’t a joke. “And I’d rather not take the risk and find out later the local we busted our fugitives with was a monster.” She hesitated with her response, so he followed up. “Ma’am, I don’t expect you to understand fully – you aren’t a unicorn, and there’s not really a good equivalent. But this is not negotiable. If you would like to proceed down that path, I will cease cooperation with you and travel back to Fillydelphia as fast as possible.”

“Wait long enough and they’re both going to disappear into Marelan. Cities like that always have places for rats to hide.”

“If they were just trying to run from us, yes, but they don’t even know we’re here. Besides, I figure we’ll have a pretty good idea where they go. Just follow the corpses – either theirs or the ponies that get sent after them.” He smiled, which was frankly a little disconcerting considering his previous lack of emotional response and the subject matter. “Wait long enough and they’ll probably manage to knock off a few other counts and countesses, which is by no means a bad thing. Might be kind of fun to watch, too.”

“… I think you’re probably correct.” Stupid unicorn and his compelling reasoning – though it did honestly sound entertaining. “We should at least wait a day or two from today no matter what. They’re both going to be jumpy after two cutthroats tried to off them. Much better to wait and not get a sword in the gut.” Still, she wasn’t happy about it, as her muffled grumble and twitching wing indicated. “Even if it is agonizing to have to wait. I think you do not quite understand how excited I am for the prospect of planting my hoof in that blue brat’s face.”

“I wasn’t aware Crown Agents operated investigations on the premise of spite.” He suddenly remembered something. “Does she still have a Purse?”

“Why wouldn’t we? I’m half convinced Old Maid Sunny only stays living to spite death – we’re just following in her example.” She shook her head. “And yes, she does. Taking a Purse away is outside of the purview of my department. I could send in a request; I’m sure they’d get around to taking her bits away in a few months. Not nearly as efficient as Revenue.”

“How much is it?”

“Not much. I think it was less than a hundred bits a day for the two of them – and if they bought those two tickets out of here, that’s most of the total take.”

“Don’t have to worry about any additional hired blades, then.”

“Right.”

A few seconds of silence, then the unicorn spoke up. “Permission to speak candidly, ma’am?”

“What, more than you have been already?” A non-committal shrug of the wings. “Knock yourself out.”

“You’ve got a grudge, ma’am. Even before the whole … kicking incident, you hated those two mares, and the little princess too. Why’s that?”

A pause. Audit spent a moment constructing an appropriate sentence.

He jumped back in first. “If it’s personal, it’s none of my business, and I don’t really care either way. But grudges are dangerous, ma’am. They’ll cloud your judgment, and this whole operation is dangerous enough as-is.”

“It’s not personal, agent. It’s–” and, remarkably, she almost looked embarrassed “–it’s about the fairness of it all, I guess.”

“Fairness, ma’am?”

“Look, I won’t bore you with everything I think, but … there’s just something about the way things work that I get stuck on. Big mare with wings and a horn gets to be in charge forever? Okay, guess so, who would say no to her, right? But then you get to all the little hangers-on that go with it, to. Every one of her little love-children gets to be in charge of something or another, just because they’re close to her – and everypony thinks of them, not the ministers and agents and office workers who actually make the state run. And it’s like that everywhere, just the same kind of crap.” Her wings had risen off her back. “Every little pegasus who wants to serve Equestria doesn’t think about all the shock troopers and scouts the Guard needs, they think of that useless orange glory-hound in blue and yellow. Every unicorn wants to go to ‘Celestia’s School for Weirdos’ or whatever it’s called, then go on to be some kind of ridiculous ‘academic wizard’ in a stupid little tower full of books. Meanwhile there’s khaki-clad Rangers going out and busting up magical anomalies out in the wilderness so that little foals don’t end up inside out, but do they end up on the posters? No!”

Content to let her get it out, the unicorn sat down on his haunches. He noticed that the helmet had not started sparking, which meant this was likely quite cathartic for his partner – and a happy partner is an effective one, after all.

She continued. “So when I first started seeing the newspapers run articles about this ridiculous collection of podunk mares from a podunk town and stories of their obviously fabricated exploits, it just … stuck with me? I guess I just couldn’t get over it. And, of course, the worst part is that, whatever they were trying to accomplish, it worked, right? The public at large just eats it up, and so they just keep adding onto the story. New princesses, new titles, new everything. Never mind that the state has to rewrite itself every year now; just keep the story going for Celestia, right?” She paused for a moment, collecting herself. Wouldn’t want to seem like she was ranting, you know. “And it’s all just so unfair. A few random mares get elevated into big hero status for, what, maybe saving their town a few times? Even if I believed them, they’ve, what, ‘saved the world’ maybe twice from things Celestia could have easily handled herself? That’s the best Equestria has to offer?”

“Jealous, ma’am?” Risky, but pertinent.

“No, it-yeah, actually, I am.” She shook her head. “But not for me – well, not only for me. I sent too many bags with ponies in them home from Panamare to only think about myself – where were their memorial articles? Or, hell, if you want something less depressing, my squads and I busted seventeen wagon-loads of go-crystals coming in from Griffonstone. Do you know how many dumb little pegasus athletes seventeen wagon-loads of go-crystals can kill? But we didn’t get a poster. We didn’t even get a headline in the local papers. They just ran a story off the wire about one of those ‘heroes’ making a fool out of herself with magic wings that melted.” Wings flared in exasperation. “Really? That was more important? It’s just – damnit I wish I could yell in this stupid – argh!”

Finding herself out of words, Audit kicked a rock in final punctuation. It bounced harmlessly off the nearby wall of the alleyway. This was something of a disappointment to Audit, who had hoped, in childlike whimsy, that it might explode.

A cough. “Finished?”

Remembering her escort, Audit wheeled around, wings fluttering in a mixture of embarrassment and agitation. “… Yes, actually, that was all quite satisfying.” A pause. “Why care enough to ask me about it, anyway?”

“Because I want to know your motivations for things, so I don't get surprised by your decisions. Incidentally, my motivation is not dying. It's worked pretty well so far.”

“Fair enough. And how so very practical. You truly are a consummate professional.”

“Blame the service, ma'am.” The unicorn stood up. “Now that we're through that, we can get to work. Did you think of a course of action in the middle of all that?”

“I did, actually.” Audit likewise turned around to head back to the front of the tailor’s shop. “There’s no reason to take those two in the store into custody in the long term. They already told us everything they know, and unless she lied about not seeing posters they didn’t really do anything wrong.”

“And here I thought your grudge would extend to loose associates too.”

“Don’t get lippy with me, agent. Besides, I didn’t say we were just turning them loose to go run back to our fugitives.” They had rounded the corner now; all other Carabinieri had dispersed except dutiful Spring Roll. Audit pointed to her. “Let the two inside finish packing, then take them to your station–” a pause as a thought occurred “–you ponies do have policing stations, right? You’ve made it that far as a society?”

“There is a posting, yes.” Spring Roll looked between the Equestrians, who looked awfully flippant for the severity of order they had just recommended. “Would you like the flogging post prepared for you? Or the gallows?”

“The–” eyes wide in surprise, Audit managed to make an unintentionally yet exceptionally funny sound with her mouth as she attempted to express her shock. In all honesty, there were indeed times wherein she would to have loved a public flogging; the sentencing for Fancy Pants and his always-present hooker for their fraudulent charity, for one. That said, she found even herself a little disturbed at the speed at which the Bitalian had recommended a public whipping, to say nothing of the other option.“What? No, you psycho. Just throw them both in a holding cell for tonight, then take them to the docks tomorrow so they can buy their tickets – and make sure they get on a ship and leave! I don’t want them running off anywhere.”

“Oh.” The Bitalian shrugged. “My apologies. I meant nothing by it, sign–”

“Watch it, Spring Roll”

“–captain.” She cocked her head. “Then what?”

“Find me tomorrow at noon at whatever passes for your central station in Marelan. You’re the only member of your organization I can stand, so I’ll need you around at least sometimes when I have to navigate the cultural intricacies of this dump.”

A pause. “Captain, I do not think the town’s waste dump has culture to speak of.”

So much for being the bright one. “Please stop talking. Walk around the corner and watch the back door. When we leave through the front, you go in. Do you understand?”

“I do. Anything else?”

“When your lieutenant wakes up, don’t tell her where we’ve gone. If she starts pressing you, tell her to find the nearest tall building and jump off the roof. You can quote that directly – actually, you’d better quote that directly.”

A little wide eyed, the Bitalian did as she was told and went around the corner.

“Now, let’s go get that fucking shawl.”

Freshly adorned in a (thankfully matching) green rain shawl and her saddlebags, Audit and her unicorn stood in the street in front of the building.

“What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“The whole … covering of wings thing?”

“Shitty? What the fuck do you think it’s like?”

Fair enough. “Which way is Marelan, anyway?”

“That way.” Audit pointed down a side street. They could see the path carry off from the town and over a few hills. “I asked while we were in there. It’s a good ways off, so we might have to stop for the night somewhere.”

“Did the Treasury also see fit to issue you a Purse as well?

“Unfortunately not. They’re scarcer than you might think. I brought enough with me that it shouldn’t be a problem, but I’m not looking forward to submitting receipts.” She started off towards Marelan. “We’ll have plenty of time to chat. Let’s get going.”

He followed, the remainder of the pair’s luggage either on him or in his field. It wasn’t much.

The two walked long enough to clear a fair few buildings, and now patches of grasses could be seen between structures.

He spoke up. “I don’t think you’re totally wrong about the whole ‘fairness’ thing, ma’am.”

“My beliefs don’t require your approval, but I’m glad to hear you agree with me. Any particular reason why?”

“I wouldn’t say I agree with you, ma’am. There’s a fair few things you don’t know about events you both don’t believe happened and weren’t privy to, but that’s just little stuff. Your main thesis holds some water.” He snorted once – his emotionless mask had slipped just a little. “Did you know I graduated above Shining Armor? He was number eleven in the class, and I was number two. Yet all that got me was a bunch of years doing … this, and he got a cushy job hanging around with Princess Cadenza all day. Tough luck, I guess.”

“I know your type, spook. You love what you do.”

“To an extent. But if the choice was between freezing in a muzzy foxhole and sleeping with a princess, I know what I’d choose.”

“Really? I think I’d pick the foxhole over hanging around with another one of Celestia’s brats, even if I liked mares.”

“She’s not exactly my type, per say, but I think you’re being presumptuous. I’ve met her a few times – she’s really quite clever, and well-acquainted with statecraft. I think you’d get along.”

“I doubt it.” Astonishingly few ponies did get along with her, really. A less confident mare would take that as a point for some reflection, but Audit took it as a point of pride.

“Well, even besides, I can’t imagine Shining Armor’s having less fun than I am right now.”

It seemed unlikely.

“Shining, I will be honest with you: I think you’re losing it.”

A grumble. “Maybe. Why’s that?”

“Because your wife has just invited you, for the third time, to come to bed with her for a vigorous session of foal-making, and yet here you are–”

Cadence’s head appeared right next to Shining Armor’s, joining him in looking at the spreadsheet.

“–looking at paperwork. And I know paperwork isn’t more interesting than I am.”

Shining didn’t respond directly, instead pointing with his field at a line on the table. “Read this.”

Cadence humored him, her good cheer falling precipitously as she finished the line. “… What?”

“I bounced a check this morning, one that I knew we had enough for.” He tapped again on the line with a quill. Adorably, they were made from his wife’s discarded primaries. “Until I found this. Almost thirty thousand bits, gone right out of the budget.”

Cadence narrowed her eyes, scanning back and forth. “For what?”

“That’s the thing. It’s going to a ‘cultural embassy’ in Ponyville. But there isn’t an embassy of any kind in Ponyville, and so I don’t know where all the money would be–”

A pause, then in unison.

“…Twilight.”

Author's Note

This chapter is the first thing I've ever written here with exclusively OC characters. Good thing Audit's such a hater to keep all of Jimmy's other little brain-children in line

Originally, I had Audit speaking in small capitals, but Fimfiction doesn't support the markup for it. That's a shame, because I thought it was pretty funny.

Before any of you freak out, Audit's opinions about various in-show events should not be taken as necessary evidence they aren't real in the canon of this story.