Saddlesbury,

Western Equestria,

And The Noble Stable,

Canterlot Castle,

Central Equestria

*** Ten Hours Earlier ***

Once, long ago, when Qasam had been barely more than a colt reporting to his first muster for his region’s militia, the grizzled old horse who’d been in charge had pulled him aside. A nervous young horse had been afraid that he’d done something wrong—even if he couldn’t think of how exactly he’d managed to transgress in just five minutes. However, it had turned out that the then commander hadn’t been out to punish Qasam for anything. Far from it; he had decided that Qasam would inherit his own duties as a miralay one day and so Qasam was going to be receiving very specific tutelage.

For the grizzled old horse believed that those in command needed to be properly groomed for the role from as young an age as was practicable; the responsibility of leadership was simply too great to trust to just any horse with any temperament. After all, an ill-chosen order could be disastrous. A properly tempered leader was needed. One who would issue commands with purpose, unclouded by volatile emotions or personal feelings.

“It is easier to return fallen raindrops to the clouds than it is to stop wild horses.”

Qasam suspected that the old miralay had not been thinking in literal terms—given what the Saddle Arabian had heard pegasus ponies were capable of in Equestria—but he’d certainly understood the intent of the warning, even then.

He was seeing those words in practice now as he strode across the battlefield. A unicorn medic walked at his side. He could feel her frown on him any time she thought he wasn’t looking in her direction. He wasn’t supposed to be up and walking. A number of ponies had told him that. Repeatedly. The genuine doctor at the aid station had cautioned Qasam that they’d only managed to restore a proper rhythm to his heart ‘for now’, and that a longer period of observation was required in order to determine the precise nature of his condition so that it could be treated in the long-term.

Telling them that his ‘condition’ was simply: “being an old horse” had not satisfied the pony doctor any more than it had ever satisfied the Saddle Arabia ones he’d spoken with in the preceding years since he’d first noticed the persistent pain in his chest.

It couldn’t be helped though. He’d needed to get out of the aid tent—to get down to the battle.

Qasam had needed to try and return the rain to the clouds.

‘Returning’ the raindrops had been just as futile as he recalled the grizzled miralay warning him it would be. The dead could not be helped. Stopping more raindrops from falling—preventing more bloodshed…well, it had certainly not been an easy task to end the battle ‘prematurely’, but he’d managed it. With the help of the ponies.

The part of Qasam’s mind that was a commander of the sultan’s armies was quietly filing away notes that he would be making in his report to his superiors back home later. A report that would inform the leaders of the Saddle Arabian Cavalry of a need to stop ponies—or members of other more magical races—from being able to do to them in the future what he’d helped them do here today.

Qasam was torn on how to feel about how the battle had been ended. On the one hoof, he was proud of the training and discipline of his militias. Even in the heat of battle, with the thoughts of so many intently focused on the fundamental goal of not dying, they’d been aware enough of their surroundings to recognize the sound of ‘Retreat’ being played by a bugle. As they’d been trained, the Saddle Arabian militias had broken off from whatever engagement that they’d been embroiled in and withdrew back across the river—and they’d even managed to do so in a fairly orderly fashion. They had not truly ‘broken’ and ran back in a disorganized mob; reforming quickly back at their original battle lines once their commanders got control of their formations again…

…Commanders who slowly began to realize that it had not been any of them who had given the order to sound ‘Retreat’.

That was the point that Qasam was conflicted on.

In the chaos of battle, no singular formation had questioned the sounds of ‘Saddle Arabian’ bugles calling for them to disengage from combat and fall back. Even the formations that were aware that they were patently winning on their flank of the attack—and thus for whom retreating made little immediate tactical sense—had stopped fighting and moved back across the river. They had recognized that, just because they were doing well, that didn’t mean that another flank wasn’t in the process of crumbling under the weight of an Equestrian counter-attack which might threaten to encircle them.

So they had all collectively retreated. Much to the shock and confusion of Qasam’s regimental commanders, he was sure, who were likely trying to figure out who among them had ordered ‘Retreat’ to be sounded when they had all been able to see the whole of the battlefield and could clearly see that their forces were winning the battle quite soundly on every flank.

It was a confusion that was only likely to compound when it eventually became apparent that no Saddle Arabian bugle had sounded their call to ‘Retreat’—no ‘bugle’ at all, in fact.

Qasam pushed the purely martial concern that he felt over the ability for unicorns to use their magic to create ethereal bugle sounds which could sow confusion in the ranks of an enemy army out of his mind, and instead focused on simply being grateful that they’d had such an ability. The designated buglers of Equestria’s own forces had very quickly picked up on Qasam’s instruction of the sequence and timing of notes that would put his army in motion back across the river. Then some unicorns with the knowledge of the requisite spells had been found. Within minutes, the Saddle Arabian side of the battle had filled with the sound of their version of the ‘Retreat’ command ringing out over the field; and the horses of his army had responded as they’d been trained to.

The brief lull created by the confusion of the ‘false’ bugling wouldn’t have lasted forever under normal circumstances. However, it had lasted long enough for Qasam to get word to his armies, establish his identity—and that he was not being coerced—and explain that the order to launch the attack had been made in error.

It had saddened Qasam to hear how many of his subordinates hadn’t cared; and how many of them were—even now—insisting that it didn’t matter if the initial order to attack the ponies hadn’t been truly justified. They’d seen the results: hundreds of ponies lay dead on the riverbank—twice as many more too badly injured to fight on—leaving their force dramatically weakened. A second charge by the Saddle Arabians would doubtlessly shatter the Equestrians and leave the route open for their army to press deeper into pony lands, largely unopposed.

His officers were right, of course. Achieving victory here would be a trifle. In terms of relative losses anyway. With their magic and their flying cadre of pegasi, Qasam judged at a glance that the ponies had given better than they’d gotten on a mare-for-mare basis; achieving a nearly two-to-one exchange in casualties. However, even if the ponies could maintain those numbers, it would still leave more than enough of the Saddle Arabian force left intact to press further into Equestria’s rear areas.

The ponies couldn’t win this fight.

Movement caught his attention from off to his right. He turned to see armored equines—ponies and horses both—slowly picking their way through the bodies of the fallen, searching for signs of life. Some of the ponies wore bands of cloth with red hearts, while their horse counterparts wore white four-pointed stars—symbols of their respective medical corps. Others were clearly simply injured stragglers who were taking advantage of the lull in the fighting to locate comrades before making their way back to their respective lines.

One sturdy purple mare in particular caught Qasam’s attention, if only because she was large enough that he’d initially thought she was an Arabian. Her once brilliant blue barding was dented and battered, its formerly vibrant hues muted by mud and blood. She wasn’t wearing her helmet anymore—whether it had been knocked off during the fighting or discarded later it was hard to guess.

She was slumped on the red-stained sand of the riverbank, another pony cradled in her hooves who was of a much smaller frame compared to the larger mare. From the dark stains of tears running down her muzzle, an observer could have been forgiven for assuming that the purple pony was cradling her dead filly.

A horrendous gash had been opened up on the left side of the smaller mare’s ashen brown neck.

Grieving orange eyes glistening with tears noted Qasam’s passing and looked up at him. The old horse was grateful for the presence of the medical pony at his side, because he recognized that there was a distinct possibility that the intensity of the purple mare’s hatred for him might cause his heart to stop again. There was a desire for death in those hurting eyes. His and probably every other Saddle Arabian by that river.

She didn’t act on that desire for now though. It would have meant letting go of her friend’s body. Qasam doubted that was something she could do at the moment.

With the benefit of time—time to grieve and time to let reason prevail over emotion—those flames of hate would die down. Hopefully. Someday. But it wasn’t going to be the case today.

If Qasam gave in to his more obstinate officers and allowed the battle to resume, he predicted that nopony would survive the day. Because there would be no surrender. They would instead fight unto their last breaths to avenge their comrades.

And when news of the battle’s outcome—of so few Equestrian survivors—reached Canterlot…

We can’t win.

Qasam turned away from the purple mare and resumed his slow walk past the bodies so that she wouldn't hear his derisive snort or see the roll of his eyes and think any of it was directed at her.

We can’t be allowed to win, the old horse mentally corrected himself. Militarily, achieving a victory here would be trivial. But the effect that such a result would have in the fullness of time…

It wouldn’t be a ‘war’. It would become a crusade. One that would only end with the near total extermination of one of their races as one atrocity was answered with another, escalating to its inevitable conclusion.

Rico must have known that too.

The miralay winced now, his gaze reflexively moving towards the river, and the little sandbar that lay in the middle. His eyes locked onto the bodies strewn around it, horse and pony alike. Even from this distance, he could spot the faded blue coat of a more slightly-built equine among the bodies. The medical ponies and horses of both sides had been prioritizing their efforts with recovering the wounded for treatment. Little thought had been given to retrieving the dead at this point; not when each side knew that hostilities could resume at any moment.

He heard the unicorn medic protests as he stepped into the river but he ignored her. The water no longer ran red, though Qasam knew that it almost certainly had not all that long ago. A few grisley wisps of crimson could be seen seeping out of some of the bodies he stepped past as the water wicked away the last of the blood from their open wounds. Those threads of dark crimson dissolved from view after just a couple of feet though, even in the slow moving current.

There was a soft gasp when the two of them finally reached the sandbar. A moment later, the unicorn charged ahead of him, the pony having finally recognized her general’s body among the rest of the dead. It was patently obvious that nothing could be done for her. Qasam didn’t know much about medicine; but he did know about death. He knew that bodies as badly gored as Brigadier General Reconnointer’s—those which had been subsequently pulverized as a legion of armored horses trampled over them—were in no fit state to be saved.

Qasam was ashamed that he didn’t have the stomach to look at what remained of the old mare’s face after it had been savaged by the passage of so many shod hooves.

“I must like you, miralay…”

She’d had a pretty smile. He wanted to remember her like that; and so he couldn’t bring himself to look at her now, lest he only ever be able to conjure up images of the pulverized bloody mess that her muzzle had become on that sandbar.

In seeking anywhere else for his eyes to look, Qasam soon found them resting upon another familiar face. A fresh wave of grief racked the old horse’s body as he spotted a young Arabian adorned with the bronze halter of a lieutenant. The broken shaft of an Equestrian lance protruded from his chest. His barding showed dents where other horses had charged over him after he’d fallen.

The tip of his own lance was stained with blood.

“Oh, Chiaus…” Qasam breathed out in a bitter sigh. He’d been unconscious when the order for the Saddle Arabian army to charge had been given, so there wasn’t any way that he could know with certainty who it was that had issued the order to attack. But, if he’d been asked to guess at where the command had come from…

His ear twitched at the sound of approaching hooves from the far side of the river. He turned to see one of his captains cantering towards him, along with a small squadron of armored horses as an escort. The unicorn medic nearby jerked and wheeled around, her horn reflexively igniting as she faced the oncoming Arabian force with a spell at the ready. Spotting the magical aura, some of the horses couched their lances.

Qasam could hear renewed shouting starting to pick up volume from behind him as the rest of the ponies took note of the advancing Saddle Arabians. Fear seized his heart as flashes of a renewed battle galloped through his mind.

The old horse interposed himself between the unicorn and the Arabian party, his eyes locked on the latter. “Halt! Do not advance into the river!” He ordered his soldiers, hoping desperately that they were truly still his soldiers. If his authority to command had been fully usurped during the fighting…

The advancing horses slowed, stopping just shy of the water. Barely.

Qasam let out a relieved breath he hadn’t been aware that he’d been holding. Without taking his eyes off the Arabians, he said at a much lower volume to the unicorn mare, “put away your magic. Go and calm your ponies. Blood runs too hot—on both sides. We cannot let our soldiers get too close to each other. Not yet.

“Please,” he was not quite begging, but it was a near thing, “help me avert further tragedy.”

The mare doused her magic…but she hesitated to move. Her eyes lingered on the mangled remains of her slain commander.

“They will not touch her,” Qasam vowed. Thankfully, his promise proved to be enough for the pony medic and she finally fell back to the remains of the Equestrian force. He wasn’t sure what authority the mare’s words would carry—or, rather, the words she was carrying on his behalf. Especially when they were likely to be paired with the news of the confirmed death of their general, who’d been slain while presumably engaged in ‘peaceful negotiations’ with his army.

‘Treachery’ like that was not something that would be easily forgiven, Qasam knew.

Meanwhile, the old miralay approached his own soldiers, hoping that he would be able to get them to hold off from renewing hostilities as well. Even with the benefit of rank, his task was likely to be as insurmountable as the unicorn’s, as it would be patently obvious to his subordinates how trivial it would be to sweep the remaining ponies aside with another charge. Tactically, there was no good reason not to attack the savaged Equestrians. Convincing his captains to quit a battle that even the most bumbling of foals could win would not be an easy matter.

Indeed, the old stallion felt what there was of his optimism sink even further when he caught sight of which of his captains had come to the river. The same saffron red mare who’d been the most displeased with their orders from the outset: Jezza. Her disappointment that their orders did not include a directive to raze every pony settlement from the border to Canterlot had been far from subtle at Fort Martingale, and bypassing defenseless hamlets during the long march here hadn’t exactly done anything to temper her disposition since.

If there was any shade to be had in this sandstorm, it was that, if Qasam could convince Jezza to back down, then the rest of his more obstinate captains would fall in line as well.

“Binbashi Jezza,” the old horse called out once he was near enough.

Golden eyes regarded him impassively, though the mare did incline her head in deference—the bare minimum that would be tolerated by protocol, Qasam noted with an inward frown. “Miralay.

“I was informed that you were slain by those vile ponies in a dishonorable act of betrayal during the parle.” There was no missing her narrowed gaze at the retreating unicorn.

“Then you were misinformed, binbashi” Qasam replied evenly. “I took ill,” the old horse admitted. “The ponies saved my life.” He allowed himself a moment to visibly scan the battlefield—and especially the bodies—that lay behind him. When he looked back at his subordinate again, it was with a baleful glare of his own. “Am I to understand that this is the ‘honorable’ way to repay those who render aid to another?

“Were my orders unclear, binbashi?” Qasam was growling now and was rewarded with being able to see the ears on the saffron mare pin back in surprise at the reaction she’d received from her superior.

Chiaus was young and his blood was quick to boil. He had had the temperament of a foal, for he had more or less been one. That the young horse had jumped to conclusions and given a poorly thought-out order in the heat of the moment was unfortunate, but not wholly surprising.

On the other hoof, Jezza and the rest of his militia’s divisional leaders were far older, with—presumably—more intelligence and restraint. Unfortunately, for all concerned, this assumption of rationality on Qasam’s part appeared to have been made in error.

He was determined to correct it now. “When I told you that our orders from the sultan were to not provoke a war with the ponies…which of those words escaped your comprehension?”

“We thought that—!” Jezza began to protest, but Qasam was in no mood to entertain excuses for this folly.

“I thought that I’d placed competent officers in command of my army!” He shot back with a snarl, silencing her once more. The other horses that made up her escort were shifting uncomfortably on their hooves at the outward display of hostility from the usually quite calm and reserved miralay. “So I guess we were all wrong,” he added with a sneer.

He let out a frustrated snort and started walking past her, heading for the rest of his waiting army. “Follow me, binbashi,” he said in a tone that was less full of vitriol. As much as Qasam wanted to place all of the blame at her hooves, and those of his other section leaders, at the end of the day he was the one in charge of this army. If his subordinates would not follow his orders, or their intent, that was more of a reflection on his leadership than it was their temperament.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t known their views on their sultan’s desire to show restraint that they felt wasn’t warranted. They’d voiced their displeasure nearly at the outset. He could have removed them then—placed horses in command who would show restraint. There would have been grumbling—upset and affronted officers—but they would have ultimately accepted his decision—because deciding who would lead his horses was ultimately his decision to make.

He could have replaced them.

He hadn’t.

He’d valued experience over temperament. And five minutes ago he’d walked through the consequences of that choice.

His army. His officers. His responsibility.

His duty to make it right. If it even could be made right…

“You will gather my other commanders,” Qasam instructed the saffron mare. “You will tell them to select competent replacements from among their seconds. Those replacements will lead their sections back home. They will cross back into Saddle Arabia and return to their garrisons.

“The rest of us will cross the river, where we will surrender ourselves into the custody of the ponies as their prisoners—”

Qasam paused as he became aware that he was no longer being followed. He turned his head to find Jezza snarling at him. Her lance was couched. As were the lances of her escorts. The old stallion narrowed his eyes at the other horses, noting that most appeared to be more confused than anything else. They’d seen their immediate superior act, and so they’d followed her lead; even if they didn’t fully understand what was going on. They trusted their binbashi, and so they would do as she did.

Because that was how they’d been told it must be.

Make no reply. Question not the reason why. Your duty is but to do and die.

An excerpt from an ancient ballad lambasting a great military folly, bastardized into the ideal of a ‘good’ soldier’s conduct.

Qasam turned around fully now, facing the crescent of armed horses arrayed against him. His attention locked squarely on Jezza. “...You are in enough trouble already, binbashi, without adding mutiny to your list of woes.” He glanced at the other horses. “Stow your lances. Now.”

“You are bewitched!” The saffron mare spat. “Or replaced! A pony mage wearing an illusion! Why would we surrender when we have the upper hoof?!” She challenged. “This is a pony trick; the second part of their scheme after they faked the call to ‘Retreat’!”

Qasam took a breath and let out a longsuffering sigh, shaking his head. “Is that really what you think, Jezza?” He ignored the still-lowered lances of the other horses and slowly approached the mare, maintaining his gaze upon her. “You think me ensorceled? A pony puppet?” Another annoyed snort that could have been mistaken for a mocking laugh, if only for the absurdity of it all.

“And how would you have me prove otherwise? How do I show that my mind is my own to your satisfaction?” He knew the mare did not have a response for him and so he did not wait for her to give one.

“I told all of you, time and again, that the sultan did not want a war with the ponies,” Qasam’s tone was calm and even once more as he spoke plainly to his wayward commander. “What exactly do you think will happen, when word reaches Canterlot that a Saddle Arabian army, marching through Equestria, attacked and killed two thousand of their soldiers?”

“They attacked a defenseless town—!” The mare finally found her words again, unleashing them in a snarl that Qasam was in no mood to entertain.

“‘They’ who?” He snapped, jabbing a hoof in the direction of the river. “Those ponies specifically? They attacked Gallopoli? You recognized them on sight, did you, binbashi? You were there?” His tone was mocking now, the saffron mare’s ears pinning back again beneath the scolding of her elder. His eyes scanned the faces of the other horses. “Were any of you?”

“The dead deserve justice,” Jezza tried once more with a growl.

“And to you ‘justice’ means killing the next member of the guilty party’s species that you see?” Qasam scoffed dismissively. “That is not ‘justice’,” he snapped back at the mare. “It is barbarism. It is bloodlust and nothing more.

“You have violated the orders given to us by our sultan—both the letter and the intent,” he said after taking a moment to rein in his own mounting frustrations once again. “If you think that there won’t be a reckoning when we return to Istanbull for doing so, then you are doubly a fool, Jezza.”

Qasam’s eyes flickered back to the rest of the horses with their still-couched lances that were leveled towards him. His gaze hardened once more. “Either run me through or stow your lances. Those are the only ways any of you will avoid a noose.”

Several of the armored horses balked at that. A few even took a half step back at the threat, sharing furtive looks with one another as they wordlessly conferred with their fellows regarding how much faith they had in the claims of their immediate commander regarding the integrity of the miralay’s faculties. There was enough time where nothing happened that Qasam wondered if perhaps they would choose to take the side of the binbashi.

Then one of the horses used their hind hoof to leverage the haft of his lance back into its vertical ‘stowed’ position. A few seconds later, another followed suit. Then a third. Eventually, only the saffron officer was left with her lance leveled at the miralay.

Qasam turned his full attention to her once more. He could see the conflict behind her eyes. She knew that she no longer had the support of the horses that she had brought with her. If she continued to remain defiant to her superior’s will, it would ultimately end poorly for her. On the other hoof, the idea of surrendering to an objectively inferior force…the foul bitterness of such a blow to her pride—her honor as a soldier in the sultan’s militias—might be more than she was willing to swallow.

She might well choose death, the old stallion recognized with a deep sadness. Preferring to die as a martyr to her principles than to live with what she saw as a great personal shame. He hoped she did not. Because if she did remain openly defiant, even with the threat of an execution for mutiny hanging over her head…there was every possibility that some of his other section commanders would choose to stand by her side. And if enough of them did so, then maybe some others who had been merely thinking about it would be more inclined to act on those thoughts, knowing they would have support.

The yaks had an expression: ‘weak pebbles gather strong rocks.’

It had taken Qasam some time to understand the meaning behind the axiom; but when he finally had, the old horse acknowledged the truth to it. Essentially, it meant that, under the right conditions, a single tiny pebble rolling down a mountain had the potential to dislodge larger and larger rocks until it created a full on rockslide or avalanche.

If Jezza resisted, and others followed her example…

The last remaining lance finally rose up and locked into its carrier.

Qasam very pointedly did not let out a relieved sigh—though he certainly felt the tightness in his gut finally relax. Instead, he merely issued an acknowledging nod and turned back in the direction of the bulk of his army and resumed heading that way. “Come, there is much we need to accomplish…”

*** The Present ***

“—Then the Saddle Arabian force withdrew, Your Majesties,” the pegasus messenger said, concluding his account to go along with the scroll that he’d delivered. “Their commander, Miralay Qasam, and several other officers are being held as…um,” the stallion hesitated now as he fumbled for the proper terminology to fit the situation. “I mean, they’re not technically ‘prisoners of war’—I don’t think…?” His eyes searched the faces of the diarchs, seeking confirmation regarding the diplomatic status of the major nations of ponies and horses.

“Equestria and Saddle Arabia are most certainly not at war, my little pony,” Princess Celestia confirmed with a definitive nod of her head. Neither alicorn noticed the thinly-veiled grimace on the muzzle of their Minister of Foreign Affairs.

The courier nodded, relief plain on his face. “Then they’re just being ‘held’, Your Majesties.” Upon seeing the exchange of concerned looks by the sibling diarchs, the pegasus hastily added, “They’re not in restraints or anything! But they are under guard until Colonel Dandy receives instructions on how to proceed…” The messenger’s words trailed off on a tentatively expectant note. It was clear that the colonel—through the courier—was hoping that his Co-Commanders in Chief would send him instructions on how to navigate these diplomatically treacherous waters.

Once more the alicorns shared a look, along with a brief hushed conversation. When they finally reached a consensus on how to proceed, they returned their attention first to the courier. “Arrange for the Saddle Arabian officers to be transported to Canterlot,” Celestia said. “Afford them all the courtesies that would be extended to any foreign envoys; for that is how they will be treated for now.”

Luna’s attention, meanwhile, locked onto Earl Bitter Creek. “Minister.” Alabaster felt himself go rigid beneath the hard look from the Princess of the Night. He tried not to—visibly—swallow as his mind swirled with a plethora of ways in which events could play out badly in his future. “You will reach out to the Saddle Arabian Embassy in the morning. You will deliver a copy of Colonel Dandy’s report,” the message from the pegasus courier bobbed in the glow of the alicorn’s magic.

“You will make it clear that, while Equestria will not choose to regard this tragic misunderstanding as a true ‘act of war’, there will be discussions held on the nature of the restitutions to be made.”

Earl Bitter Creek bowed his head towards the pair of alicorns, if only to hide the look of concern that was becoming increasingly difficult to keep from becoming evident upon his face. His plans for Equestria’s future were wholly untenable, there was no denying that any longer. The Arabians would soon be learning about the truth of who was behind their destruction of Gallopoli—Alabaster was sorely tempted to tip the horses off that it was Hawkwood’s Ivory Company specifically that had been behind the deed, if only so that its hippogriff commander suffered the full consequences for his incompetence—and no longer hold Equestria responsible. And while the battle which the earl had tried to engineer had occurred—if only for a brief moment, it sounded like—it had not resulted in the egregious wholesale slaughter needed to blind ponies with their rage.

The war wasn’t going to happen. So the earl instead turned his thoughts towards damage control.

There were documents which needed to be destroyed. Documents which needed to be created. Bribes which needed to be paid and patsies framed for their part in the scheme. Alabaster had everything planned out that would need to be done in order to insulate him from culpability, but not everything was in place quite yet. He’d expected to have more time, and so had been making those preparations accordingly.

There was much that needed to be done, and quickly!

Equestria’s minister of Foreign Affairs accepted the courier’s message from Princess Luna. He straightened up, hesitating briefly as he looked between the scroll and The Speaker. The ivory unicorn cleared his throat as he finally turned his full attention towards the latter. “Lord Speaker, in light of these…unexpected revelations, I would like to withdraw my motion before the Stable.” He managed a sufficiently apologetic smile at the end.

The old lilac stallion offered a breathless chuckle. “I had very much hoped you might,” he intoned before slamming his hoof down on the stone and loudly declaring, “Presuming that there are no others who wish to take up the motion presently before the Noble Stable?” He prompted, casting his gaze across the ponies in attendance. None raised their hooves. He nodded. “Then the motion before the Noble Stable is withdrawn.”

The Speaker then peered down at the podium before him, his lips curling up in a wry smirk before he once more spoke to the assembled nobleponies. “May I presume that the associated measures on the docket relating to the matter of Saddle Arabia this body wished to raise are also withdrawn?” His gaze landed on several other high ranking members of the Stable in succession, each of them offering a nod or a ‘withdrawn’ in response.

Once the lilac unicorn had run through the list of ponies who’d previously indicated they wanted to place business before the Noble Stable, he then turned his attention to the diarchy and offered the sisters a lightly sardonic smile. “My apologies, Your Highnesses, for asking you to block off so much of your time this evening, but it seems that this session had concluded considerably more suddenly than I believe any of us might have predicted.

“Unless either of Your Majesties have any business you’d like to place before Your Noble Stable before I adjourn Your ponies?” He inquired.

The alicorns exchanged looks. Then Celestia shook her head. “No, Lord Speaker; I don’t believe that Princess Luna and myself will require Our Noble Stable’s help at this time. You may dismiss Our ponies.” Her gaze then flicked unexpectedly towards the dappled stallion and his Arabian companion. “Baron Cravat? Mesmet, was it?

“Do Us the favor of joining Princess Luna and I in the Selenian Parlor. I feel we will have much to discuss. Both tonight, and in the coming days.”

Cravat bent his forelegs and bowed low to the tiled floor. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Equestria’s co-sovereigns stood up from their thrones and the rest of the gathered nobility bowed their heads while the alicorn’s made their exit from the Noble Stable After they’d departed, and the nobility were upright once more, The Speaker cleared his throat. “Ladies and Lords, this session of the Noble Stable is concluded.” Two final stomps of the bronze horseshoe on the granite slab appeared to release the assembled ponies into jabbering cliques as everypony tried to work out among themselves what in Equestria had just happened and—much more importantly—how to use this change of events to strengthen their political blocs.

Earl Bitter Creek sequestered the message scroll he’d been given and began to make his leave. He’d gotten only three steps before something grabbed his foreleg and stopped him in his tracks. The ivory unicorn’s first instinct was to try to pull away—which he was finding difficult to do—as he turned upon the source of the obstruction. “What is the meaning—?!”

The protest died in this throat as he gazed into a pair of hard amethyst eyes glaring into him from the dappled baron. “I know what you did.” His words were quiet—too softly spoken to be heard over the din of the chatting nobility—and his expression didn’t match his tone. The stallion was wearing a sickly sweet smile beneath his baleful stare. To a casual observer, they might well be old friends simply catching up.

Alabaster couldn’t help but swallow after he managed to recover enough from the surprise of being accosted like this. “I-I don’t—”

“Those were my friends you killed, Earl Bitter Creek,” the stallion cut him off. “Good ponies—loyal ponies. They didn’t deserve what you did to them.”

“And what exactly is it you think I did, Baron Cravat?” The ivory stallion said, finally having rediscovered his own bearing and resolve. There wasn’t anything that could directly link him to the Ivory Company’s activities. He’d made sure of that before he even started this whole affair. “If your own account of the events of Gallopoli are accurate, then it was mercenaries who attacked your comrades—griffons and hippogriffs, you said—not me.

“If you had any evidence that would prove otherwise, you would have presented it.” Alabaster reasoned. “You certainly wouldn’t be accosting your betters.

“Baron.”

Earl Bitter Creek did not appreciate that his attempt to cow the lower-ranked noble had apparently elicited the opposite response. The dappled pony’s smile started to look more genuine.

“You don’t scare me, Al,” the younger stallion snorted dryly. The ivory unicorn, on the other hoof, immediately bristled at the use of a familiar nickname by a pony of lower station he’d only met ten minutes ago. “You think I give a parasptrite’s ass about my political reputation?” Another derisive snort. “Go ahead, try and burn me with the other pricks on those benches.

“It’ll be your word against Duchess Golden Hour’s.”

Alabaster was grateful that his coat was already white in color. It hid the paling of his features at the reminder that he was speaking with the son of one of the Stable’s more powerful nobles—with equally powerful friends—and his own better.

“But you’re right,” The earth pony finally relented with a resigned breath. He released his hold on the unicorn. “I can’t prove you were behind it. I’ll probably never be able to,” he admitted. However, before the earl could muster a satisfied smirk, Cravat’s smoldering glare returned. “But I know. And that’s enough.

“Because even if nopony else in the Noble Stable believes me—even if the princesses don’t believe me—” Alabaster resisted swallowing down the lump of nervousness that was building in his throat as he recalled that the baron would shortly be on his way to speak with the alicorn sisters in more detail about the events leading up to and following the destruction of Gallopoli. “—my mother will believe me,” the dappled stallion affirmed.

“She’ll believe me when I tell her that you were behind all of this,” Cravat continued in an even, though still quite hard, tone. “That you tried to get me—her only foal—killed.

“Then she’ll use all of her connections, all of her allies, to cut you off at the fetlocks,” Cravat hissed. “You’ll be a burned stallion. No allies, no friends, no support. You’ll lose your ministry post before the year’s out; don’t you doubt it.

“My House will make it their personal mission, for however many generations it takes, to burn yours to the ground.”

Cravat sneered at the unicorn. “So I hope it was all worth whatever petty political clout you were trying to build up with this whole affair—”

The earl was finally spurred to speak and, much to the mild surprise of the earth pony, it was with no small amount of affront. “You think this was about me?” The ivory unicorn sneered at the perceived insult.

“Let me correct the record on this point now, Baron Cravat: I have only ever—and still now—served the needs of Equestria,” Alabaster insisted, his ire at the earlier insinuation of selfishness on his part helping the stallion to hold in place his own glare at the other noble. “A war with Saddle Arabia—however costly and tragic though the circumstances around it might have been—would have ultimately benefited our nation.

“Resources, room for expansion that the realm will desperately need in the coming generations, major ports to facilitate trade with nations across the western seas,” the earl ticked off each point with a tap of his hoof on the marble tile. “All of it could have been ours—not ‘mine’, ours; Equestria’s—at hardly any real cost at all,” he scoffed with a dismissive snort. “What are a few dead soldiers or civilians when compared to the secured future of the whole realm?”

Cravat stared at the unicorn, his face a mask of equal parts shock and disgust. “...Sweet Celestia…you really think that, don’t you?”

“I know it,” Alabaster corrected immediately. “So, go ahead, Baron Cravat; ‘burn’ my House. Squander your family's time and resources ‘for generations’ to sate your own petty revenge,” he scoffed with a snort. “Let your personal ambitions get in the way of your duties to Equestria as a benched noble.

“It’ll merely prove which of us was actually the better pony all along.

“Good evening, Baron Cravat; my regards to the duchess until I see the both of you again.” With that, the ivory unicorn turned and walked towards the exit of the stable, leaving behind him a dappled pony who still wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed not to buck the earl in his smug face.

“Mister Cravat?”

The sound of Mesmet’s concerned voice was enough to bring the earth pony out of his fantasies about breaking all of Earl Bitter Creek’s teeth and return him to the present. The Noble Stable was considerably more empty now as ponies moved on to carry out their discussions on their planned future political machinations out of earshot of their intended targets for said machinations.

Cravat took a breath to try and relax the tension that had built in his neck and withers. It was less effective than the stallion would have liked. “I’m fine, Mesmet,” he lied. There was too much on his mind right now for the stallion to be ‘fine’, and most of it had nothing to do with Bitter Creek. His part in the plan had ‘succeeded’ in that he’d gotten to the Noble Stable and stopped the earl from carrying out the next part of his scheme and getting even more horses in ponies killed.

However, the dappled stallion didn’t know what had become of the others. Given the near-manic state of the city’s guard force, it was clear that Top and the commander had managed to cause them no end of trouble, but Cravat didn’t know if they were still alright. Similarly, he didn’t know where the members of the second ‘team’ were or how they’d fared either. There was every possibility that they were hurt—badly—or even dead. Sure, maybe they were all just fine, but the point was that he didn’t know—!

“Mister Cravat—!”

The words were barely out of the young colt’s mouth before a pony veritably collided with the stallion. He stiffened immediately, his mind swirling with half-recollected lessons from Flashover about how to throw and pin an opponent. He was about to do just that when he noticed that the pony holding him was convulsing. His thoughts abruptly changed tracks to his medical knowledge—which came far more readily than his cavalry combatives training—as he tried to diagnose the likely health conditions at play.

It was probably a full five seconds before Cravat noticed the familiar yellow hue of the pony’s coat beneath the elegant formal dress she wore. His nostrils filled with the scent of soaps and perfumes that he’d been smelling since he was old enough to be aware that ‘smelling’ was even a thing. The mane was grayer than he remembered, but it was tied back in the same formal bun he’d often seen it being worn in.

He heard the sniffle and that was when he realized that this mare wasn’t ‘convulsing’.

His mother was crying.

He fell back onto his haunches and gathered the mare in his forelegs. His head lay against hers and, somehow, despite all of the time that had passed and the difference in size that existed now, the embrace felt the same today as it had felt during his foalhood.

“...I thought you were dead,” his mother managed to finally get out, giving the young stallion an extra firm squeeze as though she were reassuring herself that, yes, she was indeed actually holding her colt. That it wasn’t all just some sort of illusion. “When I heard that that Corsair mare had attacked a town…”

The chiffon yellow duchess pulled back slightly now so that she could look her son in the face. Teary violet eyes that were mirrors of his own stared up at Cravat. And in them, he saw fear the likes of which he’d never imagined this mare capable of expressing. His mother wasn’t afraid of anything. “I was convinced that you were dead.

“What they said those soldiers did, I knew you wouldn’t have stood by and just let it happen. I knew that you would have protected those horses. That the only way anycreature would be allowed to harm an innocent in the presence of my son, was over his dead body.” The certainty in her words was irrefutable. There was even a measure of pride present as she spoke them.

Then the mare was holding him again, her forelimbs wrapped tight enough around his barrel that Cravat briefly doubted that she’d ever let him go again. Another sniffle. “I’m sorry I drove you away…”

Cravat’s throat grew tight enough that he had to swallow several times before he was able to speak. “You just wanted what was best for me.” That was something he could acknowledge now, with the benefit of distance and time to reflect. There were many ways in which he could see his actions back then being viewed as ‘petulant’ or ‘foalish’; where he’d seen ‘independence’ and ‘self-determination’. Even with the benefit of hindsight, Cravat believed that he’d have made the same decision all over again.

He might have been more graceful about it though.

“I’m sorry for the things I said in my letter.”

“We’re doctors,” Golden Hour said, a slight smile audible in her voice. “We don’t like being told what to do when we’re sure that we know better than the pony doing the telling.” She even managed a soft chuckle, which the dappled stallion echoed.

“...I’m sorry too.” There was a longer pause from the mare. Then, “I’ll talk with Pro Temp,” she said, using the proper name for the Noble Stable’s Lord Speaker. “I’m sure he’ll be willing to discharge you from the Stable without needing to make a huge fuss, given the circumstances of your benching—”

“No.”

The mare pulled back again and regarded her son with no small amount of surprise in her still quite moist eyes. There was even the briefest flicker of doubt on her face as she seemed to entertain the notion that the stallion she was clinging to wasn’t actually her foal. “What? But I thought you—”

“The last week has shown me what can happen if the wrong pony is put in charge of one of Equestria’s ministries,” Cravat said with a mildly rueful note, and the briefest of hardened glares in the direction of the doors that Earl Bitter Creek had left through. “I’d hate to think what would happen if that happened to the Ministry of Public Health.

“I can’t promise I’ll be the best minister it’s ever had,” he added by way of warning. “But I’ll make sure that it actually serves the best interests of the ponies of Equestria. Better me than some conceited sycophant.” It took a lot for Cravat not to glance at the few remaining nobles in the chamber as he said the last part. They weren’t all bad ponies.

Most of them were pricks though.

Cravat embraced his mother one more time, nuzzling the side of her head briefly. “We’ll talk later, Mother. I’ve probably kept Their Majesties waiting long enough as it is.”

“Probably,” the duchess acknowledged with a sad smile before placing a peck on her colt’s cheek. “Go get this whole mess cleared up and then come right home. I’ll have Vinaigrette make you something special for dinner.”

“Okay.” Cravat spared a glance towards Mesmet, who was presently nibbling on his lip and doing a poor job of hiding his own tears. It was in that moment that the dappled stallion recalled the young Saddle Arabian hadn’t lost his own parent all that long ago, and was likely experiencing the reopening of the fresh wound.

His gaze darted between the colt and the rear entrance to the Stable that the princesses had left through. Ultimately, he decided that he would be a doctor first, and a noble second—a fair mindset, he felt, if he was going to someday ascend to Public Health. Which meant that he was going to prioritize the needs of his patient over the desires of Their Majesties—and risk the consequences if this proved to be the wrong choice.

“Mother, this is Mesmet,” Cravat said, stepping aside slightly as he made the introduction. “His father died in Gallopoli defending its citizens.”

Duchess Golden Hour covered her gasp with a hoof before crossing the short distance to the colt and drawing him into a comforting hug. “Oh, you poor dear.”

“Their Majesties asked to speak with him, but…” He let out a sigh and shook his head. “He’s had a long day—a long week. Take him home and make him comfortable. I’ll tell the princesses he’s not feeling well. They can interview him tomorrow.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” the duchess agreed.

“Also, I’d like you to do something else for me.”

“Yes?”

“The ponies who were with me—the other Bronco Company survivors—can you make sure they're okay?” Cravat ventured. “I know you don’t have any direct authority over the Canterlot Guard or—”

“I know the right ponies to talk to,” Golden Hour assured him, still holding Mesmet. The colt appeared to be quite grateful to have the use of her shoulder. Cravat mentally filed away the need to seek out a counselor for him, if the Saddle Arabian embassy didn’t have such a horse on staff. “Just give me a list of names.”

Cravat retrieved the satchel from Mesmet, disturbing the colt as little as he could manage, and used some paper and a pencil from within to scrawl out the names of the other five ponies he was worried about. His mother took the parchment and tucked it away. The dappled stallion felt himself able to relax a little bit more. While his mother would have the direct authority to intervene on any of their behalfs, she did most certainly know which members of the Peerage could—and was almost certainly owed favors by them. He had every confidence that Corsair and the others—if they were still alive—would be well taken care of.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Duchess,” Cravat said with a slight bow of his head, “I need to go be debriefed by the princesses…”

Author's Note

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