He Who Speaks for the Sun

Chapters

Dispatched with Haste
Prince With A Thousand Enemies
State of Affairs
Political Education
Art and Culture
Ordainment
Khitab Al-Shams
Moon, Sun, and Marshmallows
Sobriquet
Kings and Successions
Soot and Sooth
The River
Grave Violence
He Shall Learn Their Ways
He Will Sacrifice His Name

Dispatched with Haste

"No nation should ever be without an Equestrian diplomat. The Diplomatic Corps are the eyes and ears of Celestia and Luna; as such, a nation without a diplomat is a dark spot. Should a diplomat be unwilling or unable to fulfill this role, they should be recalled immediately and a replacement dispatched with haste. For darkness breeds corruption that only the light of the Corps can expunge!" —The Precocious Princeling's Guide to Diplomatic Relations

Chapter 1: Dispatched with Haste

Solar Court meetings were always a dreadful affair. The old council chamber was beautiful, no doubt—marble floors, high ceilings, and an entire wall of stained glass windows—but there was no mistaking the fact that it was old. The room was always too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter, and the glare from the windows made everypony squint as slashes of red, yellow, and orange shifted across their eyes. That particular morning, the chamber was hot, stuffy, and steaming with tantalizing breakfast scents from the kitchen below that they were being kept from. It all would be easy to ignore if the company was good.

Unfortunately for Prince Blueblood, he hated everypony in the room.

The Court met at the crack of dawn, and the prince was anything but a morning person. He yawned and cupped his cheek in his hoof as he leaned forward in his chair. A glance around the table showed he wasn’t the only one who would have preferred to be in bed. The Minister of Agriculture, Petalbreeze, had her straw hat over her face as she leaned back in her chair. Still, she was doing better than the Minister of Education, Glitter Glow, who was face down on the table snoring loudly.

“There’s one final piece of business to address before this meeting is over.” Lord Hardscrabble, the wizened and greying earthpony, croaked out the words as he tapped his hooves on the table. Everypony who wasn’t fast asleep audibly groaned at the idea of spending more time stuck in the stuffy chamber, to which Hardscrabble rolled his rheumy eyes. “You haven’t even heard what it is yet!”

“Really, Councilman,” Blueblood shifted uncomfortably and tugged at his collar. Celestia’s mane, was he sweating already? “If this doesn’t concern Foreign Affairs, then I’ll just see myself out.” He rose with a practiced huff of indifference and kicked his chair back into place. “Not that this hasn’t been a deeply enlightening session, but if I stay any longer, my mane will wilt. And believe me, I certainly don’t want to bill the council for my stylist! Cutthroat doesn’t even begin to describe her!”

“Actually, it does concern Foreign Affairs.” Hardscrabble exhaled and rubbed his temples. “So, if you would please sit down.”

Huffing, Blueblood sank back into the chair. “Go on then, let’s get this over with.”

“Her Royal Highness Princess Celestia has requested that we replace our current ambassador to Saddle Arabia.” The earthpony brushed a lock of his black mane out of his eyes and adjusted his spectacles. “She’s noted that there’s been a lack of reports coming from—” He frowned and squinted at the page. “What was his name again?”

“His Sarabic name or his Equestrian one?” Blueblood arched an eyebrow.

“Equestrian, please.”

“‘Rough Cut’.”

“Yes, there’ve been no reports from Ambassador Cut in four months. I presume you noticed?”

Blueblood sighed and folded his forelegs across his chest. “Of course, I’ve noticed. Are you implying I can’t do my job, Minister?”

“Nothing of the sort. I’m sure you’re very busy.” Hardscrabble tapped his papers. Petalbreeze snickered from her seat, only for Blueblood to silence her with a deathly glare. “Regardless, Her Majesty has requested a change, and a change she will get.”

“I’m sure you’ve all noticed we’re extremely short on available diplomats,” Blueblood replied with a wave of his hoof. “Auntie dearest will understand-”

“She certainly has understood, my prince.” Hardscrabble’s wrinkled face held the slightest twinkle of a smile. “She’s suggested you for the role.”

Blueblood narrowed his eyes. His ears flattened against his head. “I’m sorry, Minister, I must’ve misheard you. Surely you’re not suggesting that-”

Hardscrabble slid his note across the table with a flick of his hoof. Blueblood unfurled it to see for himself. It was a mistake. An old-timer like Hardscrabble was certainly misreading. Perhaps his spectacles needed correcting or-

Celestia's deliberate, curving calligraphy stared back at him from the page.

“My dearest nephew,” His eyes drifted across the page like he was reading a death sentence. “Ambassador Rough Cut has failed to report back for some time, as you've certainly noticed. As Saddle Arabia is one of our closest allies, this post requires immediate filling. I have chosen to dispatch you, my esteemed prince, to take up the position. This is a delicate situation and requires only our brightest diplomatic minds. As High Diplomat of the Solar Court, I can think of nopony more qualified for the task! With my seal and signature below, I officially charge you as Ambassador to Saddle Arabia. I leave this manner in your more-than-capable hooves.”

Her swooping signature was below, along with an imprint of the royal seal in red wax. A demand couched in flattery was so like Celestia that it hurt. Blueblood exhaled a breath that he’d held in since the start of the letter. He swallowed hard and managed to form the words, “But why?”

Not waiting to hear the minister’s reply—Interior never had anything worthwhile to contribute anyway—Blueblood sprang from his chair and headed for the doors at a brisk clip. He needed to speak with the princess herself. Surely, her letter had been a mistake. She’d been misled, clearly. An errant advisor with some spiteful agenda must have suggested that they assign him. After all, it came at the crux of his negotiations with Zebrica. Their ambassadors were on the way, drawing closer with every hoofbeat of his that echoed through the opulent marble of Canterlot. Somepony wanted him out of the country. Somepony wanted to handle negotiations themselves. Somepony wanted the credit for the heavy lifting he had invested.

A pair of guards parted as Blueblood clip-clopped past them, looking at him with sidelong glances as he ascended a bifurcated staircase coated with ruby-red carpeting. He turned on one of the soldiers. “You, there! Where is the princess?”

“Which one, my liege?” The pegasus rumbled.

“Celestia. Princess Celestia. My Aunt.”

“Taking tea in the observatory.” The guard’s ear flicked behind his crested helmet. “She’s requested that she not be disturbed.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of disturbing her.” Blueblood smiled around his lie. “Thank you.”

Up the stairs, round the corner, and into another stairwell, narrow and spiraling. The distinct age of Canterlot was reflected around him. Fresh coats of paint had been laid atop ancient, scarred stone. Slender slanted arrow slits sliced into the wall allowed light and warmth, relics of a time when Canterlot had been Equestria’s impregnable bastion rather than an opulent capital. He rarely went to the observatory. In fact, Blueblood rarely spent time outside the diplomatic wing of the palace. The palace felt liminal to him—home, yet unfamiliar.

By the time he reached the top of the steps, he was sweating through his suit jacket. He loosened his tie and half knelt as he took deep breaths of air. The stairs plateaued in a small, empty space, shrouded with dust with a single ladder leading to a trapdoor. It looked like nopony had been there for centuries. He scrambled up the ladder and threw open the door.

The sound of smashing china and clattering flatware preceded him as he clambered up into the observatory. He brushed the dust and cobwebs from his shoulders, fixed his mane, and prepared to face Celestia.

The old guard tower had been retrofitted by the princess into a sort of quiet retreat. Plush velvet cushions lined what had once been stark stone benches. Pillars of unadorned wood were festooned with carefully cultivated ivy and aromatic clematis. A round table had been set for tea. Had previously been set, as it then was knocked to the floor, contents scattered. Celestia was seated on a soft bench, wings spread and luxuriating in the rising sunlight. Across from her was—

Oh no.

The princess Twilight Sparkle sat frozen, hoof outstretched for a teacup that was no longer there, mouth agape. Blueblood inhaled and turned his face from her.

“Princess.” His eyes landed on Celestia, who was as unperturbed as a statue. He kept his tone formal and clipped. It was a time for seriousness. “I believe you’ve made a grave error.”

“Blueblood! Nephew!” Celestia’s lips curled in a smile. His formality bounced right off her armor and melted against her cheer. “Come, have a seat! Twilight and I were just about to have some tea. It’s chamomile. Your favorite!”

Blueblood sniffed. The spilled tea smelled deliciously floral. He was tempted to sit down and have a cup, but he steeled himself.

“Hi, Blueblood!” Twilight waved as her horn glowed a glittery violet. The tea table began to right itself, the shattered cups snapped back into place, and the spilled silverware reset itself in its proper places. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here! I feel like we haven’t really gotten to know each other yet, even though we work in the same palace.”

Just looking at her made Blueblood feel incomplete. The space on his back where a set of wings ought to be ached. Phantom limbs longing for existence. So he didn’t look at her. “Auntie, I’ve just come from the council meeting. You wouldn’t believe the audacity of some ponies. I was presented with a falsified royal seal and forged signature that authorized my transfer to Saddle Arabia.”

“Oh!” Celestia’s eyes sparkled in the rising sun. Her mane shimmered like a solar flare in a nonexistent breeze. “There was no forgery there! You’re the perfect candidate for the job! Plus, you’re always itching to get out of Canterlot! Consider it a long-term vacation with a little work attached.”

Twilight rolled her eyes and sighed. She blew on her tea and took a sip, glowering at Blueblood over the rim of her cup.

“I want to leave Canterlot, Auntie, when nothing is happening here!” Blueblood prodded at the table with a manicured hoof. “Not when I’m only days away from securing a trade deal with Zebrica! A trade deal that, might I add, you yourself requested of me!”

“Oh, of course! The Zebrica deal!” Princess Celestia brushed off the pleading edge of his voice with a wave of her wing. “Don’t worry, the last leg of negotiations is in good hooves.”

“Whose?”

“Hi, Blueblood.” Twilight waved again, a knowing grin teasing her lips. The second time, he couldn’t ignore her. He wheeled on her and exhaled sharply. She slurped her tea in reply.

“But—” The prince’s voice faltered. Something choked his throat as he tried to speak. So that was her game: steal his accomplishment from him and pin it on her prize-winning student. Another medal pinned to her chest, another feather stuck in her cap. Blueblood wanted to scream. He had to bite his tongue hard enough that he tasted blood. “My dearest Aunt. While I don’t doubt your student is capable,” Student. Never Princess. “I regret to inform you that she is not a qualified diplomat. This really ought to be handled by—”

“By who, exactly, Blueblood?” Celestia cocked her head. Her voice took on a measured hardness as she went on. “Do you have qualified diplomats at the ready? If I recall correctly, you told me that you were distinctly strapped for help. But if you have somepony on call, I’d be glad to give them the assignment.”

Twilight snickered subtly through a mouthful of tea. Blueblood’s tail whipped sharply against his flank and his ears drooped. He hated when other ponies learned to play the games he was good at. What good was a diplomatic talent when your own aunt outflanked you?

“Nephew,” Celestia reached out a hoof to cup his cheek. He recoiled like he’d brushed a branding iron. A flicker of forlorn sorrow flickered through her expression quicker than a blink. “You are the best diplomat Equestria has at her disposal.”

He didn’t argue with that. Blueblood met her gaze, his sharp, gunmetal eyes level with the warmth of her own periwinkle. Her lips curled in a fragile smile.

“I’m sending you for a reason, Blueblood. You’re good at your job. Always have been. And right now, I need my absolute best in Saddle Arabia. Equestria needs its best.” She touched his hoof, giving it a loving pat.

Blueblood wanted to believe her. He truly did. He wanted to melt back into a world where his regal auntie was somepony whose word he could trust. But as his eyes left Celestia they flitted to Twilight. Twilight, who sat where he had dreamed of sitting. Twilight who, with one simple spell, had enraptured his princess. Twilight whose wings were spread wide to shield her from the heat of the sun like a feathery parasol. His spine twitched with jealous pangs.

No. Everything was political. Everything was calculated. Blinking, he averted his eyes from Celestia and abruptly cleared his throat.

“As always, my princess, I go where I am needed.” Blueblood effortlessly slipped back into his full regal register and bowed. His glare fell on Twilight as his coat bristled. “It’s clear Canterlot is not where I am wanted. I’ll return to my room to pack.”

“Oh! Let me help you!” Twilight set down her cup with a clink. “I’ll save you the trouble of taking the stairs again!”

“If you’re going to offer to fly me to my quarters, I’ll have to—” Before he could finish his rejection, Twilight’s horn flashed like a phosphorus flare. When he blinked the sparks from his vision, he found himself standing directly outside his bedroom.

“Oh, I hate her.” He muttered as he threw open the door.

*****

“And for her final trick,” Trixie narrowed her eyes as she slid a hoof across the brim of her peaked hat. “The Great and Powerful Trixie will require a volunteer. A brave and noble one! One with an indomitable spirit and a will of starforged steel!”

Trixie surveyed her crowd. Modest by her standards, but times were tough. She'd have played to pigeons if she thought they might drop a bit or two in her donation box. Most eyes were watching with dispassionate boredom—never a good sign. As she scanned the front row, however, she spied a school-age filly with a dappled blonde coat and a pretty little pink dress. Trixie smiled. Well-dressed fillies meant wealthy parents willing to splurge for their special little girl.

“You there!” Trixie thrust a hoof towards the child. “Trixie senses mighty forces at work within you! Step forward, if you dare!”

The filly glanced about to make sure she'd really been chosen and approached the stage with a nervous swallow.

“Your name, mighty one! Speak loud, so the Great and Powerful Trixie may hear you!”

“My name is Clotted Cweam!” The filly squeaked, standing at the foot of the stage. She stiffened and put on a brave smile. “Um… The Gweat and Powewful Clotted Cweam!”

“Careful, kid, that's copyrighted,” Trixie whispered as she helped Cream onto the stage with an outstretched hoof. “Clotted Cream! A noble name! Surely a pony as mighty as you has never known fear. Have you?”

Cream vigorously shook her head.

“Then steel yourself for Trixie's final act!” She removed her hat and flipped it upside down as her horn began to glow. “A surly old dragon has taken up residence within my hat, and despite Trixie's most fiendish spells, she has been unable to remove him! But now, with the help of Clotted Cream, the bravest warrior of Equestria, I shall draw him forth! Hero of Equestria, reach within and face destiny!”

Trixie's pyrotechnics display was supposed to have gone off to punctuate that. She grunted and stomped a hoof on the stage twice before the fireworks roared to life and set off streams of blue-green sparks on either side of her.

Clotted Cream looked like she was about to cry as she reached a hoof into the hat. She closed her eyes so tight that Trixie worried the kid would pop a blood vessel. The last thing she needed was somepony's medical bills on her back.

“I got it!” Cream yelped. “I- I feel the dwagon!”

“Now tug! Tug with all of your might!” Trixie reached with her magic and kicked a fog machine, shrouding the stage in greying gloom. Cream pulled something from the hat and squealed loudly. “Ah ha! You dare show your ugly snout at Trixie's show? Take this!” A flare of blue light burst behind the smog. “And this!” Two sparks of green followed the first.

That was enough theatrics for the time being. Trixie threw out another spell and dispersed the fog with a poof. Clotted Cream stood clutching a very safe plush dragon with its tongue sticking out. Sure, it wasn't exactly mind-bending magic as advertised, but the kid seemed happy enough. The applause from the audience was less than inspired. Trixie tried not to cringe at that. Hopefully, the kid's parents made up for it.

“And just like that! The dragon has been transmogrified into a safe plush toy! Truly, the Great and Powerful Trixie knows no weakness!” She bowed to modest claps. “And, of course, her generosity is boundless as well. Clotted Cream, you may keep Trixie's mortal foe, if you so please.”

The filly beamed and hugged her new stuffy, which squeaked in her forelegs as she leapt down from the stage.

“And that's the end for tonight! The Great and Powerful Trixie is spent after such feats of wizardry!” She clutched a hoof to her brow and tried to look faint. Straddling the edge of her stage, she tapped an iron lock box. “And of course, the donation box is right here! Now, away!”

Trixie billowed violet smoke from her cape as she vanished from the sight of the crowd. She stumbled over her own hooves and tripped over one of her stage lights as she ducked into the dressing room of her wagon. She peered out through a crack in the brightly painted door and watched as the crowd dispersed. One or two dropped a bit into the lockbox with a shrug. Trixie cursed silently. Backwater yokels were supposed to be easy to please. They were supposed to be wowed by a few firecrackers and card tricks! Yet now they seemed disappointed that she hadn't pulled a real, living, fire-and-scales dragon from her hat!

“Ingrates!” Trixie huffed as she slouched down into an overstuffed beanbag chair she had picked up two towns back. “Plagues! Pestilence! Fire and wrath upon their stupid town!”

She kicked her hooves and sighed, flopping back and staring up at the peaked ceiling of her wagon. Posters from Las Pegasus magic acts stared back down at her. She wondered if one of the casinos might have an opening for a fresh act. As if her act was fresh. With a pout, she discarded the thought. Trixie rolled from her seat and crossed to the “kitchen”—really just a stove and pantry set into the opposite wall—and rummaged through her options. A bottle of cheap wine, a few wilting greens, a pair of bananas that were rapidly becoming mush, and half of a cold hayburger were all that remained. Her coin purse was as dismal as the pantry. Enough to maybe afford some rice or beans at the market, if they weren't closed.

Things looked bleak, but Trixie assured herself that it was nothing she hadn't seen before. Did all great artists not suffer for their craft? The knowledge didn't fill the grumbling of her stomach. She settled on what was left of her hayburger and the remnants of her wine. Lifting the bottle to her lips, she drank first, silently toasting to better prospects in the next town.

A knock at the door nearly made her spew white wine all over her coat. Covering her mouth with her hoof, she choked it down and exhaled harshly. “The Great and Powerful Trixie needs her rest! If it's an autograph you're looking for, then perhaps she can pencil you in for a signing tomorrow! At a reasonable cost, of course!”

“Open the door, Trixie.” A familiar voice replied through the wood. She pressed her eye to the crevice that served as her peephole and took another swig of wine. When she saw the Prince of Equestria standing outside her door she nearly spat it again. “I know you're in there.”

“Trixie refuses! Absolutely not!” She yelled back, her voice dampened by the plush acoustics of her wagon. “Whatever it is, Trixie isn't interested!”

“Please, don't make me invoke my auntie.” Blueblood winced. “Just open the—”

“Not interested!”

“You haven't even heard the offer yet!”

“The last time you made an offer to Trixie, she was dragged to Manehattan for a month and forced to perform for bratty Gryphon hatchlings every other night!”

Blueblood rolled his eyes and flicked his tail sharply. “Which was in your contract, and you were paid quite well for.”

“One of those little pests grabbed a candle and set Trixie's tail on fire!”

“And I reminded you that your contract covered personal injury under section thirty-two, which stated, and I quote-” The door flew open before the prince could finish. “So you've reconsidered?”

Trixie scratched at her mane and blew through her nostrils. “Let's walk and talk, then. Trixie has dealt with you enough to know you don't take no for an answer.” She held out the wine bottle in his direction. “Care for a drink?”

“What is that?” He sniffed at the mouth of the bottle. “Ugh… Moscato? Really? And is that- Oh, Celestia and Luna both, are you drinking Appleoosan Vineyards? That stuff is gutter swill!”

“It's cheap.” Trixie took another pull. “We can't all be drinking Canterlot Reserves every night, like somepony.”

“Now, now, I hardly drink Reserve every night.” He held up his hooves defensively and smirked. “Some nights I drink imports.”

Trixie rolled her eyes. The two followed the winding curve of a dirt road—Blueblood taking great care to walk on the grass—and found a seat at a metal bench beside a marble fountain. A pair of Seaponies spit arcs of cool water that seemed to glow golden under the street lamps that were just flickering to life.

“In case you couldn't tell, Trixie is at her limit. And if you’ve left Canterlot, you must be too.”

Blueblood wiped down the metal with a handkerchief before sitting. He exhaled long and slow as he folded his hooves in his lap. “I’m very much at my limit right now. Guess I’m worse at hiding it than I thought.”

“You were never really good at hiding it.” Trixie chuckled softly as she took another pull of Moscoto. “You’re sure you don’t want some?”

“It’s tempting, but, unfortunately, I have standards.”

“Suit yourself.”

They were quiet for some time. Trixie took a deep breath of the rapidly encroaching nightfall. The summer breeze was redolent of fresh-cut grass, blooming honeysuckle, and the coppery smell of old pipes in the fountain. She stared down at the nearly empty wine bottle and rubbed her cheek.

“So, why are you here?” Trixie eyed the prince lazily.

“The project I’ve spent the past eight months devoting my every waking hour to has been pried from my hooves at the last second,” he said bitterly. “Celestia saw fit to give it to her Princess of Friendship.”

Trixie slugged another drink of wine at the mention of her name. “Trixie sympathizes with your plight.” She gestured towards her wagon with its frequently empty donation box. “It’s why the Great and Powerful Trixie has been reduced to playing provincial backwaters when she ought to be performing for Canterlot Nobility.” Her expression brightened briefly. “Have you come to offer Trixie a show? Have you scheduled her to perform at the Grand Galloping Gala or the Lunar Masquerade?”

Blueblood shook his head and she crossed her arms with a huff.

“I’ve been reassigned. Away from Canterlot and Equestria entirely, in fact.”

“Where to?”

“Saddle Arabia.” He rapped a hoof on the metal bench. “That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you’d accompany me.”

Trixie narrowed her eyes. “And what’s in it for Trixie?”

“A place to stay and free meals, for one thing.”

“As if the Great and Powerful Trixie could be bribed with the bare necessities!” She harrumphed and turned up her snout.

“Plus a thousand bits up front.” Blueblood shrugged. “If that makes a difference.”

“Up front, you say?” Trixie’s violet eyes sparkled under the glow of the gas lamps. “And Trixie presumes there will be bonuses along the way?”

“There’s a daily stipend, plus extra if you can justify the expense as work-related.”

“And, of course, there’s a payment upon her return?”

“Payment upon successful return, presuming we meet all of our diplomatic goals, is two thousand bits. Average diplomatic payment.”

“Make it three thousand up front and Trixie might consider it.” She flashed a toothy smile.

“Two thousand,” Blueblood replied without expression.

“Twenty-five hundred.”

“Five bits.”

“Oh, be serious!”

“Fine, two thousand.”

“Trixie will settle for four thousand.”

“You know I don’t need to take you right?” Blueblood cocked his head. “I have wizards lined up back in Canterlot who would do this for free if asked. Interns who need to bump up their resumes tend to be willing to do a lot of unpaid labor for a good review from royalty…”

Trixie replied with a catlike grin. “If you wanted a Canterlot-trained wizard, you wouldn’t have come to me. Besides, how could any of those pathetic mages compare with the raw arcane potency of the Great and Powerful Trixie?!”

She puffed out her chest with pride, inadvertently spilling wine on her coat.

“Twenty-five hundred bits,” Blueblood said coolly. “And I’ll treat you to dinner and drinks tonight.”

“You’d do that for Trixie?” She narrowed her eyes a bit. There had to be a catch. “Really?”

“Nopony should have to drink Appleoosan Vineyard.” He stifled a gag at the name. “Come, let’s get you some proper wine.”

“If you’re paying for the drinks, Trixie will be drinking something much stronger.”

“Cocktails then.” Blueblood rose and stretched, extending a hoof towards Trixie. “Welcome aboard.”

She shook his hoof and kicked off the bench. “A pleasure doing business.”

Her grip held firm as he tried to pull away.

“Trixie will take her upfront payment now.”

Blueblood’s magic levitated a jingling purse from within his jacket and dropped it into her outstretched hoof. Trixie shook it and raised an eyebrow. Without another word, he sighed and removed his coinpurse, and silently counted another five hundred bits.

Prince With A Thousand Enemies

"You may secure your cities all you like, Caliph, but the desert does not kneel."
—Last words of Camel Warlord Aloe Vera

Chapter 13: Prince With a Thousand Enemies

Five times.

It took Trixie five times to teleport to Sandalwood’s chamber. She hurled herself and Chicory into a storage closet, two separate bathrooms, and the palace roof before she managed to pin it down. The two mares burst into the bedroom with a flash, with Trixie’s horn pounding with feedback as she staggered to the wall and braced herself. The room felt disturbingly sterile. The bed had been made, the curtains dusted, and the rugs carefully cleaned. It felt too soon for the palace to have moved on from its ruler, yet the echoing gunshots made it clear that the world didn’t have time to mourn.

And they didn’t have time to sit around and think. Not with Cedar hanging in the balance. Trixie set her jaw and marched from the room, with Chicory close behind. She desperately wished that she’d gotten more time to plan this out, but she was going to have to improvise.

Voices down the hall. Angry, regimented voices shouting orders. Trixie grabbed Chicory by the hoof and dragged her behind a thick set of drapes. The pair held their breath as hooves thudded past, waiting until the reverberations died off before they peered out from their hiding place.

“The coast is clear,” Trixie whispered as she stepped back into the moonlit hall.

Chicory clutched the kitchen knife with her magic as she and Trixie sped off down another corridor. “Do you know where the emir’s bedchamber is?”

“I thought you’d know.” Trixie’s eyes watered at the smell of gunpowder. There was way less sulfur in the stuff she used for her shows.

“I only enter this wing of the palace when called.” Chicory frowned, glancing down a dark arcade resounding with painful groans. “Sandalwood kept me close, but not this close. I was only ever called to dust the library or clean up spills in the halls.”

“Then we better start guessing.” Trixie’s horn ignited as she threw open every unlocked door in the hallway. It would have seemed much more impressive had more than one door been unlocked. She peered inside and found a comfortable lounge that reeked of cigar smoke.

They tried knocking at a few of the locked doors, but the only replies were either silence or the muffled whimpers of grown horses. This was going to get them nowhere. Trixie tried to think, to rationalize the palace with the same eyes Blueblood had, but she couldn’t. Cursing under her breath as she pressed her ear to a door to listen for a reply, she desperately wished that he had come with them. Both because she severely missed his knowledge and because she feared for his safety. Surely Fairweather had realized the two of them were expendable by this point in his scheme. And considering Blueblood had outright rejected his advances… Trixie shook her head and tried not to dwell on it.

She needed to think about the task at hand. Pulling away from the door, Trixie looked over the hall and tried to put herself into Blueblood’s horseshoes.

“Everything is political,” Trixie muttered the prince’s refrain under her breath as she looked over the seemingly endless procession of locked doors.

Sandalwood’s politics were intertwined with his memory. His greatest fear was that his son would never take the throne after his passing. It would make sense for him to keep his only child close by, to ensure that he was safe.

Yet Sandalwood also wasn’t stupid. He would have recognized that any threat to him was a threat to Cedar, and thus couldn’t keep him too close. There had to be enough distance between them that if Sandalwood were in jeopardy, there would be time to save his son.

Trixie’s eyes turned towards the lounge once more. Tobacco and liquor were hardly appropriate for a little colt to be around. Sandalwood certainly wouldn’t have stashed his child somewhere near them. No, Cedar was an emir that so many horses had so much riding on. Only hours after his father’s death, his tutors were trying to get him to act like he was Caliph, after all. Cedar would be somewhere with easy access to knowledge, nestled within a protective ring of teachers, advisors, and courtiers.

It all clicked into place.

“Chicory,” Trixie whirled on her heel. “Can you take me to the library from here?”

“I can. It’s a floor up from us.” Chicory gestured for Trixie to follow as she turned left at the hallway’s junction. They rounded the corner, only to run straight into a pair of earthponies who had been left to defend the choke point. All parties froze for a moment, staring at each other in pure befuddlement. Then both Earthponies shouldered their guns and took aim.

Trixie was quicker on the draw. Her horn burned as she threw open her cape and billowed out thick, blinding clouds of periwinkle smoke. One of the guards shot wildly, and Trixie heard the bullet ricochet somewhere far behind her. Knife at the ready, Chicory plunged into the fog. Trixie could only vaguely discern her outline as she slid past her attacker and left him on the floor. Chicory didn’t bother stopping. Before the second soldier could react, she was already halfway down the hall and charging for a staircase. Trixie tried to follow, only for a powerful hoof to twist itself in her mane and roughly drag her back. In desperation, Trixie shot fireworks erratically behind her and the earthpony released her with a yelp. As she fled the scene, Trixie heard a muffled explosion somewhere behind her and caught a strong whiff of sulfur.

Black powder and wonton fireworks were a potent mix.

Scrambling up the staircase, Trixie rejoined Chicory and caught her breath.

“You didn’t tell me you knew how to fight.” Trixie clutched a hoof to her chest as she took deep gasps.

Chicory cleaned the knife with the same spell she used to light fire altars. “I grew up in the city slums. If you can’t defend yourself, you don’t tend to last long.”

Trixie swallowed hard and decided to drop the subject. The wide plaza at the top of the staircase was studded with balconies that opened onto the palace gardens and let in the sweet aroma of nighttime flowers. Trixie heard the sound of hoofbeats touching down on the marble overlook to their right. Weaving a spell, she grabbed Chicory and pressed her tightly against the wall. A faintly glittering illusion of a potted plant appeared in front of the pair, completely clashing with the overall aesthetic of the court. Trixie prayed that the pegasus that crept in through the twilight didn’t have a cutie mark in interior design.

Graciously for Trixie, she didn’t. She stepped in from the balcony and flicked her ears, listening for something. Pursing her lips in displeasure, she scanned the area, spread her steel studded wings, and took off once more. Trixie sighed and released her spell, wiping the nervous sweat from her brow.

This section of the palace was mercifully deserted, though the sound of combat elsewhere was drawing nearer with every heartbeat. The floor was patterned with a mosaic of the solar and lunar cycles, encircled by swirls of Sarabic text that charted their movement through the heavens. Three massive, high-peaked arches had been cut into the opposite wall, revealing the cavernous depths of the royal library within. If Trixie had been impressed by the library situated in the diplomatic wing, then this utterly dwarfed her comprehension. Three levels of books were visible from the doorway, and the books made up only one portion of the collection. Artifacts were encased in airtight glass, spiderweb-covered scrolls that were probably older than Trixie’s grandparents lay collecting dust, and a telescope bigger than her carriage stared out at the heavens through a massive glass dome.

Shaking her head, Trixie didn’t let it distract her. There were other, smaller rooms set into the square. She tried again to throw them all open with a spell, and this time had better luck. This time two doors opened rather than one. She and Chicory examined each and found them both to be classrooms. Trixie could feel herself getting warmer.

“Cedar?” She knocked at one of the locked doors, only to receive a stammered “Go away!” in reply. Moving on to the next, she tried again, and this time was met by nothing but silence.

The third time, however, she knocked and whispered the Emir’s name, and there was a reply so soft she almost missed it.

“Who’s there?”

There was no mistaking that voice. Trixie’s heart bounded into her throat. “It’s Miss Briar.”

Silence.

“How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

Trixie leaned in close to the lock and blew a raspberry. The lock clicked only seconds later as Cedar threw open the door. He didn’t have a second to speak before Chicory hugged him so tightly his eyes bulged in their sockets. Trixie shut and locked the door behind them as Cedar was embraced by the mother he had never known. Chicory’s eyes welled with tears as she crushed him to her chest.

The emir leaned into her, bug-eyed and shocked, his hooves wrapping gently around her body as he returned the hug. Cedar looked at her, blinked, and suddenly realized.

“Mama?”

*****

Blueblood hadn’t known ponies could fight the way Captain did. She was like an oak tree, firmly rooted and inflexible. Every attack he brought to bear upon her was easily turned aside with flicks of Abnegation so minute that she hardly moved. Yet the second Blueblood slowed, the second his strike went wide or he stepped too close to her guard, Captain was upon him with the ferocity of a manticore.

Batting away a probing thrust, Captain flashed into his guard and slashed at his ribcage. Blueblood caught it on the flat of his blade, but in the same instant, she shattered her sword and stabbed at his eye. Backstepping feverishly, Blueblood danced between her blows and tried to regain his fencing stance, but she pursued ravenously. Pressing her advantage to its fullest, Captain battered him with a furious assault of tight, pinpoint slashes. Blueblood managed to catch her blade and lock it in place for a moment, giving him just enough time to breathe and adjust his position. Captain’s horn flashed a sick, pus-yellow before she flicked a stream of vile-smelling liquid from her blade.

Narrowly avoiding the splash, Blueblood’s nostrils flared at the nauseating odor. The stuff landed on the carpet below, where it hissed and sputtered, burning rank holes in the fabric. Steeling himself, Blueblood found his footing and lunged.

Captain turned aside his attack with ease, returning the favor with a lightning-fast thrust that caught Blueblood’s foreleg with Abnegation’s tip. He could feel the bite of acid against the wound and grit his teeth to keep from screaming. Again and again, he assailed her, but her defenses were ironclad. Shattering his blade, Blueblood peppered her with shards of his blade at awkward to defend angles, forcing her, at last, to dodge rather than stand her ground.

“You fight well.” Her voice droned as she ducked beneath three motes of Pride and caught another two with a well-placed ward. “But Canterlot fencing can only go so far.”

Blueblood snarled and turned up his aggression. Pride swarmed back to him, reformed, and clashed against Abnegation like an executioner’s axe. Captain blocked it, but Blueblood forced his way into her guard and threw a punch. Rolling her shoulders to block his hooves, Captain aimed a sharp snap kick at his bad foreleg. When Blueblood danced back, she was ready for him. Her blade disengaged, thrust forward, and vomited black bile. Blueblood twisted to one side, and droplets of the foul concoction spattered his cheek and sizzled against his coat. Four shards of his blade clung to his hoof like talons as he struck low, managing to catch Captain off guard. The sound of shredding cloth and melting tapestries filled the hall as Captain threw herself backward, her eyes surveying the damage in an instant. Only her uniform had been scratched.

Blueblood breathed heavily. “I didn’t just learn fencing in Canterlot.”

Again he lashed out at her, Pride whistling through the air for a stab. When Captain blocked it, Blueblood was there with his makeshift claws, ready to gouge her cheek. She shot backward faster than Blueblood could blink, steadying herself as she eyed his new stance.

“You trained with gryphons.” Captain seemed to recognize the style almost immediately. As Blueblood attacked her once more, she too shifted tactics. If before she had been an oak, now she was a willow. She bent and twisted away from every furious swipe, every aggressive slash, every vicious thrust. Patiently, she baited him further and further down the hallway until she spied an opening in his offensive. Three shards blocked Blueblood’s blade, another four slapped his hoof away, and the remaining ten cut a vicious arc toward his face. He turned aside just in time to avoid losing his head but felt a white-hot pain lance through his muzzle as Captain painted his cheek red.

As Blueblood staggered back, clutching his bleeding cheek with his bleeding hoof, Captain flourished Abnegation and watched him with eyes of ice. “You forget, prince, that I’ve killed gryphons as well.”

Launching back into the fight, Captain continued to beat Blueblood down. He tried switching tactics again, batting aside her sword and engaging her hoof to hoof, hoping to catch her off guard a second time. It did him no good. She ducked his first punch and struck his injured foreleg viciously. A harsh cry died in his throat as her follow-up shattered his bloodied cheek.

“You were well trained.” Captain bashed him with the flat of her blade and made his teeth ring. “But training is not experience.”

A kick to his gut made Blueblood heave. She refused to let up, making him breathlessly avoid the sweep of Abnegation once more. He smelled the acrid, sour reek of guttering acid on the edge of every shard. Their blades locked, and he could feel it gnawing at the air itself.

“I have killed on three continents.” Captain’s voice held the faintest tinge of pride. “In Celestia’s name, I have killed Gryphons and Zebras and Horses and Dogs and Changelings.”

Blueblood swung low and hacked at her legs. She vaulted his attack and shattered his psyche with a blow to the jaw. “I was born to the sword, Blueblood. It is no shame to die by my hooves.”

Twelve shards of Abnegation screamed through the air. Blueblood intercepted them with motes of Pride, backed against the wall, and met her charge valiantly. He caught her blade with his own and shoved her back, using the stone behind him for leverage. As Captain stumbled, he recalled his blade and thrust for her chest. She bent backward at an awkward angle to avoid it and slung a shard at his midsection. The stained glass behind him shattered, and Blueblood stood in a shaft of brilliant moonlight.

“If you were born to the sword,” He panted, harrying her with another thrust. “Then where’s your cutie mark?”

Captain turned aside his assault, fighting with a disgusting ease even when on the backhoof. “Do you know what it means to abnegate?”

Three more shards shot out from her blade. Blueblood threw himself out of the way, listening with horror as they ate their way through stone. He landed on his bad leg, and grunted through clenched teeth, nearly falling to the floor as he parried three incoming strikes.

“It is a denial.” Captain’s horn ignited as she swept the hall with a vitriolic lash, countless artifacts reduced to slag by her spell. “A refusal of some higher power.”

Blades clashed in the pale moonlight. Blood and acid and ichor mingled on the floor in a vile, fetid concoction. Blueblood struggled to stand, his leg throbbing with every step in their fatal dance. He felt his heartbeat in his cheek.

“I know my destiny, prince.” Captain continued gaining ground. “I know where my talent lies.”

Blueblood was struggling to breathe. He panted and gasped as he sidestepped and dodged, every second draining him. Blueblood couldn’t die here. He had promised.

“I simply refuse it.” Captain wielded Abnegation like an extension of her soul. “I have no cutie mark by choice.” She punctuated her sentence with a strike so powerful that it sent Blueblood sprawling. He landed on his back, hissing through his teeth. Towering over him, Captain narrowed her eyes. “I have no name by choice.”

“What happened to not being a mare of words?” Blueblood groaned.

Without another word of explanation, the nameless mare delivered her coup de grace. She thrust her sword downward at Blueblood’s chest, skewering him through the heart.

Or rather she would have, had he not caught her blade with his injured foreleg. Blueblood’s vision bled stars. His entire world erupted in sparkling, shrieking, pain. Abnegation was embedded in his flesh, protruding through it, but trapped for a moment. Blueblood knew he was screaming. His throat felt raw and scarred, but he couldn’t hear it. Silence covered him as a chill crept up his back.

Captain snarled something at his face as she tried to free her trapped weapon, only for Blueblood to curl his hoof around it, gripping it with a leg slippery with blood. Clenching his teeth, he forced himself to rise. Captain drove the blade deeper, trying to impale him, but the disgraced prince twisted like a hooked fish, avoiding her attempt. As she pushed and he pulled, they drew closer and closer. Captain stared at him, and for the first time, Blueblood could feel her simmering with rage.

Who was he to deny her? She who was defined by her refusal of destiny?

Blueblood headbutted her hard enough that he thought he must have broken his skull. Captain’s head jerked back, but he grabbed her by the mane and clashed with her again. It was enough. Her horn flickered for a split second, and that was all he needed. Throwing himself backward, Blueblood tore his foreleg from her blade with a ragged cry. He had only seconds to act, and he made his choice. She wasn’t the only pony who could renounce destiny.

Without a second thought, Blueblood leapt from the window.

Recovering quickly, Captain wiped her face and rushed to the broken window. Blueblood was running as fast as his hooves could carry him, limping with every step.

*****

“But Dad told me—” Cedar sniffed and wiped his snout with Trixie’s cape. “He said you left when I was born!”

“I’m so sorry, Cedar.” Chicory stroked his mane, brushing tears from her eyes. “I didn’t know. I never suspected—” She clutched him to her body once again, pressing kisses to his head. “I’m here now. I’m here.”

As beautiful as the reunion was, Trixie was getting impatient. She tapped her hoof on the floor, hoping that the pair would get the memo that time was of the essence, but all they’d done was use her cape as a snot rag. The clock on the wall told her it was after one already. They needed to get moving.

“I’m deeply touched,” Trixie said, trying to disguise her discomfort with sweetness. “But we really need to go. There’s still a coup going on, and I’d very much like to not be shot tonight.”

“Miss Briar,” Cedar clung to her cape as she peered out the door and ensured the coast was clear. “What’s a coup?”

“It means there are some bad ponies out there who want to hurt you.” Trixie pushed open the door and gestured for them to follow.

“But we won’t let them,” Chicory added, tucking the knife into her tunic. “Never again.”

They crossed from the room to the balcony, where Trixie grabbed both of their hooves and lit her horn. She glanced over her shoulder as she heard the clatter of hooves on the stairs behind her. Ponies were spilling out of the hallway, weapons at the ready.

“Shoot her!” One of the unicorns ordered, his horn flashing a molten red.

“Wait! Hold your fire! The emir—”

Trixie didn’t have time to aim. She teleported with nowhere in mind, throwing herself at the mercy of her magic. All three of them reappeared crushed into a dark space somewhere with barely enough room for one of them.

“I can’t feel my hooves.” Cedar squirmed against Trixie’s back. The smell of bread and roasted vegetables made her think they were in a pantry in the kitchen. She threw out the spell again, and this time they landed just outside the Grease Pit.

Chicory had hit the ground with more momentum than intended, and she rolled across the cobblestones like a ragdoll. She sprang back up and shook the dust from her mane, blinking in confusion at Trixie.

“Look, I’m really trying, okay?” Trixie blew a strand of hair from her eyes and grabbed Chicory’s hooves again.

The world blinked away and they popped back into existence on the sidewalk beside Lineage Park. Trixie breathed heavily. Three attempts wasn’t the worst.

“Miss Briar!” Cedar yelled beside her. Trixie smelled burning hair.

Sure enough, Cedar’s tail was on fire.

Trixie grabbed him and shoved him into the spray of a nearby fountain, dousing the flames with a sputter.

Cedar shook his soggy coat dry and splashed Trixie. “Thank you, Miss Briar.”

“Was he supposed to catch fire?” Chicory arched an eyebrow.

Trixie swallowed sheepishly. “I don’t think so?”

“Is Prince Indigo coming with us?” Cedar said as he flopped down on a bench.

“He’s supposed to catch up with us here.” Chicory sat beside him, gently stroking his damp hair.

He should be here by now. Trixie gnawed her lip and paced. She was as bad as he was when she was stressed. Grabbing Cedar was supposed to be a short detour, but instead, it had taken nearly an hour. Something was wrong. She could feel ice sinking in her gut.

Where was he?

Trixie’s eyes went skyward, and she suddenly dragged the two horses off their bench and into the tree line. A pair of pegasi soared overhead, their shadows blurring past on the flagstones as they swept the area. When they vanished in the direction of the palace, Trixie breathed a sigh of relief.

That was bad news. Blueblood was still picking his way through the city. Would they notice him? Drag him back to the palace? Execute him where he stood? She wrang her hooves and worried her cape. She needed to know.

As she watched the street ahead, Trixie noticed something moving. A pale, shuddering shape moved towards them as quickly as its legs allowed. That had to be him.

Blueblood descended the street like a shambling shell of himself. His white coat was splashed liberally with slashes of drying, rusty blood. His foreleg was mangled, his mane was tangled, and his clothes were torn. As Trixie crossed towards him at a gallop, she saw his eyes; exhausted, sad, and broken.

“What happened to you?” Trixie held back her affection as she looked at his injuries with a wince. “Please, please tell me that’s not your blood.”

“Not all of it.” Blueblood croaked weakly, coughing into the back of his hoof. “Did you—”

“I’m safe, Indigo.” Chicory approached slowly, holding Cedar by the hoof. “We’re safe.”

“Thank Celestia.” He looked like a boulder had been lifted from his back. It didn’t help his wounds, but he could at least breathe a little easier. “We need to keep going.”

“But where?” Cedar looked up at him with big, wonderous eyes. Blueblood saw his face reflected in the emir’s pupils.

Blueblood sucked his teeth. “Out of the city. Into the desert.”

“Then where?”

“I don’t know yet.” Blueblood shivered, his eyes flickering between his lacerated leg and the street ahead. “We just need to get out of here. We’ll figure it out later.”

“We’ll cut through the slums.” Chicory nodded to herself. “Gather the troops and let them know we’re fleeing the city.”

Blueblood detested that. He didn’t want an army. He wasn’t a general. He wasn’t a soldier.

And now, he wasn’t even a prince.

But his body was so crushed that he didn’t have the will to fight it. Chicory sidled up to him, letting him sling his injured hoof over her back for support. They set off for the slums, with Blueblood hobbling down the street and slowing them down. It wasn’t fast enough.

Trixie heard the rush of wings above as another pegasus looped over them. She cursed herself for not noticing sooner. The pegasus twisted upward and pulled something from her saddlebag. A second later, a bright red flare ignited, casting them all in a bloody glow. The pegasus rolled back over and flew in the direction of the palace. They had been discovered.

“Son of a bitch.” Trixie cursed, ushering for the others to pick up the pace. Cedar's ears flicked as she swore. “Cedar don't repeat that! We need to move faster!”

“I can’t.” Blueblood gagged on the words. “My leg, its—”

“I can see that.” Trixie cut him off, her mind a cyclone. “Somepony has to slow them down.”

Blueblood groaned in protest. “But I—”

“I wasn’t talking about you.”

“Briar, you can’t.” His eyes were wide with shock. “You haven’t seen what they can do.”

“And they haven’t seen what I can do.” Trixie flared the collar of her cloak. “Now go.” I’ll catch up with you at the gate.”

Before Blueblood could protest, Chicory dragged him along towards the slums, lugging him like a particularly willful sack of flour. Leaving him without a choice, Trixie considered her options. She turned her hat upside down and started to shake out objects at random: a bucket of white paint, a hairbrush, two plush dragons, a pair of cuffs, a half-eaten bar of chocolate she had forgotten about, and a hoof-held confetti cannon.

That gave her an idea.

*****

The coup at the palace had succeeded in all but one objective. It had failed to secure Emir Cedar. The once-contained violence spilled over into the streets as ponies flooded the city searching for their quarry.

Blueblood ducked into an alley as another flare erupted overhead. They were tracking his movements through the city, and every brilliant fireball brought the Equestrian soldiers closer. He couldn’t let them win.

As he sprinted from the alley, trying to keep his weight off his bad hoof, he was horrifically conscious of just how loud his hoofbeats were. He felt like they echoed off every surface in a way that drew attention just as perfectly as the flares that ignited his path.

Something whooshed over his head, fast enough that it fluttered his bloodstained mane. The soft click of hooves on pavement caught his ears. He turned, breath hitching in his throat.

Duke Fairweather stood in the middle of the street, dressed in his crisp military uniform with molten steel in his eyes. Any lingering shred of affability had sloughed off of him like an insect shell. He looked the part of a conquering hero, the sort of pony Blueblood would see posters of in the backwater villages he traveled. The sort of sharp, snappy soldier who made little colts and fillies play soldier on the playground and join the army when they were grown.

“Blueblood,” Fairweather spoke the name with a blazing vitriol. "Where is the emir?"

"Gone." Blueblood coughed, his throat scratchy.

“It shouldn’t have come to this. We could have ruled Saddle Arabia jointly. Like brothers.”

Blueblood swallowed hard, stepping back and taking a shuddery breath. He thanked Celestia that Chicory had left him.

Fairweather’s wings rustled. The iron feathers that lined them tinkled like chain mail. “You stood in front of a firing squad and said you stood against the Caliph, and now look at you.” He spit into the stones. “Fighting to save the system you put yourself against. You make me sick.”

“It isn’t our place,” Blueblood replied, his voice ragged and squeaky. He cleared his throat and tried to restore his composure, but couldn’t. His words came out far weaker than he needed. “This isn’t right!”

“Right?” Fairweather growled. “Do you know what isn’t right? Letting a sick system continue to abuse the ones forced to live under it. It's the same as it ever was. Mareocco, Neighgeria, Camareoon, Saddle Arabia… The only way to fix the problem is to excise it entirely. If you want to change the world, sometimes you have to make harmony happen.”

"And I'm sure your business has nothing to do with it."

Before Blueblood could react, Fairweather had closed the gap between them and struck him across the cheek. Blueblood was thrown back, rolling head over hooves as he tried to right himself. When he finally got to his hooves, he found himself kicked again, hard enough that he tumbled into Lineage Park.

The spray of a fountain kept him conscious as he woozily staggered to his hooves. More ponies were arriving now. Unicorns and earthponies and pegasi, all armed to the teeth and watching with rapt attention as their leader bludgeoned a traitor beneath his hooves.

Fairweather pummeled Blueblood, blow after blow crushing his body as he was pushed from fountain to fountain. A succession of Caliphs loomed over them as Fairweather beat down his weakened foe. Blueblood collapsed against a statue of Caliph Typhoon, gasping for air. The duke burst through the shroud of water, gripped his foe around the chest, and launched himself skyward. The pair spun as they ascended, the city lights sparkling beneath them like a carpet of stars. Blueblood coughed as they turned in lazy circles like partners in a waltz.

“I’m going to give you one final chance.” Fairweather’s breath was hot against his cheek. “Nopony ever said I wasn’t forgiving.”

His grip loosened ever so slightly, and Blueblood felt his hooves dangle in nothingness. He tried to cling on to his foe, but with the injury in his foreleg, his grip was too weak.

“You’ll never rule with me. That ship has sailed. But you don’t have to die.” Fairweather tried to soften his tone. “You’ll be imprisoned for a time, sure, but isn’t that better than losing your life? I’ll let you return to Equestria with your mistress, and we’ll both put this all behind us. I might even let you return as diplomat once things have settled down here! Wouldn’t that be better than—”

Fairweather glanced down at his hooves. They were covered in smears of white. When he glanced up at Blueblood, he could see dashes of light blue across his coat. Their eyes met.

Blueblood’s familiar gunmetal grey eyes didn’t look back at him. Instead, twinkling periwinkle returned his gaze.

“You’re not Blueblood.”

An illusory blonde mane flickered and vanished. Trixie couldn’t help but smirk. “Nope.”

Fairweather hovered there, his mouth agape in confusion.

"And I ain't his mistress either." Trixie leveled her hoof at his face and lit her horn. With a shrill squeak, she shot Fairweather in the snout with a confetti cannon. Blinding strands of multicolored paper and long metallic streamers exploded inches from his face. His grip on Trixie went slack and she fell towards earth like a scream. Exactly as Trixie had planned. Her horn burned as she threw out her teleportation spell, praying to Celestia, Luna, the sun, the moon, and the flame that this time it would work.

She blinked out of existence inches from the earth, reappearing someplace dark, smoky, and stifling. Gagging and gasping for air, Trixie thrashed about, her hooves stirring up more dust that reduced her to a choking mess. Her hooves found purchase on a screen of thick fabric, which she hastily pawed at for some sort of release. Instead, the room collapsed in on her like a dying star. Was this the price of failing to teleport? Was she lost somewhere in the space between spaces? Trixie got her answer when several pairs of paws dragged her from a collapsed tent into the fresh air.

“Briar?” Trixie’s bleary eyes focused on the blurry form of Brother Sycamore. His head was cocked and his ears lopsided as he stared down at her. “How did you end up in our reading tent?”

“Teleportation mishap.” Trixie coughed and wiped her eyes as she was pulled to her hooves. “Did Chicory already—”

Before she could finish, a bell sounded a doleful toll over the slums. Sycamore stiffened suddenly, his eyes drawn to the squat skyline of the slums.

“That’s her.” Trixie exhaled, brushing a hoof through her soot-streaked mane.

Horses, jackals, and a few camels appeared in the doorways of nearby bunkhouses, from rickety shanties of tarp and scrap metal, and from the temple itself. They were armed as Trixie had seen them only two nights ago, with ancient jezails, makeshift spears, clubs, and daggers. There weren’t many, and despite Chicory’s claims of an army, this barely qualified as an angry mob. Trixie had been chased out of town by larger and better-armed groups than this. Falling in line, Trixie followed the makeshift militia as they streamed through the streets in a thin trickle.

Chicory had rung the bell outside the local ironworks, and her bedraggled troops had sloppily assembled. They were still dressed in their pajamas, yawning and stretching as they stood before her. She smiled like a proud mother being shown a crayon doodle she was sure to hang on the family fridge.

“Pack your things if you haven’t already!” Chicory’s voice boomed as she stood atop the brick and iron fence. “We’re moving out!”

A murmur went through the crowd. Nervous whispers were exchanged. Chicory raised a hoof and silenced them.

“Prince Indigo believes we’ll have a better chance of retaking the city if we do so from the desert!” Chicory spoke confidently, although, behind her, Blueblood’s mein was shaded with abject horror. “We will return! We will retake our homes! We will drive out these usurpers! And we will be victorious!”

One of the horses in the crowd tossed a gun to her. In a single smooth motion, Chicory slung it around her body and held a hoof in the air. Her meager army returned the gesture with as much cheer as they could muster. The procession began to march in an uneven rhythm as they tramped through the slums, with Chicory and Cedar at its head. Blueblood and Trixie fell in towards the rear, with Trixie shouldering his bad leg.

“You made it.” Blueblood managed a smile through his pain.

Trixie tossed her mane haughtily, only for her bruises to throb and make her wince. “Never doubt me.”

“I’ve seen your show. I’m always doubting you.” Blueblood leaned against her heavily, shifting as he wove his way around the rank puddles that Trixie splashed through. “I really wish they’d stop talking like that.”

“Like what?”

“About taking back their city and such.” He blew air from his lower lip. “Our best case scenario is that we flee to Equestria and set up a government in exile there.” Blueblood’s eyes scanned the throng he found himself in. “No matter what Chicory says, this isn’t an army. And even if it was, I’m not a soldier. I’m not even a prince anymore. I’m—”

His voice cracked. Blueblood reached a trembling hoof to his brow, assuring himself that his crown remained.

“I’m nothing.”

“You’re still you,” Trixie said calmly. She gripped his hoof as they trudged through another decrepit alleyway. “And that’s all we need right now.”

“Briar,” Blueblood’s voice was low and desperate. “They’re hoping I’ll lead them on a reconquista of their homeland. They want a civil war.” He swallowed a growing lump in his throat. “What am I supposed to do about that?”

“We can burn that bridge when we get to it.”

“That’s not how the saying goes.”

“You know what I mean.”

The city gates were visible. Both ponies breathed easier knowing that they were close. It was, quite literally, all downhill from here. Their procession wound its way down the last hill, their marching formation woefully uneven. Blueblood felt horribly cold. His bad hoof was going numb, which he knew was a bad sign. He was praying to every deity from every nation that someone in their mean little squadron was a doctor.

Something swooped over their heads. Three shadows crossed their path, banking sharply and screaming towards the gate. Then two more. Then another four. Blueblood’s head pulsed pain as the realization dawned on him all too late.

“They’re trying to cut us off at the gate.” He breathed the words in a shallow voice. “They know it won’t take much.”

Gunshots shattered the night. The horses around Blueblood reared and shrieked. The jackals bayed and whined. Blueblood could barely muster the strength to scan for casualties. Two horses had already been shot. Chicory thrust her son back behind her to shield him as she barked out orders. A few jezails returned fire, but their volley was haphazard and their accuracy poor.

Cedar clamped his hooves over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. Trixie rushed to his side in the commotion, pulling him away from the conflict and holding him tight. Chicory still placed herself protectively between him and the gunfire, even as she slammed the firing level of her jezail and launched a bullet downrange.

More and more of Chicory’s army were deserting. They had started with few, and now they had less. Blueblood’s blood was ice in his veins. This was where it ended.

Unless.

Blueblood didn’t have time to think about what he was doing. He couldn’t afford the few seconds to think over his actions, lest the guilt set in. Stepping forward, he snatched Cedar from Trixie’s arms and pulled the emir to his chest.

“Indigo! Don’t!” Trixie reached out to stop him, but it was too late. Blueblood threw himself into the line of fire, the heir to the throne as his shield.

“Hold!” Blueblood mustered up all the strength left in his body and screamed the command. “Hold your fire!”

The pegasi didn’t drop their rifles but stared back viciously.

“Indigo!” Chicory’s voice was broken with betrayal. Blueblood glanced over his shoulder and mouthed the words I’m sorry.

“You’re here for the emir.” Blueblood grit his teeth as he was forced to walk on his bad leg. “If you shoot him, this will have all been for nothing.”

“Our orders were to bring him back safely.” A deep-voiced, maroon-coated pegasus fixed the prince in her sights. “You on the other hand—”

Cedar was trembling. Blueblood could feel his chest heave with small sobs. He leaned forward just enough to whisper in the colt’s ear. “Please, please trust me. I’m so sorry, emir.”

Blueblood’s hoof constricted around the colt’s chest. His horn burned silver as Pride flew from its sheath. The blade rested against Cedar’s quivering throat. His breath hitched and his sobbing ceased. Chicory screamed.

Blueblood hissed under his breath. “I promise not to hurt you.”

“Let him go!” The pegasus put her hoof on the firing lever.

“If you shoot me,” Blueblood was deliberate and glacier-cold. “He dies.”

“You’ll be dead before you can make a move.”

Pride shimmered sharply in the moonlight. “Try me.”

Their standoff seemed to last forever. All sound was silenced as the street became a vacuum of held breath and silent prayers. The pegasus didn’t flinch, but Blueblood could see the sweat beading on her brow. She knew what the stakes were for failure. If Cedar died, all of Fairweather’s plotting would be undone with the flick of a knife. Years of backroom politicking, backstabbing, debasing himself in front of a Caliph he despised—all rendered worthless by a single bad decision. She swallowed hard and squinted.

“What will it take for you to let him go?”

“Let us leave the city.” Blueblood held firm.

“I can’t let you—”

Blueblood tensed his muscles and flashed his horn. His blade moved a fraction of an inch, and the emir closed his eyes.

“Stand down,” Blueblood growled. “All of you.”

One by one, their weapons clattered to the cobblestones. Better to be responsible for a setback than a total operational failure. At last, the pegasus who had so sternly denied him dropped her gun.

“Go.” She snapped.

They parted as Blueblood led what remained of Chicory’s army down the last sloping street and through the city gates. He relaxed his grip and lowered his blade slightly. Cedar took a deep breath, looking up at Blueblood with terror in his eyes.

“I won’t hurt you.” Blueblood reiterated, his breath finally returning. “Celestia and Luna both, I’m sorry.”

Through the city gates, they marched, tramping through the outlying kingdoms of rice paddies and olive groves, across fields of sharp-scented sagegrass, down the slope of the rocky plateau on which the city sat, and finally into the moonlit sand of the Sarabian Desert. It wasn’t until his hooves touched the sand that Blueblood released Cedar entirely. He let his grip fall away, sheathed his sword, and fell to his knees in the cold desert.

“I’m sorry.” Blueblood hung his head and drew short, rapid breaths. “I’m so sorry.”

His lips kept moving beyond his volition. Apologies bubbled up from within him like water from a spring. He tried to stop. He tried to clamp down on his emotions and force them into captivity. Since the first shots of the coup, he had been denying himself. Now the dam had cracked and the levees were drowning. The words died away, replaced by desperate choked screams that died strangled in his throat. Tears clouded his vision and the desert around him vanished in blurry mist.

Everything flowed from him all at once. In one night, Blueblood had ruined his life.

The desert stretched before him, vast, cold, and trackless under the moonlight. The dunes beckoned to him.

Step forth into the waste and become nothing.

As Trixie helped him to his hooves, Blueblood gave in to the urge.

*****

Hours passed in a blur. Their “army” had been reduced to seven jackals, three horses, and one camel, not counting Chicory and Cedar. One of the jackals, Crocus, had been tending to Blueblood’s wounds as best she could. She had applied a foul-smelling poultice, bound it with clean bandages, and fastened it with an olive branch splint. Blueblood was able to walk unassisted, albeit with a heavy limp.

The air felt still and heavy. The moonlight was palpably cool on their backs as they crossed dune after dune in a neverending undulation. Trixie’s hooves sank into the sand with every step, and even Chicory found herself stumbling as they ascended the steep faces of the silver dunes. Where they were going no one knew. Their only direction was away from the capital, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and their home.

At last, they came upon a stone-strewn wadi studded with rocky outcrops. Descending into the riverbed, they diffused into the shade and sank to the ground. Blueblood and Trixie found a spot and sat, unable to speak. Crocus changed Blueblood’s bandages and applied a fresh salve to his foreleg that made the wound tingle. She tied off the bandages and cut them with her claws.

“Will it heal?” Blueblood’s voice was dry and cracked.

Crocus shrugged. “The bone is fractured and there’s a lot of tissue damage. You’re lucky the nerve didn’t get severed.”

“Will it heal?”

“We’ll see. Let the sangthistle paste do its work.” The jackal shouldered her bag and left to take care of another, a horse who had been hit with a piece of shrapnel.

Another cold silence descended on the pair. Trixie glanced at him, knowing she should say something, but what was there to say? Half of her wanted to wait until morning to try to discuss things with Blueblood, and the other half said it would be too late.

When Blueblood rose from his seat and shuffled away from the group, Trixie slowly followed. He ascended the dunes that bordered the wadi and found a place to sit in the sand. His eyes were unfocused, his motions drunken.

“Indigo,” Trixie placed a hoof on his shoulder. He jerked away like he’d been pricked with a hot poker. She winced and drew back, unable to touch him. “Talk to me.”

“What is there to say?” He stared morosely at the moon. “I failed.”

“We haven’t failed yet.” She sank down beside him, trying to meet his eyes. He refused.

“Yet? What do you mean, yet?”

“We’re still alive, and while we’re alive, we haven’t failed.”

“Don’t give me that. Fairweather won. All the council members are either dead or in hiding. The only thing he doesn’t have is Cedar, and now it's only a matter of time before Fairweather consolidates his power and comes after us.” Blueblood closed his eyes. “And even if we go back to Equestria and try to set up a government in exile, who knows if Celestia will listen to us.”

“You’re her nephew, Indigo. Of course, she’ll—”

Blueblood’s eyes finally broke contact with the moon to stare at Trixie. “I killed ponies tonight, Briar.” His words stuck in his chest like a tumor. “I’m a murderer. Do you think Celestia is just going to let a murderer come back to her palace like nothing happened?”

“Then don’t go back.” Trixie exhaled softly. “We can—”

“We can’t!” Blueblood snapped. “We can’t stay here, we can’t go back to Equestria, and nowhere else is going to accept us! We’re alone, Briar!”

“Listen to what you’re saying!” Trixie’s shoulders drooped. “We’re alone?”

“Don’t patronize me, damn it!”

They both went quiet. A second passed, then another. Blueblood’s expression softened and he twisted a hoof in his mane. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

Trixie reached out, untangled his hoof from his mane, and held it. Silver moonlight glistened in the corner of her eyes, glinting off of budding tears.

“I’m trying, Blueblood.” She strained her voice, his real name hitting him like a slap. “I’m really trying. I’m trying to hold it together because I know if I break you will too.”

“I’m so—”

“Don’t apologize, damn it.” She shook her head. “I don’t need apologies. I need you.” Trixie sniffed, brushing her cheek with the back of her hoof. “You said back in the palace that you loved me. I said I loved you too. And I know—”

Trixie shivered as a frigid wind blew across the desert. Blueblood shed his shirt and gently draped it around her shoulders.

“I know this won’t work.” Trixie found her voice as she pulled his shirt tighter. “When we return to Equestria, we both know what will happen. I’ll go back to my wagon and you’ll go back to the palace and it’ll be years before we see each other again.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said that.” Blueblood held her hoof like he would lose her if he let go.

“I wasn’t either. But we both know how this ends.” Trixie managed one of those glassy, fragile smiles. “That’s why I don’t want to go back to Equestria. Because I know that’s the end. When I’m here, I feel important. I feel like I belong. In Saddle Arabia, I really am great and powerful. But when I go back, I’ll lose everything. You included.”

Blueblood opened his mouth, an apology on his tongue, but Trixie’s glare shot him down.

“If we stay, we’re going to end up involved in a civil war.” He pled with his eyes.

Trixie chuckled under her breath. “What’s one more crime on our rap sheet?”

“It’s one more nail in my coffin.”

“If Celestia won’t take you back,” Trixie shifted closer. Near enough that Blueblood could feel her breath on his cheek. “Then stay here. Stay with me.”

“I reiterate, civil war.” Blueblood’s skin prickled with goosebumps.

“I’d take a civil war with you than peace without you.” Her hooves found their resting place on his hips. She held him in a distant embrace, her eyes locked with his. “Stay with me.”

Blueblood returned the touch with his one good hoof. Her coat was matted and slick with sweat. She shuddered as his hoof slid gently down her side. Whether that was from the cold, the bruises, or something else, he couldn't decide. He breathed deeply as they grew closer. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything.” Trixie shushed him with a hoof to his lips. “If you have to talk, lie to me. Just for tonight.”

They shared a kiss—a breathless, dainty kiss of spider silk and mothwings under a star-swirled sky. When it broke, they replaced it with something stronger, something deeper, richer, and more fulfilling.

What transpired between them that night was not beautiful. As they embraced, they breathed in a mixture of gunpowder, damp earth, sweat, and smoke. They were bruised, aching, and exhausted. Their manes were a mess, their coats were gritty with sand, and their voices were hoarse and harsh as they exhaled each other's names. Neither knew what they were doing, and neither cared. They were alive. For one more night, they were alive. No matter what the daybreak brought, they had this moment to hold between them.

As they lay on the sand, a cloud passed in front of the moon. In the dark, they lay side by side, hoof in hoof, listening to their heartbeats thudding in unison. For one brief and fleeting moment, the world was a simpler place. There were no politics nor wars to be fought, no threats of abandonment, no thoughts of what tomorrow would bring.

But tomorrow would surely come and the sun would burn away all falsehoods. Blueblood touched her cheek softly and pressed a demure kiss to her forehead. He wasn't ready to let this end. He wasn't ready to go back to Equestria.

Not yet.

State of Affairs

"Look to the desert,
her dust, sand, and bone.
Inhale her hot scent,
And know you are home."
—Saddle Arabian Poem attributed to "Verbena"

Chapter 2: State of Affairs

Three days later, they were packed into a train car bound for Saddle Arabia. The caboose of the train was as luxurious as Trixie had expected from a prince—done up in red velvet, gold filigree, and sumptuous cedar wood that smelled of sap and life. It was a step up from her usual lodgings, for sure. The meals were definitely a highlight for her. She’d gotten used to plain rice and beans or cheap takeout for so long that she’d forgotten how much flavor there was in the world. She’d slurped creamy, cheesy onion soups, munched on strawberry and dandelion salads glazed with sweet lemon sauce, devoured a full plate of finely roasted filhay mignon, and downed it all with gulps of a fresh apple brandy cocktail.

For her, it was the lap of luxury, yet Blueblood seemed to chafe at his confinement. He paced, stared out of the windows, picked at his dinner, and kept trying to settle in before starting the routine over again. Trixie swallowed the last of her cocktail and breathed out hot vapor. She could still taste the sweet and sour of the drink on her tongue as she leafed through the train’s room service menu.

“Trixie is thinking she’d like dessert.” She peered over the crisp pages as Blueblood continued to glower at the rapidly passing countryside. “Would you prefer the crème brûlée or the mango rainbow cake?”

Blueblood’s only response was to sigh heavily and sink into the heavy cushions beside the window. “Créme brûlée sounds lovely.”

Trixie rang the buzzer for service and passed their order along to an attendant. Blueblood folded his arms over his chest and sighed once more. Trixie frowned.

“You’re just doing that for attention, now.”

“I’m doing it because I’m thinking.” The prince pursed his lips. “Everything is political. There’s somepony’s hoof in this reassignment, and I’m trying to determine whose.”

“So you think somepony wanted you out of the palace?”

“Or in Saddle Arabia.” He bounced his leg nervously. “So, who? Celestia? Her princess brat? One of the Courtiers?”

“Well,” Trixie swiveled in her seat. “which of the Courtiers has a problem with you?”

“It would be shorter to list the ones who don’t,” Blueblood smirked. “Inter-department arguments are frequent. Foreign Affairs tends to get shafted unless I get creative with my budgetary requests, so I’ve got plenty of ponies who’d like to see me out of the country.” He leaned forward, propping his head up with a hoof under his chin. “I’ve got my doubts about them. Sure, they wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore, but it’s not as if they gain much. Budgets are stretched tight as is, even without my meddling. Plus, it was Celestia’s signet on the assignment. The only one with the sway to get that without months of effort—"

“Would be you.” Trixie finished his thought. The door swung open and a mustachioed grey stallion dropped off a piping hot créme brûlée. She thanked him curtly and cracked the surface with a thwack of her spoon. “So, you think Celestia is behind things, then?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged and slouched over to the dining table, picking up a spoon and taking a bite of the steaming dessert. “All I know is that I’ve got a bad feeling about all of this. Too many ponies have it out for me, and this is a perfect opportunity for some political screwing.”

“Have you considered pissing off fewer ponies?” Trixie slushed around a mouthful.

Both of them stared in silence for a moment before bursting into peals of laughter.

“I can’t help my special talent.” Blueblood chuckled to himself as he crunched a crispy piece of the créme brûlée. “Regardless of who’s behind all of this, we have a pretty simple assignment once we get to Saddle Arabia. We relieve Rough Cut, we approve and deny expatriation requests, and then do the usual diplomatic stuff.”

Trixie swallowed a spoonful and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “While Trixie has, of course, been on numerous diplomatic missions across the globe, she could use a small refresher on what ‘the usual diplomatic stuff’ entails.”

“We attend parties, we talk to ministers and such, and generally advocate for Equestria’s interests where we can.” Blueblood rang for service and ordered himself a Black Walnut Manehattan. “Saddle Arabia is one of our premier trade partners, so keeping relations good is a top priority. All we really need to do is walk around, look pretty, and occasionally attend meetings to shift things around as needed. Easy stuff. Practically a vacation.”

“Trixie certainly needed a vacation.” She looked at her empty glass and swirled around the mixture of melted ice and leftover brandy at the bottom. Levitating it with her magic, she held it out across the table as Blueblood received his Manehattan.

“To rest and relaxation.” Blueblood clinked his glass against hers. He took a sip of his drink and grimaced. “Celestia’s sake, what kind of whiskey did they put in this?” He pounded the service button so rapidly Trixie thought it might snap under the pressure. “Somepony’s head is going to roll for this. Serving bottom-shelf dreck to a prince of all ponies? Of all the underhanded…”

As he ranted, Trixie floated his glass across the table to herself and took a long swig of it. It tasted fine to her, not that she’d ever tell him that.

*****

And so the days passed. Trixie and Blueblood bickered and argued over five-star meals and top-shelf drinks while the train glided through the painted landscape. They spent the time drinking, reading, arguing, and listening to the radio. Trixie received a crash course in Sarabic, but her tongue was hardly suited to it. Blueblood drilled her laboriously in manners and etiquette, trying to flash cast her as a diplomat in a week when he knew it took years. Still, he did a passable job. She knew how to bow, knew which fork to use at dinner, and how to avoid stepping on her partner's hooves during a royal waltz. Better than most, but immersed in the culture she was not. Thankfully, Blueblood had gotten by with fluent Equine and broken Sarabic on his first trip, and unless things had changed drastically, she wouldn’t need to be fluent. Besides, he could always translate.

Slowly, the world outside their window began to change. The forests and fields of Equestria began to give way to stark, stony mountains. They passed through a tunnel that seemed to stretch forever and emerged on the other side in a vast and scabbed scrubland. Thin reedy grasses replaced the rich greens and trees became rare things that dotted the horizon with dry, clawed branches. The air was arid and stifling, and Blueblood could feel himself sweating even with the air conditioning cranked to maximum.

Eventually, even the minimal greenery was blotted out as they drifted from sparse savannah to deep desert. Canyons of red rock yawned and gaped between wide expanses of shifting dunes. Blueblood had to pull the windows closed when the wind shifted and coated the inside of their cabin with dusty grit. The monotony of the desert was occasionally broken up by camps of nomadic camels, their brightly colored tents standing sharp against the unending yellow-orange of sand. At night, the desert came alive with the eyeshine of jackals roaming through the darkness, trailing wagons of scavenged junk behind them.

The tracks rose along the edge of a dark stone plateau that separated them from their final destination. As they crested the rim, they passed once more into a lush space of dense green. The air smelled of life as the tracks wove through soggy rice paddies and copses of lemon trees. Richly scented sagegrass blossomed along the edge of the train tracks, filling the air with a tantalizing aroma. Blueblood guzzled a glass of water to ease the dryness of his throat as they drifted along through a dreamlike haze. Tall horses dressed in loose sarongs waded through fields of rice and carried bundles of herbs at their sides, returning to small villas of richly colored stone houses that dotted the horizon. Ahead, however, Blueblood could already see the spires of the capital.

Sutaf was a city unlike any in Equestria. Wide walls of bleached sandstone kept out the desert, studded all over with deep gouges from wars innumerable. It had been here that Saddle Arabia was born in a crucible of cannonfire and blood, and the capital city still bore the scars of her painful gestation. Yet, even at a distance, Blueblood could see the old wounds had been used as the centerpiece for new art. Carvings of curling Sarabic script ran the length of the walls, incorporating the slashes and cuts of ancient battle into blessings of peace and promises of prosperity—written wards against the cruel indifference of the desert. Even at a distance, the palace complex was visible as a silhouette against the sun. Blueblood could already see the onion-shaped domes and slender minarets he’d spied nearly a decade ago.

As they drew nearer, the air was filled with the familiar scents of Saddle Arabia. Fresh, clean linen, ripe lemons, spices, and herbs, cool brown river water, and freshly broken earth. Camel caravans parked outside the city with baskets full of goods for trade, shifty jackals in loose attire pawed at curved knives in their belts, and horses of every color haggled with exaggerated bows and carefully crafted promises. A group of children splashed in the spray from an irrigation ditch, kicking up spray that turned prismatic under the hot sun. Blueblood breathed a sigh as he pressed a hoof against the window. Saddle Arabia was exactly as he remembered.

Settling into a seat, Blueblood took another drink of water. He’d asked the attendant to leave them with a full pitcher, and already they were draining it. Trixie sprawled on her back, lazily fanning her face with her hoof.

“Trixie was under the impression,” she panted, “that the heat would be more bearable.”

“You get used to it.” Blueblood tried to shrug nonchalantly, though he slugged down another full glass of water and dabbed at his brow with a kerchief. “Before we arrive in Sutaf, there’s still one more thing to discuss.”

“Trixie is not practicing her slow dance in this heat.” Her voice was as dry as the dunes.

“Celestia, no. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near you when you’re sweating like a nervous pig.” He shuddered and repressed a gag. “Disgusting.”

Blueblood conveniently ignored his sweat as he shed his stuffy suit jacket. Trixie smirked when she saw the telltale dark spots along his back.

“I meant your name.”

“What’s wrong with Trixie?”

“What’s wrong is it’s your real name.” He folded his hooves on the table. “Are you familiar with the Djinn?”

She shook her head.

“Djinn are desert spirits in Saddle Arabian myth and religion. Formless, shapeless, wicked things that want nothing more than to possess innocent horses in their moment of weakness. They take the myth very seriously here.”

“But the names-”

“I’m getting to that.” He held up a hoof and scoffed. “Since they possess horses, anypony could be a djinn in disguise. And the thing a djinn uses to control their host? Their name.”

“So Trixie shouldn’t speak in third person then?”

“If Trixie can help it.”

“Fine.” She huffed childishly, puffing her cheeks out in a pitiful pout. “I’ll drop the act until we’re home.”

“Thank you.” Blueblood went on, ignoring her plight. “Everypony has their real name, of course, but they also have what they refer to as a ‘use-name’, a name they use in place of their own to throw off any enterprising djinn.”

“And do you have one?”

“Indigo.” He brushed his hair from his face. “Plants, concepts, objects… anything can be a use-name.”

Trixie grinned, rubbing her hooves together. “The Great and Powerful Trixie will have to come up with something suitably ostentatious for the occasion.”

“Please don’t.”

“Silence, Indigo!” She held up a hoof. “The Great and Powerful Lily of the Valley is speaking!”

“I’m strongly considering throwing The Great and Powerful Dung Beetle from the train.”

“Oh, you’re no fun at all!”

“On the contrary, it would be the most fun I’ve had all week.”

The train at last passed into the city proper. It twisted through a dense housing project of cramped and squalid little hovels for a moment, where the air was heavy with the stink of unwashed skin and uncollected offal. The only buildings worth noting were the few large factories that belched out plumes of sun-blotting smog. Dirty, bedraggled-looking horses wandered drunkenly through the labyrinthine corridors between the ramshackle houses, occasionally catching a glimpse of the train in their wild eyes.

They put the squalor behind them quickly as the train swiveled around a bend and crossed a sort of demarcation. The air grew cleaner, the homes more respectable, and the horses upright and brightly dressed. Blueblood immediately felt more at ease when he spied that the station was situated in the new, ideal neighborhood rather than the previous. The station itself was born of a modern Sarabic style—squat, cubical buildings with sharp lancet windows embedded in a nest of low, gracefully curved stone walls topped with brilliantly colored awnings. Blueblood had once heard that the design was inspired by spiderwort flowers, though he couldn’t say he saw the resemblance. The interior of the station was a pleasant surprise. Both because it was covered in beautifully ornate mosaic patterns and because it had ample air conditioning.

“Get your things together,” Blueblood said as he hefted himself to his hooves and slung his saddlebags over his back. “And once you have them, be a dear and carry a few of mine.”

“Trixie packed light,” she said, biting her tongue. “Sorry, force of habit. I packed light. Just one bag with clothes, soap, shampoo, toothbrush, and some snacks.” Her magic reached beneath the seat and pulled out a periwinkle suitcase covered in peeling star stickers.

“Thankfully, I, too, packed light.” He opened a closet at the back of their car and lugged out a massive black leather satchel that scraped the floor with its weight.

“That’s light?” Trixie snorted as she watched him struggle with it. Her laughter was silenced as Blueblood dropped it on her back, crushing her and knocking the wind from her lungs.

“As light as I can manage with.”

She huffed and gasped, rising from the floor with noodle-legs as she tried to balance the massive pack on her shoulders. Her heart sank when she saw Blueblood dragging two more equally hefty suitcases from the same closet. “Blueblood, you can’t be serious.”

“That’s Indigo,” he said with a smirk, slamming another suitcase onto her overburdened shoulders. “And like I said, this is as light as I can manage.”

“What’s in these things?! Canterlot Palace?”

“Very funny. If you must know, the two you’re carrying are just my accessories and grooming supplies.” He sashayed past her with his last suitcase tucked under his foreleg. “This one is all formal wear. I’ll buy casual wear as we go.”

Trixie huffed and puffed as she followed him off of the train and into the station.

Even with the air conditioning at full blast, it was still bone dry and boiling inside. Blueblood could only imagine what it was like outside. He checked his pocket watch just to be sure they were on schedule. They were two minutes late. He made a mental note to send a message back to Equestria deriding their transit system. With his hooves clacking on the polished tiles, he made his way to a nearby stone bench and had a seat. Trixie followed behind, her mane wilted and her breath ragged. She trailed a string of expletives that would have drawn looks of horror if she said them only a hair louder.

“Ah! Salaam, friends!” A trio approached out of the crowd, two jackals dressed in loose sirwals and a horse standing tall and regal in sumptuous embroidered silk. The horse at the center gave a bow, keeping his eyes fixated on the prince. “You’re very lucky! We only received word you were arriving a few hours ago! The Caliph, whose mercy is unceasing, briefed us that you were to be our new ambassador. How lucky we must be that Equestria sends her prince to us!”

He stepped forward, extending his hoof. Blueblood reached out and clasped the greeter by the elbow and nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, prince. I am Aster, diplomatic liaison in training.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Blueblood smiled as warmly as he could. “I am Indigo, and I look forward to working with you.”

Trixie was on the verge of collapse as she trudged her way to the group, who seemed perfectly fine meeting without her. Dripping with sweat and half-sick with exhaustion, she stood knock-kneed as Aster regarded her with a casual, dismissive glance. “And I presume this is your…” He searched his mind before finishing with a Sarabic word that got a laugh out of Blueblood.

“No, no! Nothing like that!” He dismissed with a wave of his hoof. “In fact, she’s my court wizard. At least for this trip.”

“Ah! My apologies! Salaam, mighty Magus.” Aster bowed to her as well, before clapping his hooves and issuing a command to the two Jackals. They stepped forward, silent and resolute, as they took the bags from her and slung them over their shoulders. Trixie exhaled a sigh of relief and swooned, resting against Blueblood’s flank. He shook her off with a shudder of disgust when he felt the sweat on her coat.

“‘Mighty’?” Trixie smirked slightly as she slicked her damp mane to one side. “I like the sound of that…”

“And your name?” Aster extended a hoof to her. Trixie followed Blueblood’s lead and held on at the elbow. It was at that moment that she realized she hadn’t actually decided on a name. Her eyes drifted around the station, tracing across the mosaics. The mouldings near the ceiling were wrapped in delicate strands of thorny vines. That was good enough for her.

“Briar. The Mighty Magus Briar.” Trixie replied with a nod. She turned the phrase over in her mouth. It didn’t quite have the same ring to it, but she’d get used to it eventually.

“And it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Aster smiled and motioned for Blueblood and Trixie to follow. “Now come, come. Let’s get you settled in your rooms at the palace. The Caliph, whose rule is just, will endow you with official diplomatic responsibility at tomorrow's welcoming banquet. Until then, however, we should-”

“Before that,” Blueblood interrupted, “I’d like to meet with my predecessor. I understand he’s been shirking his responsibilities, and I’d like to personally chew him out before delivering his formal dismissal.”

“Ah, my prince! There will be time for that later! For now, you must be worn out after such a journey and-”

“I’m hardly tired. I’d very much like to meet with him before I settle in.”

Aster swallowed hard. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Trixie nudged Blueblood and glared at him, dropping her voice to a whisper. “I would very much prefer to go to the palace and settle into her room.”

“And you can do that after I dismiss Rough Cut as brutally as possible.”

“You haven’t been carrying backbreaking luggage in this heat!” Trixie brushed her damp mane out of her eyes, scowling.

Blueblood exhaled low and slow, rubbing his temple with the tip of his hoof. “If we go and dismiss him now we won’t need to go back out to do it later. And I’d rather not need to go out during the hottest part of the day.”

Trixie’s eyes shrank to pinpricks. “It gets hotter?”

“In a few hours, yes. Right around midday. So the sooner we dismiss our shiftless ambassador, the better.” Blueblood trotted on, and Aster sprinted ahead to lead him. Trixie fell glumly into line behind him. Thankfully, Aster wasn’t going to make them walk. They were herded into an alabaster carriage brushed with sparkling gold. The pair of jackals clambered up into the driver's seat while Aster took a seat inside with them. The interior was covered in densely embroidered rugs in a dizzying array of colors and kept cool with a spinning fan set into the ceiling. Trixie slouched into her seat, still in disbelief that the heat could rise.

They trundled down the street, leaving the station in the dust and getting their first glimpse of the city proper. Vibrant market stalls lined the pavement, their owners barking out deals in Sarabic as they showed off carpets, fruits, bottles of wine, hoof-woven baskets, and jewelry. The air was filled with the greasy smells of oil flames and street food. Blueblood watched as a chef grilled thick slabs of flatbread on one burner and a mix of peppers and onions on another. He piled the steaming veggies onto the bread, folded it over, and handed it off to an impatiently bouncing colt. Another enterprising restaurateur served up a sweeter fair, selling large paper cones of candied almonds, pecans, and pistachios. Trixie’s stomach growled and her mouth watered.

Turning off the market street, the hustle and bustle hardly ceased. They passed by a statue garden that was packed with horses, camels, and jackals alike. As they drew near, it became clear why. Every statue was a fountain that spit streams of cool, clear water or gave off plumes of chill mists.

“Lineage Park.” Aster gestured out the window. “Every Caliph commissions a statue to commemorate their reign and has it placed in the park as a marker of their rule. We started adding the water features to increase attendance, and it worked like a charm.”

“I wouldn’t say no to splashing in cold water right about now,” Trixie said longingly as they passed it by.

Coffee and Tea Cafes were a dime a dozen in Saddle Arabia, it seemed. Trixie counted at least eight just on the one street alone. Most had large outdoor seating areas with low tables surrounded by cushions where horses sat and chatted over mugs of fragrant, faintly spicy-smelling teas or coffee so strong the scent made her wince. Their carriage paused at an intersection as a procession of horses in black robes with high, cubical caps crossed in a solemn procession. They spoke rhythmically, occasionally breaking out in shrill ululations that Trixie couldn’t understand.

“What are they saying?” She whispered to Blueblood, whose ear perked at the sound.

“It’s a prayer.” He replied. “‘Bless the moon which gives life, and bless the sun which takes it’.”

“Your Sarabic is impressive, Indigo.” Aster inclined his head. “Alabaster, your predecessor, never bothered to learn it.”

“A shame. It’s a lovely tongue, once you get the hang of it.”

The carriage started up again, and Aster did his best to give them a flying tour of the city. He pointed out the notable architecture, like the large arches constructed in antiquity or the smokestacks of modern factories. He took special pride in pointing to the piercing minarets that called twice daily for prayer, and the black and white temples of the cosmos that dominated their districts. Blueblood had seen much of it on his last visit, and although he loved Sutaf, something he glimpsed out of the window stuck out to him more than any of its architecture.

There were a surprising number of ponies around. Some were clearly tourists, leering at street art or fumbling their way through basic Sarabic, but others were a much different breed. They walked in orderly rows, bore muskets over their shoulders, and dressed in Equestrian guard uniforms decades out of date. Mercenaries, Blueblood assumed. But what did Saddle Arabia need with Equestrian soldiery? He supposed he’d find out when he met with Rough Cut.

One of the jackals leaned down to tell them they were taking a slight detour, as the road ahead was blocked off for a demonstration. Blueblood peered down the street and could see a crowd of horses, jackals, and camels dressed in indescribably filthy attire waving black ribbons and chanting. It was difficult to make out from a distance,, but he was positive he heard the Caliph mentioned in their slogan—and not positively, either.

At last, they arrived in a wide plaza centered by a pond with mirror-smooth water studded with regal lilies. The cobblestone paving underhoof was bone white and polished until it shone. The horses who sat in the few cafes or walked the streets did so with distinct purposes, some bearing obvious marks of rank or carrying bundles of books beneath their chins. A mage in a hurry was levitating a book in front of his face and munching on baklava with his hooves, the charm of his necklace glittering with magic. Another was performing on the edge of the lily pond, weaving streams of conjured flame in spiral strands to an enraptured audience. Aster pushed open the door and stepped out into the square, taking a deep breath.

“Welcome to University Square,” Aster said as he helped the pair down from the wagon. “Come. We’ll take you to Alabaster.”

The three were led into one of the buildings, part of the Health Ministry, according to the sign out front. The interior smelled heavily of industrial cleaner and freshly waxed floors. Blueblood hated the hospital scent. They passed by clusters of medical students, some standing around sick horses and taking notes, some going over charts, others who were speaking in hushed tones about a diagnosis. Trixie’s heart leapt into her throat when she peered through the curtains of a room and caught a glimpse of a practice surgery in progress.

Aster was silent as he led them down two flights of stairs. The temperature dropped steeply as they pressed through a pair of heavily insulated metal doors. Trixie went from boiling to shivering as her sweat froze on her coat. Blueblood could see his breath in wispy clouds as they trotted down the hall. The reek of antiseptic grew so thick that he nearly choked on it. An ominous dread was starting to roil in his stomach. Aster knocked at a door and was allowed in by a mare dressed from head to toe in bright white scrubs. She looked at the two ponies and visibly frowned through her mask.

Blueblood’s heart sank as he stepped into the room. Polished metal tables stretched from wall to wall, with equine forms of various sizes concealed by white sheets. It was the morgue.

Aster stood beside one of the tables, his eyes downcast. “I’m sorry, Indigo and Briar. I was hoping to break the news to you another day, but you were so insistent. I figured it was best to show you plainly.”

The doctor rolled down the sheet just enough to see the face beneath it. Rough Cut lay on the table, staring at the ceiling with blind, cloudy eyes.

“Celestia and Luna both…” Blueblood breathed. Trixie looked up at him, eyes wide with horror. “How long has he-”

“Four months.” The doctor said with a cold, clinical voice. “Found dead in his chamber early in the morning.”

“We intended to have him shipped back to Equestria for a proper funeral,” Aster said solemnly. “But without an ambassador to handle the request, things were complicated. Everything has been complicated as of late.” He breathed out a forlorn sigh.

Trixie clung to Blueblood’s shoulder to steady herself. “We should go.”

Blueblood found himself unable to look away from Rough Cut’s gaze. He couldn’t help but feel it was somehow his fault. It was his signature on the dispatch, wasn’t it? He swallowed hard and forced himself to look away.

A thought drifted into Blueblood’s mind. Everything was political. An Equestrian diplomat dead in a foreign country, leaving their eyes blinded for four months? Who in Saddle Arabia stood to benefit from the lack of a diplomat? Who had Rough Cut aligned himself with? Had he angered someone powerful enough to kill with impunity? If so, whom? What had his agenda been, and who did it threaten?

A thousand questions buzzed in Blueblood’s brain. He bit his lip and exhaled sharply through his nose. Fine. Diplomacy was his special talent. They wanted to play politics? Then he would play their game right back. “I expect a full autopsy report to be sent to my chambers. Understood?”

“Of course.” The doctor inclined her head.

“And, Aster, I expect a full breakdown of Alabaster’s time as diplomat.” He leveled his gaze on the horse. “Saddle Arabia has changed since my last visit. I want to know who’s who. Political groups, dissidents, the Caliph—whose rule is eternal—and his family, the economy, the industry, the military, the… Have I forgotten anything, Briar?”

Trixie took a moment to remember that was her name. “Oh! Well, uh… The universities, I’d assume.”

“Yes, the universities, too.” He nodded. “A full report on all of that, and I’d like it by tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Ah, my prince.” Aster shuffled nervously. “That’s a lot of information to gather in one night. I could perhaps have it by—”

“By tomorrow morning, as I said.” Blueblood practically growled the words. “You had four months to act and didn’t. I don’t know how Alabaster treated you, but I am not him. You work for me now. Understood?”

“Yes, Indigo.” Aster bowed at the waist and swallowed hard. “I understand. I’ll have a report for you in the morning.”

“Good.” Blueblood huffed, turning on his heel. “Now, our chambers await.”

He took Trixie arm in arm, as she was still weak at the knees from her brush with the dead.

“I thought you said this would be like a vacation?” She muttered as they exited the morgue and stepped into the sunlight once more.

“I thought it would be.” Blueblood ran a hoof through his mane while they waited for Aster. “I understand this isn’t what you signed up for, and if you want to return to Equestria after—”

“Go back now?” Trixie shook her head. “No way.”

“I’m just saying you don’t have to—”

She held up a hoof. “Blue— Indigo, if you keep offering, I’m going to take you up on it. I’m not letting you do this alone.”

Blueblood leaned against the carriage and took a deep breath. “And how much of that bravado is because there’s twenty-five hundred bits at stake here?”

“Oh, all of it,” Trixie replied, fanning herself with her hat. “That’s enough for me to live on for months, and I’m not passing on it. I’ll be here until the end, or at least until my contract is up.”

Blueblood rolled his eyes and managed a faint smile. “Thank you, Briar, for your selfless dedication to the cause.”

“Now, c’mon,” Trixie clambered up into the cab as Aster emerged from the Medical Center. “It's hot out, and I’m due for an ice bath and a bottle of chilled wine at the palace.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Political Education

"Remember! A good diplomat keeps his head down. Stirring up strife abroad is cause for immediate recall. A diplomat of Equestria advocates for their homeland safely and politely!" —The Precocious Princeling's Guide to Diplomatic Relations

Chapter 3: Political Education

The Royal Palace was nearly as wide as Canterlot was tall. While its central complex was puny by comparison, it more than made up for it with the sprawling estate it covered. Even in Equestria Trixie wasn’t sure she had ever seen so much greenery. Pristine manicured lawns gave way to dense hedgerows that concealed bungalows festooned with creeping waterfalls of violet wisteria. Imported willow trees shaded hoof-dug ponds stocked with shimmering koi. Bright rows of flowers lined crunchy paths of sun-bleached gravel, and hidden fountains arced streams of water over their heads as they walked.

The line between the palace interior and exterior was blurry. Much of the building was open and airy, with huge doors and windows that let in cool, scented air that flowed through the halls. Blueblood could almost immediately sense the politics of the place through its architecture. Canterlot was old—a bulwark of an older era meant to defend the mountains it had been built in—but the Saddle Arabian place was new. The walls were unblemished by fire or siege, unlike the battle-scarred walls of the city, and the floors were crisp and fresh beneath his hooves. Here was a place for pleasure, not for protection. And yet, he could still see that defense was a concern.

It seemed that every third horse—Blueblood noted that there were only horses here—they passed was a guard, easily distinguished by their pointed helmets, black robes, and long-barreled jezails slung across their backs. They stood watch at intersections, flanked doorways, glared from high alcoves, and marched in packs of three through the wide, sunlit corridors. And those were just the ones Blueblood could see. He was sure plenty were just out of view watching his every move.

Aster led them on a long, circuitous path to their rooms in the diplomatic wing. Here, Blueblood felt more at home. There were great libraries, intimate dining rooms for discussing business, directional signs in at least seven languages, and tapestries of flags from around the world lining the hall. They passed a balcony where a pair of gryphons were chatting in low tones over fragrant cigars, brushed by a yak whose snout was stuffed in a basic Sarabic phrasebook, and caught a glimpse through an open doorway of a Zebra furrowing his brow over an unfurled map. The Equestrian quarters were at the very end of the hall, under a woven version of Celestia and Luna’s cutie marks. Aster presented them with a key, bowed low, and allowed his jackals to lay down their luggage.

The room itself was big. Too big, Blueblood felt. A bed wide enough for him and Trixie to share with miles between them was pressed into one corner. Beside the bed was a minute altar—a water basin with an unlit floating lantern bobbing about inside. A massive table large enough for Canterlot’s Council to hold court dominated the center, laden with maps and piles of unopened letters to the former diplomat. There was a fully stocked kitchen, an equally stocked bar, a balcony with a lustrous view of the gardens below, and a bathroom with a swimming pool-sized bathtub.

“If you have need for me, I will come when called,” Aster said as he lingered on the lintel. “Your personal servant will be by shortly to take care of any other needs. As you’ve requested much of me by morning, I must leave you for now. I trust you find your accommodations suitable?”

“More than suitable, Aster.” Blueblood nodded. “Thank you for your service.”

“Please enjoy your stay. I shall return in the morning with the information you requested. Your presence will be required at the welcoming ceremonies tomorrow evening in the Grand Hall. Until then, I bid you salaam.”

“Wa’alaykumu s’salaam.” Blueblood bowed his head as Aster closed the door. The carpet was soft and spongy under his hooves as he strode to the bed and sat on the edge. He nearly sank into it.

Trixie promptly tossed her bag on the floor and trotted towards the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and found exactly what she was looking for. Slinging a bag of ice over her shoulder, she glanced to Blueblood and grinned. “When that servant arrives, ask them to bring up more ice.”

“And what do you need an entire bag of ice for?” Blueblood quirked an eyebrow.

“A very, very cold bath.” With that, she stepped into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

*****

An hour and a half later, Trixie was still in the bath. Blueblood had spent the hour digging through the mail and rattling off responses where needed. Most was the usual affair: expatriation requests, long expired invitations to dances and soirees, requests from local businesses for an official Equestrian endorsement, correspondence from various political groups clamoring for a bit of clout, and other such yammerings. Very little of it seemed to imply an impending death, aside from one particularly incensed fruit vendor whose florid threats became a highlight of Blueblood’s reading.

There was only one message that stood out in the whole pile; a formal-looking notice sealed with a sigil of crossed muskets and three stars. It struck Blueblood as particularly imperial, yet he didn’t recognize it. The letter itself was simple and to the point.

“Ambassador Rough Cut,

I’m terribly sorry that you’ve decided not to follow through with the deal we’ve presented. While your opposition is understandable, I’m still disappointed. I will return to the drawing board with my staff and come up with a new proposition that I’m sure you’ll find more enticing. There is room for Equestria to benefit greatly in Saddle Arabia and I believe we can be a helpful partner in your endeavors.

Blessings,

Duke Fairweather”

The contents themselves weren’t abnormal. Hundreds in the slush pile followed the same format. What struck Blueblood was that the letter used Equestrian names. The paper and ink were subtly different as well. Different in a way that Blueblood found starkly familiar. It felt and smelled like Canterlot stationary, or at least a meticulous copy.

Blueblood privately admitted the lead was tenuous at best, but a tenuous lead was better than none at all. Setting up a meeting with Duke Fairweather would be his first priority after he was properly settled in. Slouching out of his comfy chair, he crossed the all-too-wide room and thudded a hoof against the bathroom door.

“Still soaking!”

“Briar, get out of the bath,” Blueblood replied with an exasperated sigh. “You can’t stay in there forever.”

“Have they brought more ice yet?”

“No.”

“Then I will continue to soak until I get my second dose of ice!”

“We need to talk.”

“Later.”

“I’m coming in.” The Prince’s horn glowed and his magic gripped the doorknob.

On the other side, he heard the slosh of water and Trixie’s yelp. “You can’t! I’m not decent!”

“Then you have three seconds to become decent.” Blueblood turned the knob and counted rapidly under his breath before he threw open the door.

Trixie screamed and covered her body as he stepped inside, trying to shield herself with soapy suds as she splashed in the slippery tub. “How dare you! I’m… I’m…”

“Not wearing a hat and cape,” Blueblood said casually as he took a seat on the edge of the massive bath.

Trixie glanced down at her body and pouted. “It’s still very rude to barge in on a lady while she’s bathing.”

“You’ve bathed enough for one day. Even I don’t take that long in the tub, and I have a twenty-step coatcare routine! And Celestia, don’t get me started on the hoofcare regimen!” He smirked as he tossed a towel in her direction. “Now come. I want you to try something with me.”

Drying herself off and wrapping the fluffy towel around her head, Trixie followed him back into the room. He stood in the small entry hall and stared out into their quarters. He gestured for her to stand beside him, and she fell into place with an annoyed groan.

“You wanted me to see the room? I did that when I stepped in an hour ago!”

“Not see the room. I want you to examine it.” Blueblood motioned with his hoof. “What does this room tell you? Why do you think we’re here?”

“Well, I’m here because you’re paying me.” Her lips curled in a smile that the prince met with a withering glare.

“Just do it, okay?”

“Fine, fine.” Trixie huffed and rolled her eyes. She scanned the scene briefly. “Whoever owns this room is incredibly wealthy.”

“Good start.” Blueblood nodded sagely. “Go on.”

“And…” She chewed her lip as she stepped into the room, the floorboards squeaking under her hooves. Her eyes drifted to their balcony. “They gave us a room that looks over the garden.”

“Why?” He pressed, shadowing her.

“I don’t know. It’s a beautiful view?”

“Think deeper.”

Trixie pushed a frustrated sigh through her nostrils. “Why don’t you just tell me? Save us both the trouble!”

“Because I’m trying to make you think!” Blueblood kept his voice low. “Everything is political. Nothing is by mistake. They gave us this room and everything in it for a reason, Briar. Why?”

“Indigo,” She rubbed her temple with the tip of her hoof, gritting her teeth. His Sarabic name came surprisingly easily to her tongue. “You think there’s a secret reason behind what room they gave us?”

“No, not a secret reason. But people reveal their politics in everything. Usually without noticing.” He gently nudged her shoulder, turning her to face the balcony again. “You were on to something with the balcony. Start there. Why a garden view? I know thinking doesn’t come naturally to you—” She hip-checked him hard at that, but he coughed out the rest. “—but why?”

“Okay, a view of the garden.” Trixie furrowed her brow in thought. What was Blueblood seeing that she wasn’t? Taking a stroll to the wide open doorway to the terrace, she leaned against the square pillars that flanked it. What was she missing here?

That was it.

What was missing?

“If we have a view of the garden, we don’t have a view of the city.” Trixie cast a sidelong glance over her shoulder. “That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

Blueblood’s eyes sparkled. “Now you’re thinking like a diplomat! What else! What does that imply about us?”

Trixie licked her lips. “It means… It means that the city isn’t part of our business. We don’t need to see what we’re not going to deal with.”

“Exactly!” The prince grinned wildly, brushing a stray hair from his face. “It's an implication. We’re foreigners, disconnected from their city and their culture. Remember how Aster tried to bustle us right to the palace when we arrived? Why would we want to look at the markets and streets and universities and restaurants? That’s none of our business. They expect us to sit pretty and attend dinners and balls and spend the rest of our spare time holed up in our room.”

“And!” Trixie beamed. Blueblood’s excitement was rare but infectious. “If that’s what they expect us to do, where do you think they got the idea from?”

“Our dearly departed ambassador Alabaster of course!” Blueblood slapped a hoof against the stone. “Now you’re getting it.”

He crossed back into the room and checked the fridge. There was plenty of chilled wine, but Blueblood was in no mood to dull his wits even slightly now. A fresh bottle of tamarind juice would suffice. He filled two frosted glasses and slid one across the countertop to Trixie, who caught it with her magic and raised it to her lips for a deep gulp. Blueblood took a sip for himself, exhaling cool vapor over the lip of the cup.

“There’s another thing about this room I noticed.” Blueblood mused quietly as he wiped his lip. Trixie pouted faintly, but he dismissed it with a wave. “Don’t worry, it’s not something I expected you to notice. You’d need to be familiar with Saddle Arabia to have noticed.” He jerked his head at the basin beside the bed. “They gave us a Flame Altar.”

“A what?” Trixie turned to see it. “Oh, yeah. I was wondering what that was for. Some sorta religious thing?”

“It is. But it's not exactly a common one.” The prince took another drink of his juice. “Fire Worship is an old faith. Used to be more popular in the ancient days, back before Saddle Arabia was a country. A religion of the sun and moon always existed alongside it, but after contact with Equestrian traders, it gained ground rapidly.

“These days Fire Worship is mostly practiced in rural communities, or poor ones in cities like these.” Blueblood crossed to stand alongside the altar and gently prodded the lantern with his hoof. “I’m damn sure that this wasn’t a part of Alabaster’s room. Someone put it here for us to find.”

Trixie smirked slightly. “Now it’s my turn. Why?”

“That’s what I’m still trying to figure out. Is it a test? Some way to gauge our theological leanings? An attempt at promoting sympathy for a cause? A statement about Alabaster’s personal faith?” He shrugged. “Who knows.”

“Who knows?” Trixie fumed. “Who knows?! You badger me about the view from the window that much, and when you’ve gotta do it in return all you’ve got is who knows?”

“I can’t analyze everything.” Blueblood rolled his eyes.

“I despise you,” Trixie muttered as she finished the last of her juice.

“Consider the feeling mutual!” Blueblood raised his glass in a mock toast and downed his drink with a gulp.

A knock at the door interrupted the pair. It opened a second later to reveal a grey and white pinto mare with a silvery mane and a serious face. She had ramrod rigid posture and eyes that bespoke a spirit unfit for a servant. She stepped inside without a word, knelt, and bowed until her lips touched the carpet. A religious gesture, Blueblood noted.

“Salaam your grace.” She spoke without looking up from the floor. Blueblood could see every muscle in her body taut as a drumskin. “I am Chicory, your humble servant. How may I assist you?”

“You can stand, for one thing.” Blueblood gestured for her to rise as he took a seat at the table. Chicory followed his instruction but didn’t move otherwise. “Did you serve Alabaster as well as myself?”

“Yes, your grace.”

The prince let her answer hang in an awkward pause. He hoped that Chicory might attempt to fill the void and give him some information without request, but she did not. Her eyes, however, flicked momentarily towards the Fire Altar beside the bed. Blueblood followed her gaze until his own eyes rested upon it.

“Chicory,” He said as he trotted beside the altar. “Can you explain what this is? I assumed it was a washbasin when I entered, but the soap in that little dispenser there smelled ghastly. I hope that’s not what all you horses wash with! I understood Sarabia was barbarous, but this is patently ridiculous!”

“It’s a Fire Altar! You would profane such—” Her cool facade snapped for a split second. Chicory inhaled slowly and steadied herself before returning to her icy, blank expression. “Apologies, your grace. A Fire Altar is a sacred artifact from the history of this city.”

“Do you know how it works?” Trixie didn’t move from her seat in the kitchen but raised an eyebrow. “Indigo and I were just discussing what we were supposed to do with it. He suggested drinking the water, but I figured we should ask someone first.”

Blueblood shot her a glare that she returned with a mocking smile.

“I can demonstrate the workings of the Altar for you. If that’s what your grace demands of me.” Chicory glanced between the two ponies, who nodded their approval. Beneath the loose wraps of cloth Chicory wore, something began to glow. Blueblood could tell it was a necklace charm, a not uncommon arcane focus of Sarabian magic. The lantern was plucked from the water and gently dried with one of Trixie’s discarded towels. “Once the light is lit, the lamp will bob through the water in circles. The temples say it’s symbolic; light and warmth surrounded by water that can snuff it out in an instant.”

“And then we just let it run its course until it goes out?” Blueblood chimed in.

“No,” Chicory said firmly. “The fire must be fed. Never let it go out. It’s a reminder to care for something other than oneself.” Chicory lit the wick with a spell and gently placed the lamp back into the basin. “Is there anything else you require of me, your grace?”

“Lunch.” Blueblood turned from the flame to more practical matters. “I presume it will be delivered to our room shortly?”

“Do you have an order, your grace? Our chefs are very skilled at crafting the delicacies you would have enjoyed back in Canterlot.” Chicory’s eyes never left the altar, watching as the glass bubble turned slow circles in the water. “Alabaster was particularly fond of our lemon and strawberry greens mix with a side of seasoned fries.”

“Surprise us.” Blueblood sank into a chair and shrugged nonchalantly. “Something local would be preferred. Something we can only eat here in Saddle Arabia. I wouldn’t want to have come all this way for nothing!”

“Then I’ll return with your meals shortly.” She bowed again, that same distinctly religious bow that touched the carpet, stood to her full height, and exited the room.

“I think we found our Fire Worshiper,” Blueblood said with a grin. “So now we know who set this up in our room. All that remains is to determine why.”

“So here’s what we know so far,” Trixie took a seat across from him. She’d refilled her glass full of tamarind juice and was slurping noisily at the rim. “They don’t think we need to know about the goings on in the city. Someone, probably Chicory, wanted us to have a Fire Altar in our room. Alabaster didn’t like to engage with Saddle Arabia beyond the palace, and they expect us to do the same.”

“And we have somepony to look into.” Blueblood passed her the letter he had been reading while she was in the bath. “He was in contact with somepony named Duke Fairweather. It’s not much to go on, but it’s a start.”

“Better than nothing, I suppose.” Trixie scanned the letter and tossed it aside. Her face grew serious as she watched Blueblood nervously tap his hooves on the table. “Do you think Alabaster was—"

“It had to be murder,” Blueblood muttered gravely. “Everything is pointing to him being a deeply unambitious and unassuming middle manager who barely left the palace. Either he was horrifically boring and died by accident, or someone stood to benefit from him being out of the picture.”

The prince huffed and sulked darkly as he continued.

“Until we’re officially confirmed by the Caliph tomorrow, all we can do is bide our time and wait. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s waiting.”

“And our first move after that?” Trixie cocked her head as she traced patterns in the condensation of her glass.

“Be Alabaster’s opposite. If they don’t want us involved in the city, then the city holds something they don’t want us to see.”

“But—” Trixie’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean we’ll be out in the heat all day, do you?”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“I will not get used to this!”

“Give it a week.”

*****

The sun fell behind the palace walls and painted the world bloody. Blueblood sat on the balcony overlooking the garden picking at the remains of his dinner. Chicory had brought him a crispy pastry stuffed with clotted cream and pistachios as dessert. While it was delicious, he was finding it hard to focus on his meal. A crescent moon appeared in the darkening, violet sky, heralded by the ringing of bells and the hoarse cry of the muezzin calling for the evening prayer.

“We bless the moon and her cool night,” Blueblood muttered a translation of the Sarabic that lilted on a whispering wind. “May her light be everlasting and her love undimmed by the sun.”

The pieces of the puzzle were assembling themselves in front of him. A mysterious reassignment from Celestia herself, a dead ambassador, the implication that he was to play nice like his predecessor and remain in his room all day, a Fire Worshiper servant with a religious posture... There was something rotten here, but he couldn't put his hoof on it. His mind was turning at a million miles a minute. He needed to do something. But until he was properly ordained, all he could do was continue to bother Chicory or Aster for information, and neither seemed particularly forthcoming.

Trixie’s hooves tramped across the stone floor and settled into a seat beside Blueblood. She tilted her hat to shade her eyes as she sipped on her second glass of champagne. Aster had sent them a welcome basket of flowers and wine, and Trixie had wasted no time enjoying both. “Still thinking?”

“Still thinking.” Blueblood cradled his chin in his hoof with a slow, breathy sigh. “I loathe this waiting.”

“I know, you’ve been repeating that on and off all day.” Trixie shook her head and clucked her tongue. She held out her half-empty champagne flute. “Here, drink a little.”

The prince stared at the glass with an expression somewhere between contempt and desire. “I’m not particularly in the mood to—”

Before he could protest further, Trixie thrust the glass into his open mouth and tilted it back. Blueblood choked and spluttered, dribbling wine down his chin as he gagged. Trixie’s magic held the glass firm until he had downed it.

“Are you trying to kill me?!” Blueblood spat, frantically pawing at his coat. “Oh, this is going to take hours to scrub out! I hope you’re happy with yourself you ungrateful—”

Before he could finish, Trixie had slid the half-empty bottle across the table to him. “Indigo, Celestia help me, drink the wine and shut your mouth.”

Blueblood held the bottle with his magic and brought it to his nose to sniff. Trixie set a clean flute at his side and he measured out a steady pour for himself.

“I get it. I hate waiting too.” Trixie went on, kicking her hooves idly. “But it’s like the old saying. ‘Never do today what you can put off ‘till tomorrow’.”

The champagne froze inches from Blueblood’s lips as he cocked his head at her. “I don’t think that’s how it goes.”

“Whatever. It’s the creed I live by.” Trixie lashed her tail dismissively. “You’ve done all you can today, so all we can do is enjoy our time until tomorrow.”

“That’s just it.” Blueblood sipped his champagne morosely. “I’m a Prince of Equestria. There’s always something that I should be doing.”

“And right now, you should be doing nothing.” Trixie managed a casual grin.

Blueblood tried to return it, but his faint smile failed to reach his eyes.

“You know what?” Trixie rose and grabbed Blueblood by the hoof. “I think you’re just crabby after the trip.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“You haven’t even taken a bath! You’re still all disgusting and sweaty and smelly from earlier!”

“I am not—”

Trixie jerked him along behind her as she led him back into their shared room. “You are. Even if you don’t think you are, you are.”

“I’m—” Blueblood protested futilely as he was shoved into the bathroom. He tried the door but found Trixie had heaved her full weight against it to keep him inside.

“Just soak for an hour or so! You’ll feel better! Trust me!” Her voice was muffled through the heavy oak.

“Can I at least have my champagne while I soak then?” Blueblood rubbed his forehead, slowly resigning himself to his fate.

The door opened a crack and Trixie shoved his drink through. “Drink up!”

BANG! She slammed it shut again. Not seeing any other option, Blueblood sat on the tub's edge and ran himself a warm bath.

He’d have Alabaster’s autopsy in the morning. That would clear things up.

Art and Culture

"Is it our lot to bear the unbearable? To face the rot and decay of our nation and smile? Is it not written: 'For the Sun and Moon command justice. Their light and shall not grace the oppressor.'?—Excerpt from a Political Treatise found in Saffron Square

Chapter 4: Art and Culture

Blueblood stared down at the scroll he had unfurled on the table. It couldn’t be right. He glowered and glared as though he could change the results of the autopsy through sheer force of will. Yet the words remained defiant.

Cause of Death: Cardiac Arrest.

“Aster,” He said in a voice like cracking glass. “You’re absolutely positive that this was the coroner’s conclusion?”

“Ah, my prince, I regret to inform you that I am not a doctor.” Aster managed a nervous bow. “I only report the findings given me. No more, no less.”

Blueblood’s eyes flew down the parchment. Who was the attendant physician? His eyes landed on the name Marshmallow. Who were they? Could they be trusted?

“This… Marshmallow.” Blueblood tapped the name with the manicured point of his hoof. “Do you know them? I’m half tempted to assume they’re a quack and a fraud.”

“They’re the Caliph’s personal physician,” Aster replied without a hint of offense.

If the Caliph trusted them with his life, then it stood to reason they were a reasonably skilled doctor. That ruled out a mistake. All that remained was willful ignorance or sabotage. Blueblood pursed his lips as he sank into a comfortable chair. Trixie stirred from the kitchen, dropping a glass of mango juice beside him. She offered a glass to Aster as well, who took it graciously. Blueblood could see the gears in her head turning; her rudimentary political education grinding against her pre-existing knowledge.

“You worked with Alabaster, right?” Trixie cocked her head, her hat flopping to one side.

“I did indeed, my magus.” Aster remained standing, his knees locked as he sipped his juice.

“Did he seem like he was in poor health to you? A heart attack doesn’t usually come out of nowhere, does it?”

“Ah, such things can be hard to predict. Good stallions have been cut down in their prime by a failure of the heart.” Aster shifted his shoulders, drink sloshing in his glass. “Alabaster was a strong stallion. He claimed to have served in your Royal Guard before assuming the post here. Well known for enjoying long walks in the gardens and dancing wildly at galas.”

“It sounds like he was quite fit.” Blueblood’s suspicions piqued.

Aster held up a hoof. “Please my Prince, allow me to finish.”

The Prince snorted sharply, crossed his forelegs on the table, and jerked his head for the horse to go on.

“He was indeed quite the imposing specimen. But that belies other risks. Alabaster was a lover of strong drink. He smoked habitually, sometimes filling the gardens with acrid smog as he tore through a pack of cigarettes. He developed a deep affection for the finer foods from the palace kitchen, sometimes going weeks subsisting on only sweets and liquor.” Aster breathed out a soft sigh. “I miss him dearly, but there was no doubt in my mind he was not healthy.”

Blueblood fumed as he scanned the scroll again. What was he missing here?

“I apologize that this news has unsettled you, my prince.” Aster bowed low, keeping his eyes locked on Blueblood. “Perhaps my other tidings may bring you more joy.”

Aster reached into his saddlebag and lowered a thick, hastily bound book onto the table. The silver and glass rattled as it touched down. Blueblood’s eyes went wide. “What is that?”

“You requested reports on all notable occurrences during Alabaster’s tenure.” Aster rapped a hoof against the cloth cover. “I took the liberty of collating them into a proper book for you to peruse at your leisure.”

“That’s—” Blueblood couldn’t finish his thought. He cracked open the cover and listened to the cascading crackle of freshly printed papers. It smelled of clean ink and pressing irons. His jaw gaped as Aster stood proudly beside his creation.

“My family have been bookkeepers for three generations. I humbly pray that my work be judged sufficient.”

“This is satisfactory.” Blueblood tried to keep his voice level through his shock. Trixie had dragged the book across the table and started leafing through it already.

Aster downed the last of his mango juice and daintily placed the empty glass on the table. “With that accomplished, I shall take my leave. I remind you that the Caliph will be blessing your mission at the welcoming ceremony tonight. Until then, I will be at your beck and call.”

Trixie nodded and managed a quick, “Thanks!” as Aster trotted to the door and exited. The second that the door slammed shut, she and Blueblood locked eyes.

“I don’t like the look in your eyes.” Trixie’s ears lowered. “You look like you’re about to ask me something—”

“Can you induce a heart attack with magic?” Blueblood blurted the words faster than his thoughts could keep up.

“—uncomfortable.” Trixie finished her sentence and exhaled a sigh. “No. Great and Powerful as I am, that’s not in my repertoire.”

“Could somepony competent do it?”

Trixie harrumphed and tossed her mane. She swiveled her chair sharply and refused to dignify him with eye contact. “Magic simply doesn’t work that way. Affecting a living thing is already a tall order, but to cause a heart attack with no other signs? I doubt even Celestia’s pet could pull that off!”

“If not magic…” Blueblood trailed off, scanning the coroner's report. Much of it was incomprehensible medical jargon to him, and the parts he could parse seemed perfectly pedestrian. “Then what?”

“You still think it was a murder?”

“I’m highly suspicious.” Blueblood narrowed his eyes.

“You heard Aster.” Trixie slurped her mango juice thoughtfully. “He was a smoker. He drank. He wasn’t a healthy pony, Indigo. It could have just been bad timing.”

“Something is wrong here,” Blueblood replied, his voice edged with ice. “Horribly, horribly wrong. Everyone has their own agenda, and I’m trying to untangle them but—” He twisted a hoof in his mane and growled. “I haven’t even been officially sworn in as a diplomat yet!”

Trixie tapped a hoof on the table as an idea struck her. She flipped through the massive tome Alabaster had gifted them, all the way to the final page. Sarabic reports of Alabaster’s untimely hospitalization and finally his passing had been trimmed and pasted from multiple newspapers. She turned back through the book, combing through pages of curling, cursive Sarabic script she couldn’t read until she stumbled on one scrawled in plain Equine.

“Indigo, take a look here.” She shoved the book across the table to him, arching her back just to move the heavy binding. Blueblood glanced down at the parchment, his eyes igniting.

It was Alabaster’s itinerary from the last day.

"9 AM Coffee and briefing with Aster.

11 AM Lunch

1 PM Meeting with Wormwood

4 PM Grand Opening of Celestial Antiquities (Market District, Palm Street)

6 PM Waltz of the Crescent Moon"

Blueblood turned the page forward, back to the newspaper reports of Alabaster’s passing. He scanned the lines of tightly packed Sarabic and swiftly found what he was looking for.

“Here,” He dragged his hoof across a line of text. “The ambassador collapsed during last Night’s Waltz of the Crescent Moon. That means we have three witnesses to his last day: Aster, Wormwood, and whoever owns Celestial Antiquities. We find them—”

“And we can figure out if he was showing symptoms.” Trixie finished, her eyes sparkling. “And if he wasn’t showing any symptoms during the day—”

“Then we know that it wasn’t a natural heart attack.” Blueblood slapped the table. “Briar, sometimes I don’t regret keeping you around.”

“And sometimes I don’t regret tagging along with you.” Trixie rolled her eyes.

“Now,” Blueblood rose from the table, leaving his juice untouched. “We don’t meet with the Caliph until late tonight, and I’m loath to follow in Alabaster’s hoofsteps by staying in the palace all day. What do you say we head out on the town, get some breakfast, and do some proper sightseeing?”

“Can we see some sights in the shade at least?” Trixie said as she followed suit.

The pair packed their saddlebags with extra bottles of ice-cold water and hit the town. They received some strange looks from the horses in the palace as they headed for the exit. Blueblood read confusion in their eyes. “Why leave the palace? Why go into the wider city?” they seemed to say. But Blueblood was determined. His predecessor had slacked on his duties; not least of which was being visible in their host country.

As they left the palatial gardens, Blueblood and Trixie descended a hillside road into the beating heart of the capital. The air was thick with the smells of sweat, smoke, coffee, spice, sharp tea, sawdust, and bricks baking in the sun. The morning streets were thronged by horses, camels, and Jackals of all walks of life, chattering to each other in rapid Sarabic as they hurried along. There were students downing paper cups of coffee, old, grey-furred jackals sitting on the curb and begging for coins, wealthy camel merchants arrayed in colorful costumes that sparkled with jewels, and dull workhorses shuffling along towards the distant factory smokestacks. Centennial Street was a perfect intersection of Sarabic life; a blending of social strata that would thin the further they delved into the city.

And so Blueblood began to analyze it as they walked. Trixie kept her eyes peeled for a breakfast nook that wasn’t overflowing with customers, while Blueblood flicked his gaze over everything in sight.

The wall of a general goods store had been plastered with posters. Most were advertisements for competition or fliers for underground concerts and impromptu poetry performances. But mingled with them almost imperceptibly were the political screeds. Hoofwritten conspiracy drivel, lazy slogans about working together, and sharp, pointed critiques of the Caliph caught his attention.

“Are we to sell our sons to enrich the Caliph? Unionize NOW!”

“Our voices are many! Let yours be heard!”

“We remember the fallen at Saffron Square.”

Blueblood tucked these into his memory. The graffiti he spotted was even more pointed. A mural of a young Caliph Sandalwood had been defaced with a single word. Murderer. A sigil of crossed swords in front of a rising flame has been painted over the Caliph's cheek. The blades and flame was a consistent motif, that caught Blueblood's eye, drawn in a range of styles from the crude to the ornate. More to store in his mind and examine later.

Snippets of conversation clued him into the city's health. Workers complaining about long hours and low pay. Aristocratic stallions snorting contemptuously about protests shutting down streets. Shabby mares huffing about the rising price of their morning coffee. Fillies crying because their parents are trying to save money and can’t afford their usual treats. Frustration. Anger. Fear. A simmering soup of negativity barely kept in check only by the constant presence of the soldiers who marched among them.

The peaked helmets of the Sarabic army bobbed among the crowd, some off duty and enjoying breakfast, others on patrol and scanning for rabble-rousers. The commonality between the two was they projected power. They were the eyes and hooves of the Caliph himself among the rabble. And beside them, there were the ponies, suspiciously armed at all times and parting crowds wherever they went.

It was an average morning in the city of Sutaf, and Blueblood could feel the pulsing tension beneath its surface. Everything was political. Everything was notable. Everything was pointing to old wounds never allowed to heal, threatening to open anew and bleed—

“Indigo!” A sharp slap to his flank snapped Blueblood from his thoughts. Trixie had stopped outside a small, intimate-looking cafe that wafted sweet and savory odors into the street. “If you want to walk the city, do it on your own time! I’m starving.”

Blueblood’s eyes drifted to the sign above the door. “Briar, you can’t read Sarabic at all, can you?”

“Not a word.”

“Are you aware the diner you chose is called The Grease Pit?” He arched an eyebrow at her.

“I fail to see the problem.” She replied as she started to push him towards the door. Blueblood dug in his hooves.

“I am not eating here.”

“You told me to pick the cafe, and I picked the Grease Trap!”

“Briar, I am not going to sully my palate with such disgusting commoner fare!” Blueblood’s hooves skittered in the dusty street as Trixie put her back into it, shoving her shoulder against his flank. “It’s undignified of a prince!”

“You don’t even know what the food tastes like!”

“I know I won't like it!” The Prince whined, rearing and clinging to the doorjamb with his forelegs.

“Stop acting like a gelding and move!” Trixie huffed as she rammed into him. It was like trying to move a statue.

“No!”

“Indigo!”

“I said no!”

Trixie exhaled sharply and blew her mane out of her eyes. After another shove didn't dislodge him, she decided to switch tactics. She whirled around, sucked in a deep breath, and bucked him as hard as she could manage. Blueblood yelped as his grip on the doorframe was shattered and he was hurled into the cafe with a remarkably unregal thud. Trixie tossed her mane and trotted in after him, walking over his back as he tried to rise from the floor.

“Table for two, please!” She proudly announced, only to receive a blank stare from the grease-spattered palomino that stood beside the sizzling griddle. Ah! Of course! They must speak Sarabic.

Trixie gave the prince a kick in the back, eliciting a disgruntled groan from under her hooves. “Translation please!”

Blueblood muttered something that the chef seemed to recognize and he swiftly directed them to a booth beside the window. Trixie smiled as she plopped down on the worn wicker seating while Blueblood hefted himself into his with a hiss.

“Do you know what you want?” Trixie cocked her head as she leafed through the menu. It was all Sarabic squiggles with few pictures.

“To go home.”

“Oh shut up, you big baby.” Trixie batted his horn with her menu. “Help me read this.”

With Blueblood translating, the two ponies settled on a dish of soft, doughy flatbreads served with honey and cups of mint tea. Trixie dug in right away, but Blueblood seemed content to stare at the meal with a mixture of horror and fascination. He prodded at the bread, cringing when he felt the thin layer of oil that clung to the surface.

“I think their griddle needs cleaning.” He said as he wiped his hooves with a thin paper napkin.

“It adds flavor.” Trixie mushed around a mouthful, already drizzling honey over another slice. “Indigo, you can’t starve yourself.”

“I can and I will.” He had iron in his voice.

“You’ll pass out in the heat and then I’ll be stuck lugging your ass back to the palace.”

“I’ll find another, cleaner cafe to eat at later.” Blueblood sniffed at his tea and hesitantly took a sip.

Tearing a chunk off her flatbread, Trixie dunked it in honey and held it out across the table. “Just try it.”

“And sully my highly cultured palate with the cuisine of the proletariat?” The Prince held a hoof to his breast and gasped with offense. “Never! Utterly out of the question! You may as well be asking me to eat hayburgers out of a dumpster!”

Trixie glanced at the honey-soaked bread that she held with her magic. Her eyes drifted to Blueblood’s impeccably groomed white coat. He’d spent just over an hour in the bath this morning with a whole suite of scrubs, washes, exfoliates, and conditioners. A wicked grin curled her lips from ear to ear.

“Fine. Don’t try it.” Trixie gestured with the flatbread. “But if you don’t, I’m going to rub this on your coat.”

Blueblood’s eyes turned to pinpricks. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.” She thrust it like a blade, only for Blueblood to hastily dodge. He pressed himself against the back of the booth, the glittering, sticky breakfast only inches away from his cheek. “You can dodge all you want, Indigo! I’ve got a whole jar of honey here, and if it takes a whole jar, then I’ll—”

“Fine! Fine!” Blueblood threw up his hooves and hung his head in surrender. “I’ll try it. Just one bite.”

He opened his mouth and gave her a look like a prisoner facing the gallows. Trixie retorted with a cat-like grin as she popped it into his mouth. He recoiled, winced, and covered his mouth with a hoof to keep himself from gagging. Yet he chewed and swallowed in spite of everything.

“So, how did it taste?” Trixie snickered as she held out a flatbread.

Blueblood took it without thanks. “Pass the honey, please.”

*****

The Sutaf Museum of Modern Art was an ornately decorated building just off Caravan Way, only a short walk from the train station they had disembarked at the day before. Slender towers peaked in wide, downward curved domes that reminded Blueblood of a cluster of mushrooms. Red and black banners dangled from their edges, splashing some much-needed color on the otherwise austere exterior. Underhoof the plaza was paved with white and blue mosaic tiles, a winding river flowing gracefully through the courtyard. Trixie bought a bag of candied almonds from one of the innumerable street vendors who had lined the stony shores of this ersatz river, shilling snacks, drinks, and even portraits of guests.

Dozens of architectural students were clustered in front of the building, framing it with their pencils and sketching out the soft curves and natural shapes of the museum. Fillies and Colts were tugged along by parents far more interested in the arts than their children. Ponies on vacation from Equestria gawked and craned their necks, trying to take in the whole of the building at once. One tried to take a seat on a black-painted bench, only to yelp as the sizzling metal branded their flank. Shade was at a premium and parasols were common. Blueblood made a mental note to buy one. As they stepped beneath the mushroom domes, they could see that the underside was all glass, letting them look right up at the blurry shapes of horses shifting between galleries.

“I take it you picked the art museum for a reason?” Trixie said as they ascended the steps. She politely brushed off a camel who gestured for her to sign a petition.

Blueblood smiled as he paid their fee at the door. “Can’t I just enjoy art? Everypony loves looking at paintings, don’t they?”

“It’s never so simple with you.” She sighed with relief as they entered the foyer and were doused with cool air. “So let’s just get your lecture out of the way so I can actually enjoy the art while you do… Whatever it is you do.”

“Fine, fine.” Blueblood held up his hooves defensively. He accepted a pair of maps, one in Sarabic, one in Equine, and passed one to Trixie. “The way I see it, art is an expression of culture, and culture is informed by…” He gestured to her to finish his thought.

Trixie huffed, fanning her face with the map. “Let me guess? Politics?”

“Precisely!”

“Do you ever turn it off?” Trixie cocked her head as they made a left into their first gallery. “Don’t you ever just enjoy a day without your political sense getting in the way?”

“I can’t.” Blueblood squinted as he entered the dimly lit space. “I spent a decade having this sense drilled into me, and my tutors never taught me where the off switch was.”

“Well, can you at least keep your mouth shut until after our tour? I really don’t want to listen to you blabbing my ear off about every piece we pass.”

“But what will you do without my witty and informative insight?”

“Enjoy myself for a change!” Trixie turned up her snout at him as she trotted off into the exhibit.

Blueblood chomped down on his tongue as he watched her go. He would save his brilliance until the exit. This time at least.

And so they went. They passed through galleries of abstract statues made from mud and street refuse. They gawked at a whole array of tiny, stick-like clay figures carrying bulbous rucksacks. One room contained an installation of a dripping fountain suspended from the ceiling, endlessly eroding a once pristine block of marble. Cement wall fragments plastered with graffiti, paintings of esoteric, emaciated forms dancing, intricate frescos done in the style of early Sarabic tomb inscriptions, nothing seemed too strange or avant garde to get a featured shelf.

As they entered a brightly lit hall filled with student works from the museum’s patronage programs, Trixie felt the atmosphere shift somehow. She couldn’t quite explain it, but things felt different. Cooler perhaps. A light breeze that no one else seemed to feel blew through her mane, carrying with it a faintly smoky, incense odor that she couldn’t quite put her hoof on. A tremor ran from the base of her spine to the tip of her horn, like she’d struck a nerve. When her hooves struck the glassy floors, they didn’t echo off the solid walls. In fact, all sound felt oddly muted. Another breeze brushed her cheek, lingering briefly like a lover’s caress before it billowed through her cape and was gone.

The touch was brief, but Trixie felt it in her core. She felt appraised, as though she had been judged and found wanting. In her ears, she heard the rustle of the wind, the whisper of the river, and the crackle of the flame. Her magical reserves felt full to bursting, dully aching at the base of her horn and demanding a release. Then, just as swiftly as they filled, they were empty. Magical feedback tingled in her limbs like a backfiring spell for a split second, then returned to equilibrium. Gasping for breath, Trixie found herself clinging to the velvet rope that separated guests from the artwork. She looked up and her mouth gaped.

Trixie stood in front of a painting that took up nearly the entire wall, filling it from floor to ceiling. It depicted a chestnut horse standing at the crest of a moonlit sand dune, hoof pointing to the sky. Clouds had gathered above him, black and roiling and angry, and steamy rain fell in pummeling waves. Lightning streaked, whether from the sky to his hoof or from his hoof to the sky she couldn’t tell. Faint shapes whirled in the gloom; faces and limbs outlined only with subtle brushstrokes and faint shifts of hue. The horse’s face was twisted in agony, his mouth open in a scream. Strange sigils flecked his body, glimmering eerily against the shadow. Trixie glanced at the tiny metal plaque beside the painting for its title.

The Prophet Arfaj and the Binding of the Djinn.

Time became merely a concept to Trixie as her eyes drank in the detail. She had never truly had an eye for art. Art was for ponies who didn’t scrap and claw for every bit in their account. Never before had she felt so utterly arrested by a painting. Something emanated from it that stuck in her nerves and buzzed faintly. Brushing her hair from her eyes, Trixie stood there dwarfed by someone who actually deserved the title of Great and Powerful. Never in her life had she felt so small. Reduced to the size of a single brushstroke in someone else's shadow.

Something brushed her cheek. Another caress of something unseen that smelled of bitter incense. This time, however, it spoke to her. Its voice was like the shifting sand, so faint that she shouldn’t have been able to hear it. Yet every word was as clear as crystal.

“That could be you, Briar.”

Trixie swallowed hard.

“Briar?” Blueblood’s voice jumpstarted her heart and made it thud so hard it nearly broke a rib. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” She glanced between him and the painting of Arfaj. “Just really sucked into this one. It’s huge!” Trixie stretched her hooves wide. “Must’ve taken years to paint!”

The Prince stared up at the portrait, yet Trixie could tell just by looking that he wasn’t feeling the same emotions she had. “Very impressive. And by an unknown artist too.”

Trixie hadn’t even noticed, but there was no artist listed. Just an ominous unknown.

“Have you been getting the same readings I have?” Blueblood said, gently tugging her shoulder to dislodge her from her spot in front of the painting. She felt like a flower being transplanted from its bed as she moved along, constantly shifting her eyes over her shoulder to catch one final fleeting glimpse of Arfaj and his Djinn.

“Of course. I’ve picked up on every political suggestion in every piece.” Trixie held her head high, grinning broadly. “But just to make sure we’re on the same page, why don’t you tell me what you saw and I’ll tell you if you’re right?”

“You have no idea what you’re looking for, do you?”

“I don’t need to look. I’m simply all-knowing, just as I am all-powerful.”

“Well, here’s what I’ve noticed.” Blueblood rolled his eyes as they descended a set of spiral stairs. “There’s a constant undercurrent of stress to every piece. Water grinding down marble, stick horses carrying heavy burdens, revivals of ancient styles to remember better, bygone eras.” He ran a hoof down the list of exhibits, tapping them for emphasis. “Saddle Arabia has changed since my last visit. I’ve felt it on the streets too. Tension in the air. You feel it, right?”

Trixie nodded along. Was that what she felt in the gallery? Had she been subconsciously sensing the political spirit of the place? Was that how Blueblood felt every day? If so, she understood why he was so on edge all the time. “Yeah. I felt it in the gallery back there.”

That didn't explain the voice, however. Trixie decided that she must have been hearing her thoughts out loud, her insecurities brought out by the painting.

“We need to dig deeper,” Blueblood muttered. “Tonight, I’m going through the entirety of Alabaster’s tenure to try and figure out what in Celestia’s name has been going on here.”

*****

They exited through a tacky little gift shop stuffed with low-quality facsimiles of various paintings, overpriced sweets for fillies to throw tantrums over, and plush toys of famous artists. Stepping back out into the sunlight during midday was like standing in front of an industrial oven. Blueblood felt the moisturizer stripped from his coat, and Trixie felt her mane wilt under the heat. They bought a parasol from the gift shop, a chintzy cheap thing with the museum’s name arrayed in a spiral of calligraphy, and huddled under it together as they walked the shadeless courtyard. Trixie pressed against the prince, cringing as she felt the sweat of his coat mingling with hers. Blueblood nearly retched at the sensation.

“I told you we should have bought two parasols.” He hissed, too disgusted to stay sidled up to her, but too afraid of the desert sun to leave.

Trixie huffed. Inhaling afterward raked her throat like she swallowed hot coals. “You insisted we only buy one!”

“Only because they were so tacky! Really, walking around with a logo on your apparel? I’d almost rather die!”

“Fine. Suit yourself.” Trixie shifted the parasol and stranded the prince in a blinding beam of sunlight. He shrieked girlishly and groped for the umbrella, forcing it back into position to shade his sweltering back.

“Do you mean to kill me?!” He panted, fanning his face with the gallery map he’d held onto. “Heatstroke can set in within minutes you know!”

"It was your suggestion." She rolled her eyes. “Let's get out of the sun. Back to the palace?”

“Not just yet.” Blueblood scanned the streets as they exited the museum court and reentered the streets. Thankfully there was more shade there, with the fabric overhangs of shops and scattered olive trees that grew alongside the curbs. “Lunch?”

“Yes please.” Trixie exhaled slowly. Despite the abundance of shade, they remained pressed tight under their parasol. “I’ve been dying to try that stuff we saw on our ride to the palace. Some kind of bread stuffed with veggies and sauces?”

“Ah, right.” The prince nodded. “Of course, I’ve no intention of eating them off the streets like common rabble!” He snorted derisively at the very idea. “No! Give me a moment. I’ll find us a place.”

Blueblood stepped out into the blazing glare and trotted over to a pair of horses resting on a shady bench. He conversed with them a moment in Sarabic, eliciting a fierce argument between the two. Eventually, they both settled and pointed south, nodding their agreement to one another. Blueblood bowed slightly and left with a farewell, sidling back up to Trixie. The heat of his sunkissed coat made her shudder as she adjusted their umbrella.

“Well, that was interesting.” He said as he fell into step with Trixie.

“What did you do?”

“Simple, I asked where the best place for pita was in the city. Got some very conflicting answers, but they settled on Al-Hawa in the Lower Market District.” Blueblood smiled faintly as they turned back onto the main road and plodded their way downhill. “Locals loverecommending their favorite places. Asking is the easiest way to find the best restaurants wherever you’re staying.”

The streets were nearly empty at midday, with only a few sweating tourists or truly dedicated locals walking the beat. Carriages rumbled along the pavement, kicking up plumes of dust in their wake. Blueblood casually switched positions with Trixie just in time to avoid one splashing through a drainage ditch, keeping his mane and coat pristine at her expense. She glowered at him as they descended the gentle slope, passing through districts of expansive housing and shady lemon groves. A jackal lay panting in the shade, watching them lazily as they passed.

The further they descended down the hillside, the more crowded things started to become. Horses, camels, and jackals were gathering in the streets, enough at first that Blueblood and Trixie needed to weave between them, but soon enough the roads were becoming clogged. The pair shared a worried glance as they became parts of the crowd; blank faces in the city rabble on the march. They followed along, the throngs growing in number with every step as they approached an unknown destination.

Blueblood scanned the companions he had found himself among. Blue collar workers clocking out for their lunch break, students from universities with books and overdue term papers sticking out of their saddlebags, food cart workers, carriage drivers, maids, servants, and other common clay that Blueblood wouldn’t dream of associating with daily. Something in his gut told him to leave. He recognized something about this motley association, though it took him a moment to realize what.

These were the components of a revolution.

Yet, as they approached the limits of the royal district towards the line in the sand that separated it from the dense urban squalor of the outer slums, Blueblood found himself drawn on. He wanted to see where this went. All around them, the tide was shifting. Banners were rising, stamped with political slogans that Blueblood recognized from the graffiti around the city. “Our voices are many! Let yours be heard!” Chants were going up, sing-song voices demanding the Caliph’s attention.

“Indigo, I don’t like where this is going.” Trixie leaned over and whispered.

Blueblood kept his voice low as he replied. “I don’t either. A diplomat isn’t supposed to get involved in political protests.”

“Then we should leave, right?”

“Not just yet.” Blueblood swallowed hard. “The rules just say we’re not to participate in a political demonstration. There’s no rules about watching.”

Trixie gently nudged him to one side and they shimmied their way through the densely packed crowd. They managed to emerge on the side, standing just barely out of the crowd to observe. Soldiers were starting to gather at the demarcation line, standing shoulder to shoulder with jezails at the ready. Their captain, a horse with a sharply peaked helmet studded with bloody rubies, gave a call to disperse. The crowd replied with jeers and a hail of thrown trash. Tension rising. Blueblood felt his heart beating in his throat. The whistle of his breath rang in his ears like a scream.

“My prince!” A hoof gripped Blueblood’s shoulder and tore his attention from the standoff. Aster stood only inches from him, his eyes wild and his mane a mess. “What are you doing here? Were the palace accommodations not enough?”

“Aster?” Trixie beat Blueblood to the question. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, my friends! This is not a place where royalty such as yourself ought to be!” He jerked his head and gently tugged on the prince, nearly dragging him along. “Come, come. Let’s return to the palace. Surely you’re starving!”

“Actually,” Blueblood attempted to pry Aster’s hoof from him, but the liaison had an impressively strong grip. “We were just on our way to Al-Hawa for—”

“Al Hawa? Please! Such a place isn’t fit for ponies of your exceptional breeding! Let’s get you back to the palace so you can enjoy a nice meal from one of your personal chefs! Come, come!”

Blueblood and Trixie looked to each other and exhaled a sigh. It didn’t take a deep political education to know that Aster was trying to hide something from them. Still, Blueblood consented to return to the palace. The sun was less oppressive than it had been an hour ago, but it was still brutal. Trixie smiled as she fell into line with him and Aster, though her eyes suggested a subtle distrust of their liaison. Already Blueblood was tired of these games. Everyone in Saddle Arabia seemed to be playing their own political game and they saw him not as a Prince, but as a piece to be moved about. What game was Aster playing? What about Chicory? Or the Caliph? Most importantly, what game had Alabaster been playing that got him killed?

Then again, what business was it of his? Perhaps it was for the best, Blueblood thought to himself. If there was one thing that had been thoroughly bludgeoned into him through his years of diplomatic training, it was that getting involved in local politics was a death sentence. After all, these were Sarabs. His duty wasn’t to them, but to Celestia back home in Equestria. What were their petty squabbles and protests to a Prince from a far-off land? Let Saddle Arabia sort out her own problems! Equestria had enough of her own to deal with!

All his thoughts were suddenly shattered by the report of jezails that echoed through the streets behind him.

Ordainment

"In the world beyond Equestria, you will encounter many strange and unique ideas. Not everypony believes the same things you do, and that's okay! Our differences are beautiful! So when you encounter a strange new idea, don't shake your head and scoff! It might just be something you can learn from!" —The Precocious Princeling's Guide to Diplomatic Relations

Chapter 5: Ordainment

Twice, thrice, and yet again Blueblood was assured that the gunshots he had heard were warning shots. Aster assured and reassured him that the soldiers could be trusted to keep the peace and that the place for a prince was in the palace. Yet as he sorted through his outfits for the evening, he kept thinking he should have stayed.

What could he have done? Were there horses dead because he failed to act?

The prince pushed the thoughts from his mind. It wasn’t his place, he told himself. His job was to ensure that the interests of Equestria were taken care of. His place was trade deals and alliances, not local revolts and revolutions. Blueblood looped his crimson tie around his throat and tightened it. He’d selected something as plain as he could manage for his official appointment: a tailored black suit jacket, tie, and a matching cummerbund tied around his stomach. Now it was time for the finishing touch. Blueblood slowly lowered his crown onto his brow. It wasn’t the gaudy, peaked things the princesses wore. No, he hadn’t been allowed anything so eye-catching. His crown was a thin band of silver that bound his head, with Celestia’s sunburst cutie mark embossed in the center. Precious gems were set in a small circle around it, sapphires and diamonds alternating. He looked every bit the Equestrian Royal.

Trixie sat on the bed and rolled her eyes. “Are you done gawking at yourself in the mirror yet?”

“Are you done getting dressed?” Blueblood didn’t look away from his reflection, checking his cheeks for the slightest blemish.

“I’ve been done.” Trixie flopped back on the cushions, staring at the ceiling. “We’re waiting on you, Little Miss Perfect.”

Blueblood averted his gaze for just a moment to check on her. “Celestia’s mane, please tell me you’re not wearing that.”

“Is there something wrong with my cloak and hat?” Trixie arched an eyebrow and tilted her peaked hat up. “It’s iconic!”

“It’s pedestrian.” Blueblood chided. “You did pack formal wear, didn’t you?”

“I packed light.”

The prince exhaled slowly. He snapped his makeup kit shut and crossed the room to one of his bags. “Luckily for you, I made sure to pack extra.”

“I don’t look good in a suit. I’ve tried.” Trixie sat up, kicking her legs over the edge of the bed.

“Considering I’ve selected red for the night, then I’m thinking perhaps a Merlot for you. A good complimentary color.” Blueblood rummaged in the bag, ignoring her protests. “Plus, I think too bright a red would contrast too sharply with your coat. Best to keep things darker and more muted.”

“Indigo, I told you I’m not wearing a—” Trixie was cut short as a wine-colored dress struck her in the snout. Her voice was muffled from beneath the fabric as she struggled to find her way out. “Why do you have a dress in my size?!”

“It’s in my size. It’ll be a bit loose on your hips, but it shouldn’t be too noticeable.” Blueblood tossed his mane. “Now get changed. And Celestia’s sake, fix your mane!”

Trixie’s head popped out from beneath the ruffles. “What do you mean it’s in your… Nevermind. I don’t think I want to know.”

As she changed into the dress, Blueblood decided to take matters into his own hooves and grabbed his brush. He gently combed through her mane, doing his best to shape it into something presentable. Trixie glanced at herself in the mirror as she modeled the dress. It was rich, much too rich for her. Blueblood wasn’t wrong. It complimented the bright red of his tie nicely and went with her coat seamlessly. If she was going to be a fraudulent royal, then at least she would be a beautiful one.

“Well, I’ve done all I can with your mane.” Blueblood tossed the brush back into his substantial makeup bag. “It’s… Presentable.”

“You’re edging dangerously close to complimenting me,” Trixie smirked as she fluffed out her dress. “How do I look?”

“Good enough.” He presented his foreleg and she took it with a grin. “Now, let’s go get ordained.”

*****

The palace ballroom was a massive, cavernously tall space. Two sides of it were open to the royal gardens, letting in both natural light and sweetly scented air. The natural light couldn’t reach the peaks of the room, which was lit by a swarm of magically levitating lanterns. Ancient pillars carved with faded petroglyphs supported the ceiling and held up long, arching garlands of flowering vines. Food and drink flowed freely, with tastefully dressed jackals presenting platters of refreshments to their guests.

The guests themselves were nearly as varied as the flowers of the garden. Zebras, gryphons, yaks, camel merchants, horses, ponies, buffalo, and even a few deer were in attendance, dressed in a dizzying array of colors and styles. It was a melding of world culture all under one roof. Blueblood and Trixie entered the room and were stuck still by the sheer scale of it. Blueblood had attended diplomatic balls in Canterlot, but those affairs were kept small and intimate. Here was the whole world at the tip of his hoof and presented without a filter. And for Trixie, it was the largest party she’d seen since the Grand Galloping Gala.

At the opposite end of the room was a raised dais with a winged throne upon it. A pair of carved lions flanked it with stern expressions and windswept manes. For now, it sat empty. Blueblood imagined that was where the Caliph would be when he arrived.

It took only seconds for the two of them to be swept up in the party. Blueblood accepted a glass of white wine from a jackal and sipped thoughtfully on it as he discussed Equestrian champagne with a pair of Zebras. Trixie took up residence beside a platter of cheeses from across the world and tasted each with a boisterously drunk gryphon. Blueblood kept his eye on her as she flitted between conversations, laughing and drinking. She played the part of a diplomat swimmingly. After all, there was nothing more important than making your country appear likable through yourself.

“Celestia’s mane! Prince Blueblood is that you?!”

Blueblood’s coat stood on end at the mention of his real name. After only a day without it, the words felt awkward to his ears. He turned slowly and found himself standing face to face with an immaculately groomed pegasus with a pale teal coat and a close-cropped mane. His dark hair was salted liberally with grey, though he carried himself confidently despite his age. His cutie mark was a pith helmet laid atop a map. Certainly distinct.

“Have we met?” Blueblood arched an eyebrow incredulously. “And please, call me Indigo.”

“Ah, right, right!” The stallion clasped a hoof to his forehead. “I forgot! Here they have some silly superstition about true names.” He extended his hoof for a shake. “Wormwood is the name here in Saddle Arabia.”

Blueblood shook hooves with him and scoured Wormwood with his glare. He reeked of new money. His suit wasn’t tailored and bore an embroidered fleur-de-lys on the collar. Designer brand; the fastest way to prove to everypony in the room that you have wealth.

“A pleasure to meet you.” Blueblood inclined his head ever so slightly. “I’m sure you already know of me.”

“And perhaps you know of me?” Wormwood straightened his suit jacket with a starchy flap. “Back in Equestria, I was Duke Fairweather. Explorer, soldier, trader, and now manufacturing baron extraordinaire!”

Fairweather. One of Alabaster’s associates. How much did he suspect Blueblood knew? Did he know he was already a person of interest in the death of the diplomat?

“Ah, it’s such a pleasure to finally meet you!” Blueblood brightened his demeanor immediately. “Celestia herself told me of your exploits!” The lie came easily to his lips. He honed in on Fairweather’s brief introduction. Soldier. “I heard you served in… Oh what was it? The Royal Guard?”

“Royal Navy, my friend.” The pegasus corrected gently. “So what brings the Prince of Equestria to Saddle Arabia? Not just to meet with me, I presume!”

“You’re speaking with the soon-to-be-appointed ambassador to Saddle Arabia!” Blueblood puffed his chest with pride. “Princess Celestia decided I needed some time outside the palace, and shipped me off to this backwater post.” He gestured for one of the jackals to give him another glass of wine. Fairweather took a glass for himself and thanked their servant in Sarabic. Blueblood thanked him in Equine. He slipped easily into the role of an ignorant outsider. A clueless royal on an assignment he never wanted, out of his depth and over his head. He all but dared Fairweather to underestimate him.

“It did seem strange that we were without a diplomat for so long.” Fairweather swished the wine in his glass and brought it to his nose. “It’s been a difficult time here without one. I had a good relationship with Rough Cut, our last ambassador. Did you get a chance to meet him?”

I met his corpse.

Blueblood bit his tongue. “No, I wasn’t fortunate enough to make his acquaintance. Did you know him?”

“Quite well! My manufacturing business was running smoothly with him helping me secure contracts from the Caliph. Without him here…” He trailed off. “It’s been difficult.”

There was a moment of silence as both stallions sipped from their goblets.

Duke Fairweather beamed. “But now that you’re here, things will be right as rain! I do hope you’ll come meet with me soon.” He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a varnished paper card.

Fairweather Firearms
“Put a hole in your enemies, not in your wallet!”
14 Canterlot Ave. Equestrian District, Sutaf, Saddle Arabia

“The Equestrian district is lovely.” Fairweather chuckled as he gently ribbed the prince with his elbow. “Sure to banish any homesickness, I promise!”

“Hopefully, I’ll be calling on you soon.” Blueblood pocketed the card. “As soon as I learn to ask directions in this ghastly tongue of theirs.”

Fairweather laughed. “Oh! It’s simple, just try asking this…”

Blueblood listened intently to Fairweather’s Sarabic. Basic and rudimentary. Good enough to get directions, no doubt, but far from the prince’s fluency. His was a Sarabic born of pragmatism rather than love; the bare minimum with all the beauty and flourish stripped away.

So that was Fairweather’s connection to Alabaster then. Business partners leveraging a link to the Caliph. Blueblood thought back to the graffiti that riddled the city streets. There were plenty of horses with good reason to be angry at outside investors using their city for cheap labor. But one with enough clout to kill a diplomat?

Trixie stumbled from a throng of horses, a colorful drink sloshing in her hoof. “Indigo! Indigo! You’ve got to try this. It’s got some sort of cacti mixed into the—” Her voice trailed off when she saw him chatting with Fairweather. She painted on a smile and quickly fixed her mane. “Oh! Hello there! Briar, diplomat of Equestria.” She thrust out her hoof for a shake.

“Blueblood! You didn’t tell me you had a wife!” Fairweather shook her hoof vigorously while she and Blueblood shared an awkward glance. “Duke Fairweather. Explorer, soldier—”

Blueblood cleared his throat. “She’s not my wife.”

The duke’s grip went slack. “Oh. Consort then.”

“Not consort either.” Trixie’s hoof retreated and she took a nervous glug of her drink. “We’re just…” She worked her mouth trying to find the right word.

“Friends.”

“Co-workers.”

She and Blueblood chimed in a pair of somewhat contradictory answers. Fairweather laughed heartily as he downed more of his wine. “Regardless of what the two of you are, it’s lovely to meet you, Briar. I look forward to working with the both of you.” He paused and spied somepony in the crowd, beckoning them over with a wave of his hoof. “But if you haven’t a wife for me to meet, I’d love for you to meet mine!”

A slender unicorn strode through the crowd like a spirit. Her coat was iron, her mane was short and tightly braided, and her expression was sour. She refused to conform to the formal wear of her surroundings, dressing simply in an out-of-date Royal Navy uniform adorned with countless service medals. A longsword hung at her hip, which was where Blueblood and Trixie got their biggest surprise.

Her flank was blank.

“Prince. Guest.” She nodded stiffly to her husband’s guests in turn. She fell into line at his side and clacked her hooves on the floor, standing at attention. “Welcome to Saddle Arabia.”

“Oh! We’ve felt very welcome! Such a lovely country!” Trixie flashed a smile that bounced off their company like a crumpled napkin. “I’m sure you agree, Miss—”

“Captain.” She withered Trixie with a leaden glare.

“Of course, Captain…” Trixie waited for a name but received none.

Fairweather chuckled and slung an arm around his wife. “She’s not one for much beyond the title. A bit of an odd duck, you see?”

“I have no name.” Captain’s voice sounded hollow. She didn’t react to Fairweather’s touch, even when he nuzzled her neck.

Trixie swallowed hard and suppressed a shiver.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Blueblood offered. “A glass of wine? Cocktail?” He found his offers deflected by her armor. “A straight shot of whiskey, perhaps?”

“I do not drink.” Captain exhaled sharply. “Alcohol is the dullard’s companion.”

Blueblood and Trixie both eyed their drinks and gave each other a shrug.

“She’s strange, but a better lover I’ve never met.” Fairweather patted his wife’s back. His hoof slapped against solid, steely muscle. “Saved my life three times in Zebrica, if you can believe it! Once from crocodiles, once from Lavender Fever, and once from a very, very pissed-off Spirit Doctor! If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be standing here beside you today!”

“And what a shame that would be.” Trixie drawled over the rim of her cocktail.

“Duke,” Captain turned her head, something that until now seemed nigh impossible for her. “I came to fetch you. You’re needed elsewhere.”

Fairweather checked his watch, a Vanity Mare branded thing that took up half his foreleg. Blueblood fought his urge to groan at the sickening display.

“Oh, Celestia and Luna both! I’m late!” The Duke chugged the last of his wine and passed the empty glass to Trixie as if she were a servant. “A pleasure meeting the two of you!”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Blueblood replied, waving as the duke and his wife trotted off across the busy ballroom.

“That’s our suspect?” Trixie stood beside him, offering him a sip of her cactus drink. Blueblood took one sniff and demurred politely.

“One of them anyway.” Blueblood glowered at the duke’s retreating back until he vanished behind a pillar into the garden. “I loathe him.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” Trixie scoffed. “I’ve met rocks more talkative than that mare.”

“And the way he flaunts his wealth!” Blueblood sniffed and held his head high. “Utterly disgusting.”

“As if you’re not wearing a hoof-tailored suit and a silk necktie.”

“There’s a difference. I’m royalty. I don’t need to flaunt my bits in your face to remind you of that. It’s why nopony who’s anypony in Cantelot wears designer clothes. The ponies who do want you to see it and comment on it. It’s pathetic, truly.”

They stuck together for the moment, sampling a dish of heavily spiced cheese that they soothed with small dollops of lemon ice cream. A pair of Zebras were hosting a drinking game in the corner, and although Trixie begged, Blueblood declined to participate. A trio of musicians entered from the garden and walked themselves through a few warm-ups. The sea of guests parted as the dance floor was cleared, with horses and ponies and zebras stamping their hooves in anticipation. The band launched wholeheartedly into their first song, a sweeping waltz that Blueblood felt bore an uncanny similarity to the ones performed at the Grand Galloping Gala. He bowed and extended a hoof to Trixie.

“May I have this dance?”

Trixie slammed the last of her ice cream with a gulp and tossed the paper cup aside. “Just don’t spin me too fast. Don’t forget, I’m already a few drinks in.”

They joined the dance like a pair of experts, with Blueblood taking the lead. They rocked from side to side in time with the beat, taking one step to the left, and two to the right, occasionally breaking up the monotony with a turn or gentle spin. It all felt so starkly familiar to both of them. The dance was a Canterlot Waltz, just with a few minor variations in tempo and tone. It struck them as so out of place, so alien, to perform a dance they knew in an unfamiliar hall. even more so when it was unprompted. Just how much influence did Equestria have over her younger sibling? Enough to warp her culture?

“You’re thinking about politics again.” As they passed, Trixie elbowed him in the ribs and parted for a bow.

“You can tell?” Blueblood said with a sheepish smile.

“You always make a face when you’re thinking hard about something.” Trixie pursed her lip and let her eyes go glossy, mocking him. “Must be painful.”

“Only because you’ve never had the burden of thinking at all.” Blueblood’s smile transitioned seamlessly to a smug smirk.

The pair rejoined each other in a spiral of loose cloth.

“Try thinking about something a little more pleasant for a change,” Trixie suggested as they resumed their careful two-step, picking up a bit of speed as the song began to swell.

“Such as?”

“The fact that you and I met doing a Canterlot Waltz together is a start.”

“Ah yes, when you stomped my poor hooves into powder and I required three hours in the manicurist chair the next day. Truly the pinnacle of pleasant memories.” Blueblood dodged a stomp as she attempted to mangle one of his hooves for old time’s sake. “Good to know I’ve still got the reflexes.”

“Oh shut up.” She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t that bad. Besides! it was my first Gala! Cut me a little slack!”

“It was your first Gala because you weren’t on the guest list!” Blueblood hissed, spinning her particularly fast.

“It’s not my fault the guards were slacking off!”

“They were cider-drunk and got sacked the next day. You should have been stopped at the gate.”

“And yet everypony let me by after one glimpse of my magnificent charisma!” Trixie stumbled, nearly dragging Blueblood to the floor as she tried to right herself. “Celestia’s mane, those Cactus Coolers were a lot stronger than I thought.”

“Magnificent charisma, you say?” Blueblood steadied her, letting Trixie lean against his flank as they swayed. “And I’m sure the smoke bomb had nothing to do with it.”

“The smoke bomb may have tipped the scales in my favor.” Trixie allowed Blueblood to dip her low to the floor, even though it made her skull spin. “And yet, you had the option to kick me out and didn’t.”

“I’ll admit, I considered it pretty strongly.” Blueblood chuckled as he hefted her to her hooves again. “But I'll do anything to break up the monotony of another royal ball.”

“Still, you didn’t need to dance with me that night.” Trixie felt the slightest hint of a blush on her cheeks as they stood back to breast taking small steps. “I told you I didn’t know how.”

“Which you proved by crushing my hooves precisely twenty-seven times. I know, I counted.”

“So why?” Trixie cocked her head. “Why bother with the unicorn who broke into the gala on a whim?” She paused as the music slowed again, the song nearly over. “And why bother looking for me afterward?”

“What’s a royal without a court wizard?” Blueblood replied simply. “You happened along at the perfect time to replace the doddering old bastard my auntie had suggested when I was a colt, and just before she could suggest taking on her new favorite.” He snorted scornfully. “Of course, I had to stretch your resume a bit. Really sell them on how great and powerful you were. But my magnificent charisma was enough to get you the job.”

A thousand questions lingered on Trixie’s tongue. Why choose a wizard he knew was exaggerating her power? Why go out of his way to ensure that it was her who got assigned to him? Was she just a court wizard to him? He had referred to her as a co-worker rather than a friend. Did he even consider what they had friendship? Did he have any friends at all?

All her questions remained unsaid, however. The song ended and a shriek of brass replaced it. Trumpeters flanked the dais at the other end of the room, and the floating lanterns congregated to bathe it in warm light. A dappled horse with a silver-streaked mane appeared on the platform and sucked in a breath.

“Subjects! Guests! Esteemed Peers!” He shouted with a magically enhanced voice. “Please bow for the entrance of your Caliph!”

Blueblood and Trixie sank into a bow as the room went mausoleum silent. Caliph Sandalwood was preceded by the hollow tapping of his cane. He was somehow both imposing and broken. His royal regalia was all white, the luxurious fabrics of his clothing refracting rainbows over the stage. His eyes were shielded by bottle-thick spectacles, and whenever his limbs showed, they were bone thin and wrinkled. He carried himself as royalty, yet walked with the hunchback of old age. When he settled into his throne, he appeared disconcertingly small; a dark chestnut pinprick snuggled in a nest of pristine silk. The Caliph’s son trailed in his long shadow. He was young, perhaps only five or six, and was a spitting image of his father. He seated himself comfortably on a set of cushions beside the throne. An identical set on the opposite side, reserved for the Caliph’s wife, remained empty.

Next came the small, exclusive inner circle of the Caliph’s advisors. Pompous, puffed-up positions reserved for horses, and horses alone, he trusted with his ear. The power they held depended on whether or not the Caliph cared to listen to them that day. Unlike the royal council in Equestria, they had no real, tangible power. Blueblood ignored their names. He could care less about a collection of snobs and hangers-on who clamored for the Caliph’s love.

That was until he heard a name he recognized.

“Advisor on Economic Interests, Wormwood.”

Both he and Trixie jerked their heads up, watching as the Duke they had met only moments ago paraded across the stage. He strutted like a peacock in his flashy designer clothes, an ear-to-ear smile alighting on his face as he scanned the crowd to lock eyes with Blueblood. His eyes glittered. Blueblood could hear the sentiment behind his smile.

“Look at me. See how far I’ve climbed. Look upon my works, ye royal, and despair.”

A challenge and a taunt all in one.

The Caliph raised his hoof and spoke. His voice was rough and ragged, yet powerful. “You may rise.”

His guests returned to their hooves with muted groans and a shuffling of clothes.

“Guests from home and from abroad,” Sandalwood spoke firmly. “My family welcomes you to Saddle Arabia. In the name of the Sun and her warmth, I bless your coming. In the name of the Moon and her shade, I bless your going. Tonight we welcome our esteemed diplomats from every corner of the world. From Equestria, from the Gryphon Kingdoms of Kleinkrieg and Schadenfreude, from Yakistan, Zebrica, the Crystal Empire, and beyond. Let tonight be a night to renew our bonds. Let us devote ourselves to peace and prosperity. Let us move forward into a golden age of love, cooperation, and harmony together. Amen.”

His hoof fell, and a wave of applause and approving stomps echoed around the ballroom. The Caliph’s announcer instructed all foreign diplomats to form a line on the left of the stage to receive their ordination. Blueblood motioned for Trixie to join him as they fell in line behind a pair of nervous-looking Zebras.

“What’s he doing there?” Trixie hissed under her breath as the line moved forward. “Are ponies even allowed to serve as advisors?”

“I don’t think the Caliph cares much for written rules. “ Blueblood muttered as he shifted uncomfortably. “He must see something in Wormwood that I don’t. I assume whatever arrangement he had with Alabaster is responsible.” He gestured lazily.

“Maybe he killed the ambassador for it.”

“Possibly.”

They quieted their conversation as they approached the throne. The zebras ahead of them ascended the steps, knelt, and kissed the hoof of the Caliph. He hissed a short blessing over them, instructed them to rise, and they were on their way. Blueblood and Trixie followed shortly after, their hooves clicking quietly on the stairs as they climbed the mountainous staircase. Kneeling, they both pressed their lips to Sandalwood’s hoof.

It was warm. More than that, it was hot. Blueblood’s lips burned at the touch. The Caliph was aflame with fever. Kneeling so close to the leader of Saddle Arabia brought his frailty into stark focus. His body shivered, his eyes were rheumy, his lips were thin, and his eyes were sunken into their sockets. He wasn’t just old, he was dying. Blueblood had to hold his breath to keep from gasping.

The seconds bled as the Caliph whispered his prayer over them. Trixie’s heart was thudding in her chest as she listened to words she couldn’t comprehend. Her nerves were buzzing like a wasp’s nest as she waited for the interminable blessing to end. Her eyes flickered between the floor and the Caliph for a moment, before they landed on his son. He blinked bright brown eyes, managed a mischievous sliver of a smile, and stuck out his tongue at her. Trixie, anxious for even a tiny release of the tension, quickly checked to make sure Blueblood wasn’t watching, and returned the favor, blowing a soft raspberry. The colt stifled a giggle as Trixie averted her eyes once more.

At last, the prayer ended with a throaty ululation and they were officially ordained. The pair descended the steps and reentered the party, a fresh weight upon their shoulders. Blueblood exhaled a sigh and wiped his forehead with the back of his hoof.

“Well, glad that’s over with.” He leaned against one of the pillars and slumped his shoulders. “We’re officially Equestria’s new diplomats.”

“Felt like this moment would never come.” Trixie adjusted her dress and brushed wrinkles from it. “Hard to believe we’ve only been here a day.”

“Things are moving fast.” The prince huffed. “I’d very much like for them to slow down.”

“You and me both.”

As the ordainments came to a close, the party swept back into full swing. Trixie was gently coaxed onto the dance floor by a Yak dressed in thick furs. She invited Blueblood to join her for one of the large group dances, but he refused. He needed time to process things. The Caliph was dying. He had an heir, but his heir was barely old enough to read, much less create policy. A crisis over succession was as inevitable as the dawn. The Prince sucked in a breath. His eyes swept the Caliph’s advisors as they milled about near the stage.

Every smile was sharpened, every eye was weighted, and every tongue was forked. A brood of vipers with poison for his wine glass and daggers for his back. Blueblood knew enough of succession dynamics to know that this was a powder keg waiting to detonate.

He tried to shrug it away. The prince told himself again and again that his responsibility was to Equestria. So long as trade remained stable, then everypony back in Canterlot could care less about petty succession squabbles between petty mortal rulers. And yet…

Celestia had pried him from his capstone project with Zebrica. She expected him to vacation abroad in Saddle Arabia while the twin courts in Canterlot bickered about who would be best to install as the permanent diplomat. But if he were to involve himself? If he were to be known as the pony who held a nation together in the face of certain collapse? Well, Celestia couldn't very well brush that off, now could she? Let's see her lapdog mage do that!

Blueblood's head was spinning as he slipped past one of the curtains that edged the ballroom and took a deep breath of the fresh garden air. The night was laden with the aroma of flowers in bloom and tinged with citrus from the lemon trees. The prince slunk off, the noise of the party fading as he wove his way along the gravel path. A few horses were milling about aimlessly in the garden, drinks in hoof. He really didn’t want company, and so made his way behind a shroud of willow vines to a small, circular pond. A stone bench had been embedded in the thick trunk of the tree, and Blueblood sank into it with a huff. Two shimmering orange koi swam in lazy rings around the pond, rippling the water.

“It’s peaceful, isn’t it?” A familiar yet implacable voice reached Blueblood’s ear. He rounded on the voice, ready to give whoever dared to disturb his peace and quiet a verbal thrashing. He bit his tongue and stopped short as Caliph Sandalwood stepped silently into his secret grove. The old horse’s frail limbs trembled as he leaned heavily on his cane. Blueblood made room on the bench in an instant, and the Caliph slid into place with a heavy thump. The breeze billowed through his silk robes, making them wisp and writhe like a cloud over the ocean.

“My Caliph, whose hoofprints make the desert bloom, I—” Blueblood began, only to be dismissed with a wave from Sandalwood.

“Let’s dispatch with the formality, Khitab Al-Shams.” His voice was stronger than the rest of him as he pushed up his thick spectacles. His eyes drifted to the water as he watched the koi turn. “I will not be called Caliph in the gardens of my youth.”

“Sandalwood it is then.” Blueblood swallowed. He could feel the horse’s fever in the air. The Caliph had referred to him with a title, though even with his Sarabic he couldn’t quite parse it. “Khatib Al-Shams?”

“Long ago, when the first ambassador came to us from Equestria, he called himself Khitab Al-Shams, for he claimed to speak for the Sun. None believed him, until with a word to his princess he stopped the heavens in their tracks.” The Caliph coughed and sucked his teeth. “Our last Speaker didn’t understand the weight of his position.” Sandalwood placed a hoof on Blueblood’s shoulder. “I pray that you will know better than he.”

Blueblood didn’t look up from the pond. He weighed the words on his tongue for a long moment before speaking. “Is that a threat, or a warning?”

“Call it a warding.” Sandalwood clapped him on the arm and smiled faintly.

“To what do I owe the visit?” Blueblood raised an eyebrow. “I presume the Yakistani representatives aren’t getting a one-on-one with the Caliph tonight?”

“Can an old horse not seek peace? Can he not rest a while in his own gardens?” Sandalwood’s smile remained but took on a sharp, edged look. “My servants tell me that you already ventured outside the palace today. What did you think of Sutaf?”

“I did.” Blueblood knew he was being prodded. He could feel the Caliph’s verbal tendrils probing him for weakness. How much should he let on? How much did Sandalwood already know? What did he want to learn? Best to play things safe. “The Museum of Modern Art is beautiful. The gift shop, however, is utterly criminal! Fifty bits for a parasol? Celestia’s Mane!”

Sandalwood wheezed out a chuckle. “Ah, Indigo. If you wanted a parasol, all you needed was to ask. I’m sure your liaison, Aster, would be pleased to fetch one for you.”

Blueblood met the Caliph’s wizened eyes. Why bring up Aster? Unless he already knew of the incident at the square. And if he knew, he knew Blueblood had been there. The prince merely smiled in return. “Next time, I’ll be sure to ask.”

Blueblood wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected out of the Caliph. Barely able to stand without his cane, a part of Blueblood had expected him to be dull and laggardly. Yet behind those clouded, fevered eyes was the mind of a man who had ruled a nation. A mind with countless years of experience that Blueblood didn’t have, and a crucial four months that he sorely needed. With one strike of his hoof, Blueblood could have crumpled the Caliph, yet he felt like he was the one in danger.

“You are…” Sandalwood groped for the word in Equine. He pursed his lips and decided on Sarabic instead. “Emir?”

“A prince, yes.”

“Ah, prince! There’s the word!” He nodded solemnly. “So you’ve ruled Equestria how long?”

A sharp pang stabbed Blueblood. Phantom wings ached on his spine. He fought to remain stoic, to tamp down any emotion that might give him away, but he couldn’t. He met the Caliph’s eyes and saw the faint sparkling smile amidst the milky white. He knew. Blueblood bit his tongue until he tasted blood. He inhaled through his nose and tried to reply.

“I have not been given a region of Equestria to preside over.” He kept it simple and direct. “Celestia has been occupied training—” He stopped himself short of calling Twilight her successor. That was admitting defeat. “A new member of her retinue. In the meanwhile, I was dispatched here to replace Alabaster at her express direction.”

“So I assumed.” The Caliph’s dismissive tone drove another spike into Blueblood. “Alabaster had never ruled before either. He couldn’t understand…”

Sandalwood trailed off and shook his head. His eyes drifted back to the koi pond, watching the pair turn in their orbit like planetary bodies.

“You see, Indigo,” He gestured to the pool. “This pond is like my vision for Saddle Arabia. It’s smooth. It’s at peace. Everything moves in gentle harmony.” He cocked his head. “You ponies speak very highly of harmony, no?”

The new princess certainly thought so. “We do.”

“So I’ve not heard wrong.” Sandalwood laughed weakly. “But harmony is fragile. A little thing of glass in a world of iron.” The Caliph produced a small crust of bread from within his silken sleeve. He cracked off a crumb with his hooves and held it out to Blueblood. “All it takes is one little change—” He tossed the crumb into the koi pond. The fish immediately ceased their circling and pounced on the bread, their toothless jaws gaping as they thrashed and churned the water. “And harmony is no more.”

Blueblood watched as the fish gawped and begged with liquid eyes, waiting for the next morsel to drop into their enclosure. Sandalwood didn’t give them another. The rest of the bread vanished up his sleeve as he reached for his cane.

“Harmony will break if you are idle, Indigo. That was what Alabaster failed to understand.” Sandalwood took a shaky step towards the pond. Bracing himself against a low-hanging branch, he pulled back his cane and slashed the surface of the water. The koi immediately dove back under the water, only for the Caliph to prod them back into motion with the tip of his cane. “Harmony must be maintained. It must be nurtured. Sometimes, it must be enforced.”

He glowered at Blueblood over his shoulder. The light caught his glasses and glimmered like the edge of a knife. “I have kept this nation in harmony for fifty-seven years, Khitab Al-Shams. That may not sound like much, to your immortal princesses, but it’s more than two of your lifetimes. Do not think you’re better than us.” His voice rasped and scraped like metal on concrete. “I want you to understand what Alabaster couldn’t. That everything I do, everything I have done, is to protect my people. To keep them in peace and harmony.”

“I understand.” Blueblood nodded solemnly. Something flickered in the back of his brain. “I don’t believe myself better than you. After all, the stability of your rule is evident everywhere I go.”

The Caliph’s glare dulled slightly. That confirmed he knew about Blueblood’s presence at the riots. The prince couldn’t help but smile a ghostly, smug little grin. After being toyed with, even the slightest victory was a balm to him. Blueblood continued.

“But that just begs the question then; why appoint a pony as your Economic Advisor? Surely a wise horse like yourself doesn't require Equestrian advice?”

Sandalwood blinked. For a split second, Blueblood saw doubt crack his steely facade. Just as quickly, he recovered from the slight and waved a hoof dismissively. “Wormwood understands my vision. He’s a concession to the Equestrian expatriate community. No more.”

That left Blueblood with two impressions. The first was that the Caliph must be desperate on the economic front. Based on the number of impoverished Sarabs Blueblood had already seen, he knew things had to be bad. Evidently, whatever Fairweather was doing to improve the economy, it wasn’t enough. Second was that the community of Equestrian expatriates must have a much stronger voice in Sarabian politics than he’d assumed.

Blueblood rose from his seat slowly, stretching and yawning. “Well, Sandalwood, it’s been lovely talking to you, but I really should be getting back to the party. My magus is sure to have gotten herself into some sort of trouble without me.”

He bowed, but the Caliph was no longer watching. His eyes were back on the koi, watching them swim. As Blueblood slowly backed away, he couldn’t help but notice their movements were slow and sluggish.

*****

“As much as I’d love another dance, Snowmelt, I think my head is still spinning from the last one!” Trixie laughed as she stumbled away from the dance floor, her entire body listing to one side and then the other. Her dance partner, a Yak with brawny limbs with fresh crocuses woven into his fur, had nearly given her whiplash with how quickly he spun her. He bade her a fond farewell as Trixie staggered off to find something to brace herself.

The bar would do nicely. Trixie ordered herself a cosmarepolitian and took a seat on a pile of low cushions off to the side. She felt like she hadn’t properly sat down in days. Blueblood clearly intended to run her ragged on a trip he’d promised would be like a vacation to them. So much for that, she supposed.

She sat for some time watching the dances and tapping her hoof to the music. The band seemed to never tire of playing and the drinks were flowing freely. As Trixie accepted a small plate of crusty bread piled high with chopped tomatoes and cloves of garlic, she felt at last like she was actually relaxing for a change. After two days of heat, intrigue, djinn, politics, and gunfire, she finally felt at ease. If this was what Alabaster was used to when he was a diplomat, then she understood why he never left the palace. It was cool, comfortable, and piled high with whatever food or drink she desired. Plus, Trixie was being paid for all this! She sighed warmly, reclining on her cushion and kicking her hooves up on the table. So what if it was royal furniture? She was an official Equestrian diplomat now! What could anyone do to—

“My daddy doesn’t like it when ponies put their hooves on the tables.”

A small, shrill voice cut into her thoughts. Trixie swept herself off the table and sat up in an instant, terrified that she would be looking down the barrel of a soldier’s jezail. Instead, she found herself looking at no one. She cast her eyes down and saw the Caliph’s son staring up at her with wide, curious eyes.

“Uh, I’m sorry?” Trixie shrugged sheepishly.

“It’s okay.” The colt flopped dramatically into the cushions beside her, landing with a whump. “I just wanted to see you jump!”

How charming. Trixie huffed indignantly and took a gulp of her cosmare. Her guest continued to stare rather impolitely as she drank, trying to keep her eyes off of him. What was she supposed to do with the son of a Caliph? Should she bow? Kiss his hoof as she did his father’s? Should she just ignore him? For the first time, she wished Blueblood were here to remind her of her manners.

“My name is Cedar!” A big name for such a little horse. He grinned at her wide enough to show off all his teeth. He was missing a few where his baby teeth had fallen out. “What’s your name?”

“Briar,” Trixie replied plainly.

“Are you a princess?”

“No.”

“Duchess?”

“No.”

Cedar sucked in a deep breath. “Queen? Captain? Baroness? Countess? Emir? Imam? Mistress? Chieftan? Prophet? Scholar? Lady in—”

“Magus!” Trixie had to shout to make herself heard over his babbling. “I’m Prince Indigo’s Court Magus. I think that’s the word for it?”

“You’re funny.” Cedar giggled, scrunching up his snout at her.

Trixie breathed an internal sigh of relief. He was just a kid, despite being heir to an empire. She wrinkled her nose and squinted her eyes. “You’re pretty funny yourself.”

“So if you’re a magus,” Cedar kicked his hooves excitedly. “Does that mean you can do magic? My dad won’t let me do magic yet. He says I’m not ready. I tried it once, and it gave me this!” Cedar craned his neck to show off a small patch of his coat shaved of hair. “I tried to make fire!”

Trixie cringed a bit at that. It’s not like her own spells didn’t blow up in her face, even now. “Well, maybe we’ll start with a trick that won’t burn the palace down. I am, after all, a very great and powerful magus!”

No matter how many times she said it, the magic never came. It just didn’t have the same ring to it.

“Show me! Show me! Show me!” Cedar pounded on the table excitedly.

Trixie held up a hoof and hushed him. “Shhh. I need to concentrate.”

Her horn shimmered periwinkle as she tapped her magic reserves. Trixie traced a hoof around the rim of her glass, leaving it faintly glowing. She reached a hoof into the glass, her foreleg vanishing into non-existent space as she stuck it deep into the liquor. She pulled out a brightly colored handkerchief and handed it to Cedar, who cocked his head.

“That’s it?” He ran his hoof over the fabric.

“Try pulling on it,” Trixie suggested with a grin.

Cedar gave it a tug, and another knotted kerchief emerged from the glass. Then another. And another. And another ad infinitum. Soon Cedar was racing along, pulling out colorful scarf after scarf trying to find the end. The hankies piled up around him in rainbow mounds and still, there was no end in sight. At long last, he met a snag. Cedar grunted with effort as he braced his hooves and pulled hard. With a pop, a plush dragon with a kerchief tied around his neck burst from the too-small glass and landed in Cedar’s hooves.

“You can keep him if you want.” Trixie waved a hoof and dismissed her spell, the piles of fabric vanishing with a poof of violet smoke.

“But how did you do that?!” Cedar said, looking the cup over, lifting it to see beneath it, as if he could find some revelation there. “What’s the secret?”

“A magus never reveals her tricks.” She tossed her mane with a haughty laugh. “But feel free to keep looking!”

Cedar furrowed his little brow and pursed his lips, peeking under the table, nudging the glass this way and that, prodding the moisture left on the varnished wood. He rolled up the sleeves of his white robe, revealing a sleek golden band around his upper foreleg. He closed his eyes and breathed deep; his band suddenly igniting with brilliantly red light. The rim of the glass suddenly burst into flame, the alcohol within vaporizing in seconds. Trixie leapt back, her breath stuck in her throat as she watched the fire rise higher.

“Darn it!” Cedar huffed, releasing his grip on the spell in an instant. The fire died away, leaving the glass empty and blackened. His armband still flickered with heat as he crossed his hooves over his chest. “I thought maybe if I tried to copy the spell, I’d figure out how it worked!”

“Uh…” Trixie wafted the lingering smoke away from her face, coughing slightly. “Maybe keep practicing. Preferably somewhere less flammable!”

He slumped, laying back on the cushions like a lump. “At least I didn’t burn my mane this time.”

Trixie couldn’t help but see a bit of herself in the Caliph’s son. She had struggled with magic at his age too. Actually, she struggled with it even now, but he didn’t need to know that. She reached out a hoof and gently nudged him.

“Hey, that’s progress, right?” She smiled warmly, doing her best to make him sit up. Celestia, she was acting like she knew the kid already. “Trust me, I set myself on fire all the time when I was a filly.”

“You did?” Cedar sniffed and wiped his nose.

“Yep! But y’know, I kept at it.” She helped him sit back up and gently slapped his shoulder. “And now I’m the magus I am today! So just keep practicing. Eventually, you’ll get it!” She quickly tacked on one last bit of advice. “Oh, and keep some buckets of water nearby when you practice!”

The colt smiled sheepishly. “Thanks, Magus Briar.”

“Don’t mention it.” Trixie rose, looking at her empty glass. Cedar leapt up from the table and raced away, waving goodbye as he went to go pester one of his countless caretakers for something to drink. Trixie decided she needed a fresh drink too. Back to the bar!

*****

Prince Blueblood reentered the party but remained at its edge. Caliph Sandalwood had likely been found by his coterie of guards by now and would be returning to his position on high. The dancing had died down as the band took a break for refreshments, and Blueblood crossed the empty dance floor with ease. His throat was scratchy, and he needed something to drink. He wanted water rather than liquor. Trixie might enjoy drinking until her head swam, but Blueblood needed to keep his mind about him, especially tonight. Yet, try as he might, every jackal who was catering drinks had only wine or cocktails. Huffing, he moved his way through the crowds in search of something less intoxicating. At last, he spied a horse carrying a platter of glasses filled with crystal-clear water.

“Miss!” He held out a hoof trying to stop her. “Excuse me, Miss!”

The server turned, and Blueblood stopped short.

“Water, your grace?” Chicory held out the plate to him, and he accepted a glass.

“I wasn’t aware you were a servant to the rest of the palace.” Blueblood mused over his drink. “I thought you’d been assigned to me?”

“You haven’t required my service nearly as much as the Caliph expected.” Chicory was still every bit as rigid and stoic as she had been in his quarters, holding herself apart from the slouching, drunken guests and the quiet confidence of the Caliph and his hangers-on. “And I am not a servant.”

That phrase hung in the air like a threat. Blueblood didn’t press her. He let his silence draw her on. This time, she decided to supply the answer.

“I am the Caliph’s slave.”

Blueblood felt the water stick in his throat and choke him. He swallowed hard and wiped his mouth. His brain burned as he rushed through the history of Saddle Arabia he had studied years ago. “But… But Caliph Monsoon abolished slavery during his reign. He freed the slaves with his order in the year—”

“Your grace,” Chicory’s voice was low and edged with a twinge of anger. “Monsoon freed the slaves bound by conquest and birth. My slavery is by neither.”

“Then what?” Blueblood’s face was flushed and his ears felt hot. His breath was quickened and his eyes razor sharp.

“Punishment.” Her reply was as blunt as a hammer blow. She didn’t elaborate. With her magic, she levitated a pitcher of water and refilled Blueblood’s glass before she turned to leave. As she did, Blueblood caught a glimpse of the glowing necklace through which she focused her spells. The glittering charm was small but unmistakable to him.

Curved, crossed blades before a flame.

A motif of revolution painted on every wall of the city. A rallying point for horses, jackals, and camels alike. The rebellion rose high then, all the way to the palace. No wonder the Caliph stressed the need for order and harmony. The disharmonious element was already within his palace.

Blueblood nudged his way through the crowd and found Trixie nursing a glass of white wine. Her eyes caught his, and she sidled up to him as they crossed to a small table away from the cluster of conversation.

“Where have you been?” Trixie hissed into his ear as they settled into their cushions. “I had to play babysitter to the Caliph’s kid for like an hour!”

“What do you mean you’ve—” Blueblood exhaled sharply. “Nevermind. I was having a rather unpleasant one-on-one chat with the Caliph himself.” The prince carefully relayed the conversation he’d had with Sandalwood, embellishing his own performance a little just to ensure he looked good. He swallowed another gulp of water. “We’re very much in over our heads.”

“What do we do?” Trixie whispered in a hushed tone. The band had picked back up, their jaunty music contrasting with the shroud that laid over the pair.

“Equestrian policy is we don’t get involved,” Blueblood replied drolly. “Diplomats are meant to shift foreign policy. Not domestic.”

“Then what happens if we’re stuck here when a revolt breaks out?” Trixie glanced back and forth, ensuring they weren’t being observed. “Are we just supposed to ignore it and act like nothing is happening?”

“We’d have to ask Celestia for recall.” He worked his jaw as he thought. “I’ll send her a letter tonight. She ought to be updated on our circumstances, plus be on standby in case…” His voice trailed off into nothing. He didn’t want to finish that thought. Instead, he decided to fill her in on his other revelation.

“You remember Chicory, our servant?”

“The one who lit that altar in our room?” Trixie raised an eyebrow.

“The very same.” Blueblood sucked his teeth. “She’s a slave.”

“She’s what?” Trixie clapped a hoof over her mouth. “But that’s—”

“I thought so too.”

“Indigo, we can’t…” Trixie groped for words. “They can’t get away with this! Can they?”

“They won’t.” His voice was low and venomous. “Equestria is the principal trading partner of Saddle Arabia, and that gives us leverage. Celestia would never allow trade with a nation that holds its citizens in bondage, whatever the reason. We’ll pressure them with everything we’ve got.”

As they spoke, the Caliph returned to his throne, preceded by a flurry of servants delivering samples of the night’s cuisine. Notably, Blueblood spied Chicory among the workers, pressing a glass of wine to the Caliph’s lips as he drank. Her eyes flickered restlessly, scanning the stage as she pulled the cup away and wiped it with a cloth. Sandalwood made a disgusted face and spat something at her in Sarabic. Though it was hard to tell just by reading lips, Blueblood was sure that it wasn’t something he could repeat in polite conversation.

Knowing what he knew about her position, Blueblood decided to spare her the verbal abuse for a night. The prince caught her eyes and lifted a hoof, beckoning her over. She looked relieved, as relieved as she could with that statuesque posture of hers, as she descended the steps and approached.

“You require something, your grace?” She said, still holding the wineglass with hooves that trembled with repressed rage. Blueblood was starting to understand why she stood so rigidly.

“Sit with us.” Blueblood motioned to the cushions around the table.

“I—” Chicory shifted nervously. “Would you like refreshments? Another glass of wine, my lady?” She inclined her head towards Trixie, who merely patted the seat beside her. She breathed out slowly and swallowed hard, ears drooping. “I’m not supposed to sit on the job, your grace.”

“It’s a request from us,” Trixie smirked. “If anyone asks, you were just following orders. You deserve a break, damn it!”

Like a granite capstone being lowered into an arch, Chicory slowly sank into the cushion and sighed. “I am not owed kindness, you know. The Caliph—”

“He assigned you to us.” Blueblood tapped a hoof on the table. “What Sandalwood wants of you now is irrelevant. Certain lines should never be crossed.”

“The law clearly states—”

“The law is wrong!” Trixie put her hoof down. “And Indigo and I are going to change it. Right, Indigo?”

“We’ll pressure the Caliph as much as we can. We’re now officially ordained as Diplomats of Equestria. It’s time we started acting like it.” Blueblood hissed through clenched teeth. Everyone here was playing their own political games, why shouldn’t he? It was time to remind everypony at home and abroad who they were toying with.

Trixie snagged a plate of snacks from a passing Jackal, who looked at Chicory with a slightly jealous glare. Chicory stared at the plate for a moment before picking at it dubiously.

“Alabaster questioned the tradition, much as you did.” She said in a quiet, breathy voice. “Understand what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I am not Alabaster.” Blueblood growled the words.

“We’re better,” Trixie added with a grin.

Chicory appraised them with a glance. Her face fell as she continued to nibble on some crackers and cheese.

That was when they heard it; a cough that resounded through the room like a shot. All eyes were suddenly on the dais as the Caliph held a hoof to his chest and gagged. He leaned forward on his throne, his face contorted with pain as he gasped for air. He looked like his favorite koi trying to gulp down food. He suddenly vomited, spewing a black, viscous liquid all over his white robes. Drooping, Sandalwood convulsed, his eyes rolling back in his skull until only the whites were visible.

Screams rang out among the partygoers. Horses rushed for the exits, only to be bowled over by soldiers who were rushing to secure the scene. A cream-colored mare with a toasty mane rushed the stage, a red crescent band around their foreleg. They were already administering medication to the Caliph as his guards began to hustle him away from the stage. Marshmallow, his physician, Blueblood assumed.

Blueblood and Trixie shared a glance. Both realized instinctively that it was time to go. They leapt up, swiftly followed by Chicory, and started sprinting towards an unblocked exit to the garden.

“We can circle back to our room the long way!” Blueblood yelled over the chaotic din. Someone was weeping and praying profusely, lying prostrate on the floor in the middle of a crowded thoroughfare. Blueblood vaulted over them, his eyes fixed on their escape route. Wordlessly, Chicory grabbed him by the mane and yanked him sharply to the right, pointing a hoof at a small wooden door set into the wall.

“The servant’s quarters are safer. They’ll have guards all over the garden. This way!”

Trixie glanced back to see Cedar being held tightly by a pair of horses with drawn swords. They were pulling him away from his father, who lay on his back in the throes of a seizure. The colt’s eyes were filled with fat tears as he screamed, hooves outstretched, begging for his father. His new plush dragon lay at his hooves. Swallowing, she turned her back on the scene and fled with Chicory and Blueblood.

Before they could reach the servant’s quarters, however, a burly horse with a peaked helmet cut them off. He screamed orders in Sarabic as he gestured wildly with the barrel of his jezail. Blueblood and Trixie halted, but Chicory carried on, trying to shoulder her way past him. He tackled her to the floor and pinned her, just as two more guards arrived on the scene. One kicked her hard in the stomach, enough that her placid face bulged with pain, while the other set about hog-tying her flailing limbs.

“Let her go!” Blueblood ordered, his voice like a regal razor. “Release her this instant!”

The guards stared at him, scowling impassively as they returned to their work.

“I said, let her—” Before he could finish, one of the guards sent Blueblood sprawling with a vicious backhoof. He staggered and fell, clutching his face. Shock and anger made his cheeks burn bloody as Trixie rushed to his side. Another pair of guards arrived, leveling their firearms at the newly ordained ambassadors.

“To your quarters!” One of the soldiers screamed, prodding Blueblood’s flank with the mouth of his jezail. “Up! Walk!”

“You struck me!” Blueblood’s voice was drained of bravado. His words quavered as he brought a hoof to his bruised cheek. “You—”

Trixie dragged him to his hooves and they walked, the muzzles of weapons cold against their flanks. One final glance at the stage showed that the Caliph was still, his chest rising and falling as his physicians fed him small bits of charcoal.

The palace suddenly felt less comforting as they were pressed through it towards their room. The alcoves where soldiers had stood guard were no longer to keep invaders out but to keep them in. The wealth and opulence of their new home a lure to entice them away from the rest of the city. And yet, as Alabaster and Sandalwood had shown them, there was no safety here.

“What’s going to happen to Chicory?” Trixie asked over her shoulder. The guard grunted and shoved her forward roughly in reply. She dug in her hooves and whirled to face him. “I asked you a question!”

He snarled, pulling back the butt of his weapon like a club. Trixie yelped and tried to protect her head with her hooves. His partner stopped him with an outstretched hoof and exhaled sharply. “We don’t know. Her life is in the hooves of the Caliph, whose justice is impartial.”

That wasn’t good news. Blueblood drew in a breath as they rounded the corner and approached their bedroom. Once inside, the door was locked behind them and barricaded shut with something heavy. Trixie tried it once, but it refused to budge. Blueblood was still in a state of shock as he plodded to the kitchen. He drew some ice from the fridge and held it to his swelling cheek, flinching at the chill.

Trixie tried the door again. She attempted to use her magic to dislodge whatever was pinning it shut but to no avail. Stomping to the bed she threw herself down, grabbed a pillow, and screamed into it. She lay there taking short, rapid, hot breaths, crushing the expensive fabric between her hooves. At last, she looked up and turned her eyes on Blueblood.

“Indigo, what are we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know.” The Prince sat limply. He felt numb from his cheek to his hooves. Everything moved in slow motion and his blood roared in his ears. “It’s all just—” He took a shuddering breath. “It’s too much. Between solving Alabaster’s murder, the fact that Saddle Arabia keeps slaves, and everypony trying to put us at the center of their political games it’s just…”

He didn’t finish. He couldn’t finish. Blueblood tangled his hooves in his mane and pulled, filtering his emotions through tightly clenched teeth.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way.” He said in a voice scarcely above a whisper. “I wanted this to be a vacation. An easy assignment where we could get away from Equestria for a while. Not this.” He shook his head and wiped his snout with a sniff. “Celestia, what have you gotten us into?”

Trixie moved to sit beside him. Her movements were careful and deliberate; adrenaline still coursed through her veins and made her feel jittery. She pulled one of his hooves away from his head, gently clasping it as she forced him to uncurl himself. Blueblood exhaled slowly, leaning against her the way he had in the museum courtyard. He smelled faintly of wine and perfume as he steadied himself.

“I know this isn’t what we expected.” Trixie managed, her voice still trembling. “I probably would have asked you for at least double my pay if I knew we were going to be held at gunpoint.”

Blueblood managed a faint, breathy laugh at that.

“But we’re here.” She grabbed his shoulder and forced him to look her in the eye. “We’re here, and everypony thinks we’re wrong for the job.”

“And we probably are,” Blueblood said glumly.

“We definitely are.” Trixie didn’t try to sugarcoat it. “But we’re what Equestria’s got.” She leaned back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and rubbing her eyes. “We told Chicory that we were better than Alabaster.”

“We are.” Blueblood took a deep breath. “We have to be.”

The two of them lay there in silence, hoof in hoof, as if they were waiting for a sign. When no sign showed itself, they decided they needed to take matters into their own hooves.

“Well, since we’re trapped in this room.” Blueblood slid out of the bed and trotted to the table, slapping Aster’s thick logbook. “Let’s get to work.”

Trixie rolled over, her horn igniting as she lit every lantern in the room. Blueblood added oil to the Fire Altar, letting the flame bob on the still water once more. It felt poignant somehow, lighting it in honor of Chicory.

“Alright, we’re going to have a late night, so get comfortable,” Blueblood said as he settled into his seat.

“I’ll make some coffee.” Trixie tied her mane back in a ponytail as she slid out of her party dress. Blueblood loosened his tie and tossed it aside. Trixie pulled back his mane in a ponytail as well, tying it off with a spare ribbon from his bags. The coffee was set to brew as Blueblood inked his quill and set it to paper. First things first, he needed to send a letter back home.

My dearest Auntie Celestia,

Saddle Arabia is not the place it once was. After only two days in the country, I have seen enough to know that things have changed drastically. There are riots in the streets, revolt in the air, and violence on the horizon.

Our predecessor, Ambassador Rough Cut, is dead. I have reasons to believe that he was murdered.

Our servant in the palace, a mare named Chicory, is a slave to the Caliph.

During a visit outside the palace, we were pulled into a rally that was dispersed with gunfire.

All this and more has given me reason to believe that things cannot remain as they are much longer. Equestria cannot remain impartial in these matters. I am writing to request a reduction of trade with the Kingdom of Saddle Arabia until they make strides to truly eliminate slavery from their state. Equestria needs to throw her weight on the right side of history.

I also write to request the service records of two members of the Royal Navy. Duke Fairweather and a nameless blank flank with the rank of Captain. She was tight-lipped about her name but gave her rank at least. I imagine there are very few ponies without cutie marks in the Navy, so she should be easy to track down.

I implore you to consider what I’ve written. Equestria must act, and the sooner we act the better.

Your favorite (and only) nephew,

Prince Vladimir Blueblood, First of His Name

Blueblood uncorked a bottle of green dragonfire and burned up the letter. He watched the emerald flames dance over his words, shipping them off to Celestia as quickly as possible. That was that then.

“Ready to get studying?” Blueblood said as he inked his quill and laid out a fresh page for notetaking.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Trixie slid into her seat and passed him a mug of coffee. Two lumps of sugar and a dash of cream, just the way he liked it. “Haven’t studied since the day I dropped out of university.”

They cracked open Aster’s book and set to work.

Khitab Al-Shams

"Let your justice be swift. Do not allow the unjust to fester among you. Does not a little yeast leaven the whole lump?" —Writings of the Prophet Arfaj

Chapter 6: Khitab Al-Shams

Prince Blueblood greeted his old enemy; the sunrise. Dawn came all too soon, leaden sunlight drifted lazily through his balcony window, stinging his eyes. He hadn’t slept. Blueblood dimmed the lamps and closed Aster’s logbook. Trixie stirred in bed, grumbling as she slept. She pulled the blankets over her head and returned to quietly snoring. She had fallen asleep at the table while they worked, and he had been made to tuck her in like a nursemare. He had spent the night reading and listening, anxiously awaiting the cry of the muezzin declaring the death of a Caliph. It never came.

Aster’s logbook painted a dire picture of Saddle Arabian’s past few years. A slumping economy led to depression and unemployment. Unemployment and depression lead to seeking outside assistance. Outside assistance led to ponies like Fairweather swooping in, lured by cheap labor and the Caliph’s tax incentives. The country was being auctioned off piecemeal to the highest bidders. Mining magnates from the Crystal Empire laid claim to veins of ore in the mountains. Oil barons from Appleoosa hammered new wells in the deep deserts. Canterlot corporations opened banks, factories, shops, and hotels nationwide. A spiderweb of foreign influencers staking their claim across a crumbling economy. It held things together, but only barely.

Local unions and guilds couldn’t compete. And when they couldn’t reach the Caliph with their complaints, they took to the streets. Marches became protests, protests became riots. It all led to the fateful day at Saffron Square. One of the guards assigned to keep the peace was struck with a stone, and Tartarus was unleashed. Shots were fired into the crowd, swords were drawn, and violence reigned. By the time more guards were dispatched and the situation contained, thirteen horses were dead. There were no numbers for how many camels and jackals were killed. Caliph Sandalwood had an additional four executed the next day, supposedly the ones who had orchestrated the violence. Not a single member of the guard was punished.

And now here Blueblood was, poorly equipped and ill-informed, trying to pick up the pieces.

Blueblood downed another mug of strong coffee to stave off exhaustion. His heart was thudding in his chest and he could hear his blood rushing in his ears. He couldn’t stand the silence of early morning. In those quiet moments, his defenses failed him and the doubts crept in. He needed to clear his head, so he ran a shower.

As he inhaled the shower steam, Blueblood tried to wash away the clouds that lingered over his mind. He couldn’t. He found himself drawn again and again to home, to Canterlot, to Celestia and his replacement. Would Twilight struggle as he was now? Could she just clap her hooves and put a nation back together with a single spell? If he wasn’t so inept with his own magic, could he?

Blueblood lathered his coat and turned up the heat until the water scalded him. He tried to ignore the dull ache in his back, the throb of unborn wings that never fully subsided. He tasted bile on his tongue. Celestia had made a mistake. Trixie was right. They were the wrong ponies for this job. So why? Why them? Why him? He didn’t have the magic, the influence, the smarts to navigate this. He opened his mouth to scream but let it die in his throat. He grit his teeth. He didn’t have time for a pity party. There was work to be done.

Drying himself with a towel, Blueblood stepped back into the room and took a seat on the edge of the bed. He needed to sleep. He was getting emotional and angry, and that wouldn’t do. Sighing, he rolled into bed and pulled the blankets up to his chin. He assured himself that he just needed to sleep on everything he had learned, and when he woke in the afternoon he would have an idea. Trixie stirred faintly beside him, snoring a comforting rhythm into her pillow. His breathing slowed, and his heart grew quiet.

Then a knock at the door snapped him out of it. Blueblood tried to ignore it, rolling over and covering his head with the pillow. Another knock, this time with renewed vigor. Blueblood exhaled hard enough to ruffle the sheets and kicked the blankets off. He trotted to the door, tying his soggy mane back to make it seem at least somewhat presentable.

“I’m coming!” He said, just loud enough to avoid waking Trixie.

Aster was at the door. He bowed hastily and entered, sweat beading on his brow. “Ah, my prince. I’m sorry to wake you. Have you slept well?”

“I haven’t slept.” Blueblood retorted, fighting back a yawn.

“Very sorry to hear that. Can I get you anything to assist? Tea? Coffee? Coca leaf? Cigarettes?”

“I’m fine, Aster.” The prince brushed him off. “Is there any word about last night? Is the Caliph well?”

“He lives another day, Sun and Moon be praised,” Aster muttered a blessing under his breath and Blueblood breathed a sigh of relief. “He was poisoned. Luckily the dose was not strong enough to kill him. Even luckier was that Marshmallow was there to administer treatment. They saved his life, not for the first time.”

“Aster, schedule me a meeting with Marshmallow as soon as they’re available.” Blueblood made a note. “Something casual. Perhaps coffee?”

“I’ll see to it, my prince.” Aster nodded. “But I’m here as a messenger from the Caliph, whose heart is without flaw.”

“He’s well enough for messages?”

“He’s asked that you join him this morning at the outer wall.” Aster inhaled, steadying himself. “He’d like you to witness the administration of justice upon the traitors who plotted his death.”

Blueblood stood transfixed in thought. There was no way the Caliph had already tracked down the conspirators. Sandalwood was sending a message to any who would dare to stand against him, Blueblood included. Evidently, their talk in the garden had convinced him that Blueblood was too opinionated for his own good.

“I’m honored by his invitation,” Blueblood began, his sluggish mind fumbling for the right words. “But I’ll have to decline. Things have been moving quickly since I arrived, and I’m still trying to get caught up. Perhaps breakfast is in order before—”

“My prince,” Aster’s voice had lost any pretense of civility. “When the Caliph requests your presence, you will be there.”

He stepped forward, standing only inches away from Blueblood. The Prince recognized the maneuver from his fencing lessons. Aster was stepping into his guard in case things became physical. Blueblood swallowed hard and took a few shaky steps back.

“Am I understood, Prince Indigo?” Aster cocked his head.

Blueblood nodded. “I will be there then. Shall I wake my magus?”

“Let her sleep.” He gestured dismissively. “The Caliph asked for you. Not her.”

“Let me leave her a note then.” Blueblood grabbed his quill and jotted down a brief explanation. He grabbed the parasol from the Modern Art Museum and slung it over his shoulder. “Let us be off.”

*****

A carriage sped Blueblood through the city, through its quiet, early morning thoroughfares, and to the wall. He was released in a paved plaza set among some of the oldest buildings in the city. They were squat, cubic structures erected from sun-baked mud bricks and etched with ancient curses. Heavy stone doors remained unopened even after centuries. A dour atmosphere hung over them like a funerary shroud. Blueblood recognized them instantly.

Tombs.

He was led by Aster through a maze of mausoleums, ornate and simple alike. The street had been covered with an inch-thick layer of sawdust to muffle their hoofbeats, preserving the omnipotent silence of the scene. An arch that spanned overhead was emblazoned with a message in old Sarabic. “This is a place of death. Mock us not, ye living, for thee and thine shall join us.” When they exited the cemetery, Blueblood stood facing a semicircle of chairs that faced the city’s grand bulwark. Blackened carriages with barred windows waited to disgorge their prisoners as a line of guards with muskets stood watch. Blueblood spied the insignia of Fairweather Firearms stamped on the wooden stocks of their weapons.

The Caliph was in a cooled box set atop a wooden platform that overlooked the whole sordid affair. As Blueblood settled into the hard wooden chair he had been assigned, he managed to peer through the silk shroud that surrounded Sandalwood. He lay in a bed, still too weak to sit up, whispering orders to a pair of nurses who attended to him. He lived, yes, but for how long?

“This is where we part ways, my prince.” Aster bowed deferentially and took a step back. “I will meet you at the palace when this is all over.”

“You’re not going to watch with me?” Blueblood raised an eyebrow.

“I was not invited. I am merely a messenger.”

And so they parted.

More and more guests arrived to attend the ceremony. Minor aristocrats, the captain of the guard, members of the Caliph’s inner circle, and finally, Fairweather and his wife. They seated themselves beside Blueblood with somber faces.

“I’m sorry this is how we have to meet again, Blueblood.” Fairweather brushed the dust from his coat with his wing. “I’d have much-preferred something less dismal.”

“I would have too.” Blueblood didn’t bother to lie. “You have Sandalwood’s ear, don’t you? How is he after last night?”

“Angry,” Captain replied. “Angry and weak.”

“I presume that’s why we’re all gathered here today?” Blueblood inclined his head slightly. “A show of force to reassure us all who has the power here?”

Fairweather nodded. “It’s barbaric, but it isn't the first time.”

Their voices were silenced by a cry of horns. Immediately all three ponies sat rigidly, awaiting the inevitable. Sandalwood motioned with his hoof, and the proceedings began. A courtier wearing the Caliph’s pure, spotless white stepped forward and unfurled a scroll.

“In the name of the Caliph, whose wisdom is boundless, I read the pronouncements against the indicted.” He cleared his throat. “Attempted murder by poison. Conspiracy. Treason against the Caliph. Treason against Saddle Arabia.” The courtier rolled up the scroll and scanned the crowd over his glasses. “If there are any who object to the charges, speak.”

Blueblood shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Fairweather glanced to him, almost daring him to speak up, but neither pony said a word. They represented Equestria here. To get involved in something as arcane as the legal system was political suicide. Blueblood already knew he was on the Caliph's bad side and his approval was likely to drop further when he learned that Blueblood had written to Celestia to suspend trade. His job was already difficult enough. He didn’t need to make it harder.

“With no objections,” The courtier slapped the scroll against the flat of his hoof. “I deliver the judgment of the Caliph, whose mind is clear as diamond. The indicted shall be sentenced to death.”

The word rang like a gunshot in Blueblood’s ears. He had assumed when he received the invitation that he would be a guest at an execution, but having it confirmed didn’t hurt him any less.

The guilty were led from their carriage. All were dressed in rags, badly bruised, and blindfolded. Two stallions came first, one a deep scarlet and the other a pallid teal. They were shoved against the wall, their hooves trembling as they awaited the inevitable. Blueblood could hear the chattering of their teeth and the desperate whispers of abba on their lips. Next came a sleek, bronze jackal, muzzled as well as blindfolded, then a camel, who towered over the horses of the crowd. She held her head high, dignified in the face of death.

Last was Chicory. Blueblood’s heart sank when he saw her. She didn’t go to her death willingly. She thrashed against her bonds, bit and snapped at the air as the guards tried to lead her, and bucked her legs and kicked like a wild bronco. She snorted, spit, screamed, and writhed as they dragged her along on a length of braided rope. A guard hit her in the stomach and she doubled over, retching for air. They shoved her against the wall with the others, where she remained, gasping and seething.

The soldiers lined up, slinging their weapons over their bodies for their grim task. They sighted their muskets and held their hooves over the firing levers.

“Take aim!” The courtier declared. Blueblood couldn’t make himself watch, yet couldn’t turn away. He glanced to the Caliph, who was propped up in bed with his hoof upraised. The courtier watched him waiting for his signal to let the troops fire.

Blueblood’s heart raced. He felt like he was being strangled, struggling to breathe. What was he to do? He was a diplomat. Every line in The Precocious Princeling’s Guide to Diplomatic Relations warned him to stay out of political affairs wherever he served. To work within his bounds to free a slave was one thing. To directly intervene in an execution? Completely out of bounds. It would set him at odds with the Caliph, more than he already was, and would signal Equestrian opposition to his rule. Blueblood wasn’t the pony to make those decisions. That was the purview of the Princesses.

But everything was political, was it not? Had Blueblood not been signaling his own personal politics with every word and deed since he arrived? He had made a conscious effort to engage with the city beyond the palace. He had watched a protest begin to unfold. He had talked back to the Caliph himself and openly used his position to shield a slave from punishment. Was he not already political?

Then what did he have to lose?

Blueblood had only seconds to come up with a plan. Not long enough. It was time to act first and plan later. Blueblood sprang from his seat and pushed his way past the guards. He stood in front of the prisoners, arms outspread, breathing heavily. The soldiers stared in confusion, their hooves hovering over the firing levers.

It dawned on Blueblood suddenly that he was in danger.

“Sir!” The courtier screamed, his eyes wide in their sockets. “Get out of the way, this instant!”

“This execution is canceled!” Blueblood shouted back. “Tell them to drop their weapons. Now!”

The courtier snorted and rolled his eyes. “Guards, shoot him.”

Muskets were trained on Blueblood at once. His mind screamed for him to say something. Anything! So he blurted out the first thing that bubbled up in his brain.

“Shoot me if you dare!” Blueblood yelled, thumping his chest. It was stupid. Incredibly stupid. But it put a fragile seed of doubt in the minds of the ones holding the muskets. They glanced to each other, reassuring themselves that shooting this upstart pony was the right thing to do. With a shared nod, they aimed in unison. Blueblood had bought just enough time to consider his next move.

He took a step towards the soldiers and steeled his gaze. Blueblood desperately wished he’d worn his crown. It would have made him seem more regal and imposing. He would just have to make do without it.

“My name is Indigo, crown prince of Equestria, diplomat to Saddle Arabia by the grace of Celestia and the ordainment of Caliph Sandalwood!” Blueblood threw out titles, praying they would shield him from bullets. He remembered one final epithet. One that Sandalwood had foolishly placed in his mouth. “I am Khitab Al-Shams! Will you shoot He Who Speaks for the Sun?”

The seed of doubt he planted germinated before his eyes. The guards’ gazes were devoid of fire. They were shaken. Blueblood suspected they weren’t used to shooting somepony who could look them in the eye. He had a hoofhold. He needed to press it.

“Enough!” The courtier cried, stepping into the firing line to stand snout to snout with Blueblood. “You have no right to—”

“I have every right!” Blueblood snarled. He turned his fury toward the Caliph’s comfortable, silk-screened booth. “If the Caliph disapproves, let him speak to me himself!”

“The Caliph is weary after the attempt on his life. His health must be held in the utmost priority!”

Blueblood took a deep breath. His horn shone like moonlight as he prayed his spell wouldn’t fail.

“BRING HIM TO ME!” Blueblood bellowed with the authority of the Royal Canterlot voice. The courtier staggered on the force of his words, landing flank first in the sand. When he looked up at Blueblood again there was a tremor in his voice.

“Y-yes, my prince.”

Blueblood refused to move as the courtier’s and nurses prepared the Caliph to move. The prisoners behind him were still praying, whispering blessings upon the stranger who had come to their rescue. Only Chicory had any idea who he was.

“Indigo?” She spoke in a hoarse wheeze. “Is that you?”

“Who else?”

“Flame light thy path.” She sighed the words.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Blueblood whispered. “There’s still a chance I get us all killed.”

The Caliph was slumped into a plushly cushioned chair that his two nurses levitated with dainty spells. Sandalwood was seated in front of his guards, staring through bespectacled eyes at Blueblood and the condemned. Blueblood looked past him to the crowd of onlookers. There were murmurs of disapproval spreading through them. Blueblood could feel the fury in their combined glare. All aside from Duke Fairweather, who was smiling from ear to ear at the spectacle. His wife was, as usual, unreadable, but Blueblood thought he caught a hint of acceptance in her eye. Or maybe it was just dust.

“Why?” Sandalwood croaked, his eyes narrow and his face tight with fury.

“Why?” Blueblood parroted, expression neutral.

“Why do you defend those who wish me dead? Why do you throw yourself in the path of my firing squads for a slave? Why must you make yourself a thorn in my flesh?” The Caliph’s voice wavered with every word. Barely restrained rage bled from his aged expression.

Blueblood felt ice in his stomach. A cold, clear anger he had never felt before. He tapped it and ice churned in his veins. Crystalline focus shimmered in his mind as he locked eyes with the Caliph.

“Because they’re innocent,” Blueblood said, expressionless. “And you know they’re innocent.”

“And you have evidence to prove that?” The Caliph leaned forward in his seat.

“Do you have evidence to prove their guilty?”

“Three of them worked in the kitchens, one was in charge of security, and the last bore my wineglass to my lips.” Sandalwood’s eyes lingered on Chicory for just a moment too long. “The last had plenty of reasons to take my life.”

“That doesn’t prove their guilt,” Blueblood replied. “That evidence is flimsier than a cardboard carriage and would get laughed out of an Equestrian Court.”

“You forget, Prince.” The Caliph spit the title as if it was an affront to his tongue. “You are not in Equestria. These are my subjects. And while you remain in Saddle Arabia, you are my subject also.” He hissed through his nose as he leaned forward, bracing himself on the arms of his chair. “So either step aside, or you can join them on the firing line.”

Blueblood swallowed hard. The Caliph had the authority to have him executed. Thankfully, he had one final card to play. “Go ahead. Have me killed.”

“You would die for a cause you know nothing about.” Sandalwood scoffed.

“I wasn’t finished.” Blueblood narrowed his gaze to daggerpoints. “Have me killed and see where it gets you. Two diplomats dead in less than a year are going to have Celestia’s eyes on Saddle Arabia. A Prince of Equestria, not just a Prince but her nephew, dead? She’ll be livid.”

Blueblood leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Do you believe you can survive war with Equestria? Can you fight the Sun herself?”

Sandalwood remained firm. “They tried to kill me, Indigo. The law is clear.”

Blueblood’s mind was on fire. His brain was working overtime without any sleep. It was like a machine running without oil.

“And what if the one who killed you is still at large?”

“He won’t dare to try again after seeing his comrades—”

“Violence can only deter someone for so long, Sandalwood.” Blueblood shook his head. “At some point, seeing your comrades die is only going to galvanize you. It won’t stop someone from trying again. All it can do is make things worse.”

“And what do you suggest?” The Caliph snorted. “Let my assassin go free?”

“I suggest a full investigation into the guests at the Ordainment Ceremony last night,” Blueblood said coolly. “We find the one really responsible and punish them.”

“Since the issue is so dear to your heart,” Sandalwood beckoned to his nurses, who focused and levitated his chair. “You will spearhead the investigation.”

“My Caliph, I—” Blueblood opened his mouth to protest, but Sandalwood silenced him with a wave of his hoof.

“One week. You will bring me my assassin at the end of one week.” The Caliph leered over the rim of his spectacles. “If you fail, then these five will be put to death in his stead.”

“I will not fail.” Blueblood kept his response simple.

At Sandalwood’s command, the prisoners were set free. Their blindfolds and bindings were removed and the soldiers swiftly ushered them away from the area, much to the dismay of the crowd. Aside from Fairweather, who was utterly beaming. Chicory, however, was shoved into line alongside Blueblood.

“I don’t trust this one to serve me.” Sandalwood’s eyes scoured her in a way that made Blueblood feel filthy. “You can sip her poisoned wine in my stead.”

With that, the Caliph was borne away by his nurses, back behind his shields of silk and gauze. Blueblood glanced to Chicory. She was filthy. She stank of stagnant water and stale urine. He took a step away from her and coughed quietly.

“You were right.” Chicory rasped. “You’re nothing like Alabaster.”

Blueblood wanted to interrogate that, but before he could he was grabbed by Fairweather and clapped on the back.

“Celestia and Luna both, Blueblood! Are you insane?!” He was beaming from ear to ear, his ears perked and his wings ruffling excitedly. “Jumping in front of a firing squad? What were you thinking?!”

Blueblood coughed and rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t have a plan going in. I just knew they couldn’t shoot me. Diplomatic immunity and all that.”

“You’re mad! Absolutely blathering mad!” The Duke laughed, shaking Blueblood by his shoulders. “You were brilliant! It’s about damn time somepony stood up to that tyrant!”

“I concur.” Captain chimed in monotone. Blueblood hadn’t even noticed her standing there.

Fairweather was still Blueblood’s chief suspect in the murder of Alabaster, but he was alone in a foreign nation with few allies. The Caliph hated him, Aster was clearly running his own agenda, and Chicory was a slave. Through gritted teeth, Blueblood smiled at the odd couple.

“I wasn’t aware you held the Caliph in such low regard.” A polite probe to hopefully draw something out of the more chatty Fairweather.

“Oh, him!” Fairweather rolled his eyes as he led Blueblood along the dusty path. “Here, let me give you a ride back to the palace. I’ll tell you all about it on the way.”

Chicory followed silently behind them, remaining unobtrusive.

They piled into Fairweather’s carriage, a hulking beast decked in rococo gold filagree and ornate white woodwork. A jackal held open the door for them, stopping Chicory from entering. He gestured for her to ride on the back of the carriage, among the netting that held the Duke’s luggage. She scowled at him but didn’t protest.

Blueblood settled into a comfortable velvet seat and was served a minty cocktail that Fairweather prepared for him. “I suppose I may have misjudged your closeness with Sandalwood for fondness.”

“Oh, there’s hardly a lick of fondness between us!” Fairweather snorted. “I’m certainly not the biggest fan of him. Alabaster and I worked to get into his inner circle, but it turns out that we might as well have not bothered. He’s a stubborn old mule committed to clinging to his pathetic rule until his last dying breath.”

“I take it you and Alabaster were trying to undermine him then?”

“You could say that.” The pegasus shrugged. He took a drink of his cocktail and exhaled slowly. “I sought to limit his worst impulses where I could. But I’d never be so bold as to throw myself in front of a loaded gun, had enough of that in the Navy! Alabaster and I were working to shift the Caliph away from the sort of thing you saw today. If he’d just have taken our economic suggestions seriously…” Fairweather trailed off into a sigh. “But then Alabaster died suddenly, and I was left in the lurch.”

Captain’s eyes locked onto Blueblood. “The former diplomat’s death was almost certainly a murder. Do you agree, Prince?”

“I certainly think we’re not being given the whole story.” Blueblood kept his answer noncommital. He decided to add a twist of flattery to keep them going. “Though I’m sure if anypony would know, it would be you two. After all, Alabaster spoke very highly of you in his correspondence.”

“We’re still in the dark on the details.” Captain bounced his flattery off her stoic armor. It seemed to find its mark on Fairweather, whose feathers ruffled cheerfully. “But we don’t think it was natural. Someone had him killed.”

“And do you have any leads? I’ve been coming up blank at every turn.” Blueblood prayed that they didn’t already know they were suspects.

“Think about it this way.” The duke leaned forward in his seat, steepling his hooves in thought. “The Caliph already has a reputation for using force to get his way. If he decided that Alabaster was a threat to his rule… Well, you’ve seen how he deals with threats.”

The idea that the Caliph had been involved in the diplomat’s demise hadn’t crossed Blueblood’s mind. It felt unthinkable. If word got out that the ruler of a foreign nation had assassinated an Equestrian citizen abroad, it would be chaos. And yet it made some modicum of sense. Who else would have been able to keep the death concealed for four months? If they had been behind it, then Blueblood’s relationship with the Caliph was an extremely bad omen.

“I’ll be calling on you both soon.” Blueblood painted a smile on his lips and shook hooves with both of them. “I’m glad to know that somepony is on the same page with me.”

“We’re here for you, Blueblood.” Fairweather held their hoofshake for just a little too long for comfort. “It’s a good feeling to be on the right side of history.”

*****

When Trixie rolled out of bed and found the room empty, she felt frustrated at first. She fell asleep while they were working, and as soon as she awoke he had ditched her. Groaning, she rubbed her aching head and dragged herself to the table. Blueblood had left a note at least.

Briar,
Summoned by the Caliph. Unsure of when I’ll be back.
If I don’t return by nightfall, be worried.
—Indigo.

Trixie crumpled it up and tossed it across the room. By his own admission, she didn’t have to be worried for another eight hours at least. So she decided not to worry, and just spend her day enjoying her time in Saddle Arabia. No politics, no mystery solving, just a quiet morning by herself. She checked the clock and adjusted her expectations. She would enjoy a quiet afternoon by herself.

Despite it already being late in the day, she ordered breakfast to the room. Strawberry waffles piled high with whipped cream, herb-roasted red potatoes, an omelet stuffed with peppers and cheeses, with a slice of honeydew melon on the side. By the time she finished, Trixie was so stuffed she could hardly move. She ordered a mimosa to ease her digestion and soothe her splitting headache. After all, the greatest cure for a hangover was to keep drinking!

After breakfast, she soaked in a hot bubble bath long enough for her hooves to turn pruny. Blueblood’s complete coat and mane care routine lined the rim of the tub, with so many colorful bottles that it looked like an artist’s studio. She settled on some good conditioner for her mane and a sugar scrub for her coat. Despite her aches and pains, she stepped out of the bath feeling fresh and beautiful. Not that she wasn’t always beautiful, of course, but being scrubbed and perfumed just accentuated her natural beauty.

She dressed in her hat and cloak, had a glass of tamarind juice on the balcony, and then realized that she had no idea what to do. Going out in the city? Potentially dangerous. Plus she didn’t speak enough Sarabic to read the signs. Staying in her room and drinking the day away? A lovely suggestion, but a bit dull. Exploring the palace gardens? Too boring. If she wanted to look at plants, she could have just gone to a flower shop in Ponyville.

Trixie wandered the halls of the diplomatic wing, hoping to run into someone interesting in need of a companion. She passed a Gryphon and a Zebra sitting in a shady alcove playing chess, but it didn’t look like their game was ending anytime soon. She spied Snowmelt, the yak who had given her whiplash on the dance floor, reading a paperback romance that looked far too tiny for his massive hooves. That gave Trixie an idea at least. She turned right at the end of the hall and traced her steps to the library that served their little wing of the palace.

Trixie hadn’t been in a library since she’d been a magic student. Even then she’d avoided the library like the plague. It was always filled with nerdy eggheads pushing up their glasses and studying. Bleh. Trixie of course never associated with such drudgery. She passed her exams with the tried and true method of guessing every question and begging the professors to grade on a curve.

That did pose a problem, however, when she wanted to read something for fun. What did she like to read? Adventure? Romance? Horror? She had no idea. Trixie tapped her chin as she walked between the massive cedar bookshelves, scanning the titles as she went.

Silence fell upon her in an instant. Her heartbeat slowed and her breath grew rapid. Something passed her by, twisting around her like a bubbling river. Cool waves splashed her shoulders and warm embers alighted on her mane. Trixie shifted her eyes from side to side but saw nothing. A sharp icicle claw nestled itself in the crook of her chin and led her onward, like a mother leading her daughter through the grocery store. Somehow, it never occurred to Trixie to resist it. She followed willingly, curiosity and fear mingling unpleasantly in her belly.

The nonfiction section sprawled before her a moment later. The frigid touch softened to a gentle breeze that caressed her cheek to ease her worry. A book fell from a shelf on her right, landing open in front of her. Trixie once again found herself staring down at the Prophet Arfaj.

He was in less agony this time, seated at a table with a pair of jackals overlooking a map. His coat was still tattooed in the strange pattern she had seen in the art museum, yet different in ways Trixie couldn’t quite express. She picked up the book, staring at pages upon pages of scrawled Sarabic text that she couldn’t read. She wasn’t sure whatever was observing her understood that, but she didn’t dare protest. Swallowing a lump in her throat, Trixie turned the pages and pretended to read until she felt the presence vanish from her. The silence receded and she breathed a sigh of relief.

As she closed the book and replaced it on the shelf, Trixie decided that perhaps reading more about the local culture might be in order. She imagined that was what this book was intended to do, but she needed something more… On her level. She traipsed through the nonfiction section, pursing her lips as she perused the titles.

The Djinn: Saddle Arabia’s Oldest Secret

The Prophet Arfaj: His Life and Legacy

The Mournful Desert: A Dissertation on the Symbolic Nature of Djinn in Fourth-Century Sarabic Artwork

Every book she passed seemed so out of her league. She pulled a few from the shelves and leafed through their pages, but was immediately bored by their content. Where were the pictures? The photos? These books were nothing but wall-to-wall text full of bland, dry, boring information. Where was the fun in that?

At last, as she rounded a corner, Trixie found what she sought. Our Friend Arfaj! A Primer for Fillies and Colts. Perfect. Something at her level. She opened the pages excitedly and was pleased to find that it had plenty of pictures for her to enjoy. And at only thirty pages, she could have it done by nightfall! Tucking it under her foreleg, Trixie trotted out of the library excitedly and returned to her bedroom. She ordered up another cocktail, something sweeter this time, and settled comfortably on the balcony to read.

After a few hours sunning herself and idly reading, Trixie had gleaned a good amount of information. Arfaj was the first Prophet of Saddle Arabia, famed for unifying the bickering horse tribes under a single banner. He had also been a magus of incredible power. He had called up fresh springs from the desert sands, handled scorpions and vipers without being poisoned, walked on water, and most famously, bound the Djinn. It even contained the words he’d used to do it! Simplified for colts and fillies of course.

“By the sun and her flame, I bind your mind and magic,
By the moon and her chill, I bind your breast and heart,
By the river Akhal, I bind your left hand,
And by her sister Teke, I bind your right.

In the Sea of Sorrows, I bind your belly,
And with the desert dunes, I bind your legs.
I bind you in body, soul, and spirit,
And you are mine.”

Trixie hadn’t the slightest clue what any of that meant, and it didn’t seem the authors did either. Ah well, it was worth a try at least! She closed the book and yawned, stretching out on the comfortable balcony chair. The sun was just starting to kiss the horizon, painting the garden with smudgy pinks and streaky oranges. If there was one thing that was beginning to grow on her the longer she stayed in this country, it was the sunsets. Something about the heat and the cry of the muezzin made it feel beautifully ritualistic. Combined with the persistent danger of the city, it made every sunset feel like a small celebration. ‘You lived another day! Rest well and hope you survive tomorrow!’

“You know I didn’t mean you should literally wait for nightfall to find me.”

Trixie fell from the chair, startled out of her skin as Blueblood called her from the kitchen. He was mixing drinks by hoof, daintily measuring out liquor and juice in equal measure.

“Celestia and Luna both, Indigo!” She stomped to her hooves and tossed her mane indignantly. “At least tell a mare before you sneak up on her!”

She snatched the drink he was currently stirring from his hooves and downed a long gulp of it. Trixie looked up at his face and grimaced. “You look terrible, by the way.”

“I haven’t slept in twenty-seven hours,” Blueblood growled in reply. “And that drink wasn’t for you.”

“Then who was it—” Trixie turned her head to see Chicory seated on the edge of their bed, awkwardly kicking her hooves over the edge. “Indigo please tell me you didn’t break a mare out of prison.”

“Worse.”

“Worse?”

“I’m free on the condition that the Caliph’s assassin is found by the end of the week,” Chicory said softly.

“But what about—”

Blueblood shushed Trixie with a hoof over his lips. He levitated a finished cocktail to their guest, who accepted it gratefully. “One thing at a time.”

Trixie inhaled, took another drink to steady herself, and then exhaled slowly. “It’s just one damn thing after another, isn’t it.”

“For what it’s worth.” Chicory mused over the rim of her glass. “I will be assisting in the investigation as much as I can. And if there's anything else I can do for you, I will be happy to help.”

Her demeanor had shifted slightly. Her voice carried more emotion. Her posture was a bit less rigid. Her eyes were softer. Maybe it was the drink. Maybe it was the relative safety of their room.

“Chicory was kind enough to fetch us our mail.” Blueblood gestured to a basket of letters on the table. “Our official diplomatic correspondence awaits.”

And so, for the first time since they had arrived in the country, they spent their evening like real diplomats. They sorted through requests for political asylum, approved and denied expatriation requests, rubberstamped fresh passports, and sifted through the endless invitations to dinners, parties, and galas big and small. It felt cruelly domestic. They joked over drinks, ordered snacks from the palace, and smiled as they worked. For one night, they carved out a slice of normality amid the chaos.

But all of them knew that come morning, this would never last. Tomorrow they would be back to their new normal. Tomorrow they tracked an assassin.

Moon, Sun, and Marshmallows

"Where you can make peace, hold not.
Where you can hold, harm not.
Where you can harm, maim not.
Where you can maim, kill not.
If you must kill, kill well.
—Oath of the Equestrian Blade

Chapter 7: Moon, Sun, and Marshmallows

Blueblood was exhausted. He had been awake for around thirty hours now, yet he couldn’t sleep. Trixie was snuggled comfortably in bed, snoring peacefully and drooling on her pillow. Chicory had claimed the couch and was sleeping like a corpse. Blueblood had already checked twice to ensure she was still breathing. Canterlot gossip would have a field day with this if they ever found out. Sharing a bed with a commoner and letting a servant share his quarters. How far the Prince of Equestria had fallen. He tossed and turned, wrestling with his restlessness to no avail. He gave up, slid from the bed, and stepped out on the balcony.

A slender crescent moon bathed the gardens below in frostlight. Blueblood leaned against the cool stone of the railing, letting it chill him like a balm. From here, he could just barely see the arc of distant desert beyond the wall. Endless leagues of silver sand unblemished by hoofprint stretched as far as his eyes could see. It was bleak, vast, and beautiful. Something about those soft, undulating dunes called out to him. They begged him to lay down his worries, step out into the trackless waste, and become nothing.

Blueblood wasn’t sure how he felt about those thoughts. Probably something he ought to repress.

“They say there’s nothing as beautiful as a desert moon.”

Blueblood felt he should have jumped hearing a voice right behind him. Yet somehow it was so natural that his nerves seemed to expect it. Slowly, he turned to see the black silhouette of the Lunar Princess emerge from the doorway. Luna moved like liquid shadow, her hooves silent on the stone tiles as she solidified beside Blueblood.

“Cousin.” Blueblood regarded her with an incline of his head.

“Cousin,” Luna replied with her own nod. “I come bearing tidings from Canterlot.”

Blueblood motioned for her to continue.

“The trade deal with Zebrica went swimmingly. Celestia asked me to extend her personal thanks to you for laying the groundwork for the meeting.” Luna’s mane fluttered in an astral breeze and fell over one eye.

“So overjoyed that she couldn’t come herself.” Blueblood refused to meet her gaze, his skin simmering in the evening cool.

“I travel faster than my sister.” Luna’s voice was level. “My work is the work of dreams. To arrive here takes no time, so long as there’s somepony with a dream in their slumber.” Her gaze drifted to Trixie, who was hanging half off the luxurious bed. “She dreams of you, you know.”

“Must be a nightmare.” Blueblood rested his chin on the stone.

“She dreamed that you became king of Equestria and gifted her a crown.” Luna watched as Trixie snorted, her mouth open in a lopsided grin. “She was prying out the jewels and selling them off when I stepped out.”

Blueblood managed a ghostly smile. “Glad to know she’s consistent.”

“I also come in reply to your letter.” Luna tapped a hoof on the balustrade and produced his parchment. “Celestia asked me to reply in her stead.”

She laid down two envelopes sealed with red wax and a sunburst seal. “This is what Celestia was able to pull from the records about the ponies you requested. And this…”

Luna produced a thick folder, unsealed but stamped with the sigil of eclipse. “This is what my spies were able to uncover about them.”

It was significantly more than Blueblood had expected. He swallowed the acidic reply he had been chewing on and managed a polite bow.

“Thank you. I’m honored to receive.” He rose and accepted the sheaf of papers, clutching them to his chest.

“My sister trusts you, dear cousin.” Luna reached out to rest a hoof on his shoulder. “She trusts you utterly, but worries for you.”

“Well, she threw me into this mess.” Blueblood shrugged solemnly.

“Because she believes you’re the only pony who can handle it.” Luna paused, her gaze weighty with purpose. “But, should the danger be too great, she has authorized you to return home at any time. The judgment of the situation she leaves to you.”

The prince was silent. What was there to say?

Luna took a seat on one of the plush sun chairs. She gestured for Blueblood to join her.

“You don’t believe you’re up to the task.” Luna’s mane shimmered as her eyes dredged Blueblood’s emotions. “You fear that Celestia has misjudged you.”

“I think she’s made a mistake.” Blueblood kept his voice low, as though he needed to keep it secret from even himself. “I’m not good enough to untangle the politics of this place. I’m in over my head and—” He ground his teeth. He had to fight himself to say the words. Once he gave voice to the insecurity it was real. “There are other ponies more qualified than I am.”

“You speak of Twilight Sparkle.”

His eyes fell. He couldn’t even nod in reply. Luna exhaled softly, her breath cool and vaprous in the night.

“If Celestia believed Twilight could solve this problem, she would have dispatched Twilight. She did not.” Luna extended a hoof and gently tapped Blueblood’s chest. A crust of frost formed where she touched him. “She chose you, cousin.”

“But what if she was wrong?” Blueblood brushed ice from his coat.

“You will have to determine that for yourself.” Luna gently grasped his shoulder. “But remember. Out of everypony in Canterlot, she chose you. Celestia does not make her decisions lightly. If there was somepony more qualified for the job, you wouldn’t be here.”

The prince huffed quietly. He swallowed hard and steeled himself mentally. Luna smiled as she felt his resolve.

“Now rest.” Her horn glowed pale silver and Blueblood felt himself grow weary. “You’re exhausted. No dreams in two days makes the mind dull.”

“Thank you, Luna.” Blueblood yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Tell Auntie I love her.”

“She knows.” Luna chuckled softly. Her frame stiffened suddenly as she seemed to recall something. “I almost forgot. I come bearing an omen.”

The Lunar Princess produced a long, thin box of ebon wood held with a silver clasp. Blueblood already knew the contents, yet he opened it anyway. Twenty shards of meteoric platinum were set into an interior of plush, scarlet velvet. His blade.

“Does Celestia know you’re smuggling arms?” Blueblood replied with a dry smile. He levitated the motes of the blade from within and felt them lattice together into a thin, tampering sword. Luna hadn’t been kidding. This was an ill omen. If she felt the need to bring him a weapon, then she was tacitly expecting him to use it.

“I suspected you would want Pride within reach should things require it.” Her eyes glinted like starforged steel as she spoke his blade’s name. “Wear it with honor.”

Blueblood flourished his blade, shattered it, and returned it to its case. He clasped it firmly and felt its weight in his hooves. "Thank you. I pray I won't have cause to use it."

“Goodnight, dear cousin.” Luna smiled, her outline growing fuzzy and indistinct as she faded into shadow. “Do us proud.”

“Goodnight.”

Luna vanished from his sight, leaving behind a shimmering, starry outline in the night. He blinked, and that too was gone. Slouching back to bed, Blueblood fell into the pillows and inhaled the perfumed fabric. Trixie had shifted so far in bed that she was kicking his side in her sleep, but he didn’t mind. Something about it felt right. Exhaling slowly, he expunged the dread of Canterlot tabloids from his thoughts. His eyes slid shut and at last, he drifted off into dreams.

*****

“Five more minutes…” Trixie clamped a pillow over her head and burrowed deeper into the blankets. Blueblood rolled his eyes as he adjusted his shirt. He grabbed her lashing tail and dragged her from the comfort of her bed, kicking and screaming.

“I don’t wanna get up!”

“Briar, get dressed! We’re going to be late.” Blueblood tossed her hat and robe at her, burying her again in soft fabric. “Celestia help me, if we’re late for prayer because of you, I’m throwing you off the balcony!”

“I’m up, I’m up!” Trixie cried, tying her cape and tossing her mane. “I wasn’t aware you were so religious.”

“He’s not,” Chicory said bluntly.

Blueblood grabbed a brush and began fussing with Trixie’s hair. “Ah, but it looks good to do it. Particularly on a day like today, when the Caliph is reading the prayers.”

“I thought we hated— Ow! You’re pulling!” Trixie winced.

“Only cause you’re fighting my vision.” Blueblood dolloped pomade onto her mane and went on. “And yes, we’re very much on Sandalwood’s bad side. But, this is a good opportunity for us to make some small amends.”

“And we’re making amends why?” Chicory raised an eyebrow.

With one final brushstroke Blueblood finished Trixie’s mane. “Because getting anything done with the Caliph against us is going to be impossible. We need to at least look like we’re trying to get along. It doesn’t matter how we actually feel, so long as your average horse can look at us and assume we're on the same page.”

“So what you’re saying is we need good publicity?” Trixie plopped her hat atop her head, ruining Blueblood’s hard work. She ducked under the brush he threw and smirked. “If there’s one thing I can handle, it's publicity.”

“Then grab the parasol and let’s go.” Blueblood glanced at the clock. “We’re three minutes behind schedule thanks to you.”

“Which one of us insisted on doing my mane?"

“And which one of us insisted on soiling my masterpiece?”

Chicory rolled her eyes and shoved them both towards the door. “Less fighting, more moving.”

The trio threw open the door and spilled into the hall. They nearly bowled over Aster, who had just been preparing to knock. He danced back deftly, avoiding the collision with ease.

“Ah, my prince.” He grinned and bowed reverentially. “I come bearing news.”

“If it’s bad news, it can wait,” Blueblood replied without breaking his stride. He didn’t have time to stop and chat. Thankfully, Aster seemed content to walk and talk, matching his speed.

“Thankfully, I bear good news for a change.” Aster bounded beside the prince. “Marshmallow has agreed to meet with you today. They requested you join them for lunch this afternoon. Shall I let them know you’ve accepted?”

“Please do.” They rounded a corner and descended a flight of steps that deposited them in a checker-tiled foyer.

“If I may ask, my prince,” The liaison said, parting briefly to allow a pair of servants to pass between them. “Where are you off to at such an early hour?”

“We’re on our way to morning prayers.” Trixie yawned. “The Caliph is reading them today, right?”

“He is indeed.” Aster scanned them with an implacable expression. “I wasn’t aware you were religious.”

“Is it not important for me to understand the culture of Saddle Arabia while I’m here?” Blueblood dodged the question with ease. “If I’m going to live here, I feel I ought to participate at least sometimes.”

“You’re doing this for publicity, aren’t you?” Aster exhaled flatly.

“Is it that obvious?” Trixie shrugged sheepishly. Blueblood elbowed her in the stomach and glared over his shoulder. “Hey!”

“It’s not entirely for publicity.” Blueblood tried to stress before Aster cut him off.

“No, no.” Aster held up a hoof to silence the prince. “It’s wise. The rift between you and the Caliph, whose soul is righteous, is plain to all who see it. This is a good opportunity for some healing. Let the public see you being reverent alongside them.”

Blueblood and Trixie were both silent for a moment, surprised by his pragmatism.

Aster flashed a small but knowing grin. “You forget I’m a liaison. My job is to build bridges between Equestria and Saddle Arabia. Truthfully, I’m only upset I didn’t think of it first.”

*****

The Temple of the Cosmos looked like something out of a dream. An obsidian ziggurat that appeared like a shadow in the early morning light. The sun was not yet up, and in the last gloomy shreds of moonlight, Blueblood could just barely make out the watchful minarets that ringed the structure. The air was ceremoniously still as horses and camels made their way to the open doors. Blueblood breathed a sigh of relief that they had made it on time. Nothing would have looked worse than interrupting prayer as an outsider.

“See?” Trixie gestured to the doors, huffing softly. “I could have had five more minutes of sleep.”

“If I gave you five minutes, you’d have slept another hour.”

She yawned and stretched, blinking her eyes lazily. “Just promise we won’t make this a habit.”

“Believe me, I have no intention of getting up this early every day,” Blueblood replied, fixing his mane. Before they could enter the temple, Aster motioned for Blueblood’s attention.

“My prince,” His eyes shifted to Chicory, who stared at the ziggurat impassively. “Are you sure you want to bring her into the Temple of the Cosmos?”

Blueblood cocked his head. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“She’s a Fire Worshiper, my prince,” Aster whispered acidically. “She does not respect our traditions.”

Chicory’s ear flicked at that. Evidently, she was listening in.

“Why don’t you ask her if she respects your traditions?” Blueblood raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

“There’s no use in talking to those who don’t understand.” Aster spat, passing Blueblood by to enter the darkened doorway.

“What was that about?” Trixie removed her hat as she lingered on the lintel.

“There’s much bad blood between our faiths. It's too long and too ancient to explain now.” Chicory breathed out slowly. “I’ll wait outside.”

“Are you going to be respectful if you’re allowed inside?” Blueblood rubbed his temple.

“I will show them the same respect that they would show me.”

“Chicory.” Blueblood met her eyes. “Can you promise you’re not going to make a scene?”

She inhaled sharply. “I promise, on one condition.”

Blueblood gestured for her to continue.

“I want you to see the other side of things.” Chicory swallowed hard. “I want you to visit a Fire Temple with me.”

“It’s a deal.” Blueblood shook hooves with her to seal things, turned on his heel, and stamped into the dark of the temple.

Inside, he was overwhelmed by a holy aroma. It was the smell of burning incense, of woodsmoke and embers, and long-lived tradition. Blueblood could feel the age of the temple in every inhalation. It was dark, so dark that his sight failed him completely. There were no windows that he could see, only stark, somber stone on all sides. He followed the gentle curve of the wall, feeling weathered hieroglyphs etched under his hoof until he stumbled into a large, central chamber. Two slats of dim light fell like slanted pillars through small, circular holes in the ceiling. Blueblood could just barely make out Aster to his right and padded over the dense network of prayer rugs until he stood side-by-side with his liaison. Trixie bumped into his flank, followed by Chicory seconds later. Aster glowered at her for a split second before his attention turned back to the east.

Black-robed priests roamed the aisles, sticks of burning incense fuming in their high, cubic caps. They scattered fragrant herbs before their hooves as they walked, murmuring benedictions of farewell to the rapidly vanishing moon. Their eyes fell on Blueblood and Trixie, and they paused their prayer to blink away their confusion. Evidently, ponies didn’t typically attend these services.

A moonstone plinth rose at the intersection of the twin beams of argent light. There was a loud, unwholesome cough as a white-robed horse hobbled towards it. Even through the shade, Blueblood knew the bespectacled silhouette of Sandalwood. A priest supported him, letting the weakened Caliph lean against his side as they approached the center of the chamber.

“Just follow my lead, my prince.” Aster gently rapped on Blueblood’s shoulder. “You as well, magus Briar.”

Both noticed that Chicory was purposefully excluded from the arrangement.

“Indigo,” Trixie whispered. “Can you translate what they’re saying to me?”

“I can try. Keep your voice down!” Blueblood hissed, only for a mare in black to shush him.

The Caliph ascended the steps with aid, his weight lurching between his assistant and his cane. Once he managed to get a hoof on the pulpit, he clung to it like a lifeline. Even from a distance, Blueblood could see the pained heaving of his chest. Sandalwood looked sick. If this was meant to reassure the population of his health, it was having the opposite effect.

“Good morning.” Sandalwood’s voice was scarcely above a whisper, but it was enough. The acoustics of the barren walls carried it to every ear. His eyes scanned the crowd, taking a mental note of Blueblood and Trixie as he returned to his notes. “I’m pleased to see that we have guests from Equestria in attendance.”

There was a quiet shuffling as heads were craned to gawk at the outsiders. Blueblood bore their stares like a stone and Trixie managed an awkward wave.

“Let us pray.” Sandalwood removed his gaze and faced east. The entire congregation rose to their hooves and turned, facing a white brick set into the wall. Blueblood’s heart quickened. It was an odd feeling, being a part of something so much bigger than just himself. The horses around him didn’t regard him as odd or out of place. He was a worshipper of the sun, same as them.

Yet on every exhalation, there was an undercurrent of something out of place. Blueblood could understand the whispers in the air around him and felt his throat constrict.

“Psst!” Trixie prodded his side and hissed. “What are they saying? Is it about us?”

“They’re saying how shocked they are to see royalty here,” Blueblood replied under his breath. He withheld the truth ever so slightly. They were certainly shocked, but royalty wasn’t their reason. The hallowed utterance on every tongue was Khitab Al-Shams.

Sandalwood continued his prayer unabated. Blueblood dutifully translated for Trixie’s benefit. “O, Sun, we greet your rising with praise. Guide our hooves, that we the righteous may not stray from your path. Light our minds, that we may banish wicked thought. Protect us, that evil may flee from our going.”

As the Caliph paused, the priests hummed a low, throaty note. Slowly it grew, rippling out as the entire congregation joined in the basso tone. It felt like the earth itself was thrumming beneath them by the time the priests commanded silence.

“O, Sun, we greet your rising with praise. Have mercy on us the righteous, that your flame may leave us unscathed.” Sandalwood continued, gasping for breath. “Burn away falsehood, that we may inherit your truth. Burn away division, that we may know harmony. Burn away our fault, that we may be made pure.”

Another silence filled with deep humming. Through the east-facing slit in the ceiling, Blueblood could see the sky growing rosy.

“O, Sun,” The Caliph’s voice wavered. He coughed and steeled himself. “We greet your rising with praise. Grant us your warmth, that we may love one another. Let us love our kin, let us love our neighbor, and let us love the stranger as we love ourselves. For he that knows not love will know not warmth.”

The priests led a final hum, then knelt to their rugs. The entire temple followed suit, filling the air with a soft seething of fabric. Everyone bowed at once, just as the first ray of sunlight burst over the horizon. They held the pose in hushed silence as the entire chamber was bathed in brilliant gold. The slit of sunlight slowly swept across the worshipers, baking their backs as they knelt subserviently. Blueblood felt the heat on his spine as beads of sweat blossomed across his coat. A second later, it was over. Coolness spread across his skin and made him feel oddly chilled.

It took nearly a minute for the shaft of light to cross the room. At last, the sun rose beyond the window and the entire temple was cast back into quiet, holy-scented dimness.

“Arise.” The Caliph croaked as his assistant helped him to his hooves. “And walk in the light.”

Dull muttering filled the temple as horses began to spill towards the exit. Sandalwood stood in the center of the chamber, his eyes fixated on the ponies. His expression was impossible to read. Blueblood could feel confusion radiating from the ruler as he watched them meander toward the exit. Blueblood knew this was a victory, albeit a slight one. Horses glanced at him and smiled faintly when they caught his gaze. Whispers were circulating already. Blueblood tried to focus but only managed to catch snippets.

“—ponies would never—”

“Not like the old diplomat, for sure—”

“—Can’t believe they bowed—”

“—Khitab al-Shams—”

Good. Let them see him as a pony of the people. Even if just for the moment. Blueblood had successfully disentangled himself from Alabaster’s sordid legacy in two days.

"Well done, my prince," Aster whispered as they stepped from the temple into the brilliance of daybreak. "I will check in with you back at the palace tonight."

As he stalked off, Chicory nudged Blueblood from behind. "I'll also meet you in the room tonight. I have a few errands to run before I get back to the palace." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "And remember your promise, Indigo."

"Of course," Blueblood replied calmly.

Now on to meet the good doctor.

*****

It felt like a grim portent that Marshmallow had wanted to meet in their office at the medical campus. Blueblood and Trixie shared a worried glance as they approached the site of their first shock of their Saddle Arabian excursion: the dead body of their predecessor. A nurse ushered them into the heart of the hospital, past the operating rooms and recovery beds to an inner sanctum of research and innovation. Laboratories bustled with horses in worn leather smocks, all of whom reeked of chemical components. The air was thick with the scent of progress, a feeling of scientific import seeping into the tile floors and white stucco walls. In one room, horses wearing thick face masks checked dishes of disease and injected their freshly mixed cures to test. In another, Trixie spied a group of students examining blood samples under massive magnifying lenses. A pair in the hall exchanged notes over anatomy textbooks heavier than the bricks that made up the walls.

Yet despite the change of scenery from the morgue to here, Trixie still felt that uncomfortable, lingering dread. The acrid odor of industrial cleaner in the air whirled in her nostrils and made her temples throb. Vials of blood and samples of tissue still lay behind every door. Her stomach churned as they walked the halls, following Aster’s note that they were to meet for lunch in the University cafeteria.

Blueblood checked the map he had been given on the way in as they came to a fork. They took a left and found themselves approaching the crowded cafeteria. Students and doctors alike were sitting down to lunch, scarfing down meals while they perused patient records or crammed for their next exam.

“Not exactly a glamorous luncheon, is it?” Trixie sighed as they received metal trays and fell into line.

“It’s got to be better than The Grease Pit,” Blueblood replied with a wry smirk.

“Shut up.” Trixie bumped into his side. “You loved it once you gave it a try!”

“Once I was threatened.” The prince corrected, holding up a hoof. “Let’s not forget your role in this.”

The two of them followed the line, receiving some extremely unappealing food. A loaf of crusty, dark-colored bread, a small cup of watery vegetable soup, two coin-sized lumps of soft, clay-like cheese, and a cookie so hard it could shatter stone.

Blueblood sniffed at the soup and made a face. “I’ll trade you my soup for your bread.”

“No way.” Trixie shifted her tray away from him. “My bread for your cheese or the deal’s off.”

Blueblood prodded the cheese with his hoof. “Is this surke?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“If it’s surke, then I’m not trading it.” Blueblood levitated a ball up to his nose and took a whiff. “It looks like surke, but it smells so faint…”

“Look, are you gonna trade with me, or not?” Trixie pouted like an annoyed schoolfilly.

Blueblood paused to scan the cafeteria. Wooden tables with smooth metal benches were packed with horses from end to end. He struggled to find an open seat, much less one where they could meet and speak privately with Marshmallow. A gentle tap on his side caught his attention.

Marshmallow stood between them, levitating their platter with magic. “Esteemed prince, magus.”

“Doctor Marshmallow, I presume?” Trixie arched an eyebrow.

“In the flesh, bone, and sinew.” They said, bowing dramatically. “It’s a pleasure to meet you on such short notice. Come, follow me.”

Blueblood and Trixie fell into line, following Marshmallow to a backroom reserved for University faculty. The table and chairs were no better than the ones in the cafeteria, but it was at least a little more private. All three slammed down their trays with a clang and took their seat.

“Tell me,” Marshmallow crushed a lump of cheese into their bread and took a bite. They didn’t bother to swallow before continuing. “Is Equestria still using wooden splints to set broken limbs? I recall that was the case last time I visited, though even then it felt somewhat outdated. Not to insult your homeland of course, but I was shocked to see they hadn’t started using softstone for it.”

Blueblood opened his mouth to respond as Marshmallow swallowed. They dipped their bread in the watery, salty soup and took another bite. Before Blueblood could even consider a reply, they continued.

“Oh! And another thing! Since they weren’t using softstone I recall Redheart telling me that they were using some sort of subtle attraction magic to hold the splint in place. Do they still do that? If so, what spell? While softstone is great for immobilizing the limb, it can slip off when the limb starts to sweat, which, can you believe it, happens a lot in the desert!”

The doctor laughed, clapping a hoof against the table as they tossed their faintly toasted mane. Blueblood resigned himself to sipping a spoonful of his soup as he waited for them to finish. Trixie cleared her throat and tried to cut in.

“Doctor Marshmallow, we were really hoping to—”

“Actually now that I think about it, last time I checked in on Equestria, they were still using somnasprig for anesthesia. They don’t do that anymore do they?” Marshmallow raised their eyebrow and shook their head. “Sun and moon, I hope not. The side effects just weren’t worth it! A day of nausea after tranqwort is so much easier to recover from than the headaches and exhaustion somnasprig can cause! Of course, right now I’m testing to see if tranqwort oil can reduce pain on contact or if it needs to be consumed in concentrate to assist with—”

“Well, you see, we’re actually hoping to—” Blueblood tried to butt in but found himself swiftly rebuffed.

“The problem has been the smell you see, tranqwort doesn’t have a pleasant aroma, so it's difficult to find willing subjects to test on if they’re going to stink of—”

Blueblood decided to keep pressing. “Marshmallow, do you know anything about the Caliph?”

Their chatter suddenly ceased. A flush of embarrassment darkened their cheeks as they took a nervous mouthful of cheese. “My apologies. It's not often that I get to speak with representatives from outside Saddle Arabia. Yes, the Caliph. That’s why you asked to meet with me. Curse my silly scatterbrain!” They thumped a hoof weakly against their temple for emphasis. “I presume you wanted to know about his health?”

“In a roundabout way, yes.” Trixie tried to chew her cookie but gave up after gnawing on it like a bone.

“He’s as stable as one can expect after all he’s been through.” Marshmallow shrugged their shoulders. “The poisoning took its toll on him. He’s just very lucky that I remembered to pack charcoal in my bag that night! You know, I nearly left without it, but something nudged me to check my bag before I was out the door, and I realized I was out of it! Good thing I still had some in my kitchen cabinet!”

Blueblood decided to cut right to the point. “And do you have any idea what sort of poison it was?” When Marshmallow narrowed their eyes suspiciously, he tacked on an explanation. “The Caliph has tasked Briar and I with investigating the assassination.”

“Odd. Why wouldn’t he designate that to the guard?” Marshmallow pursed their lips and gently stroked their chin. “Ah well, it doesn’t matter. Like the moon, the Caliph (who beautifies bleak desert with his name) works in mysterious ways.”

They popped the last of their bread into their mouth and chewed quickly. Marshmallow levitated their saddlebags off a wall hook and laid out a set of papers on the crumb-covered table. “These were my notes on the incident. I tested a bit of Sandalwood’s blood, plus the plates, silverware, and cups he used last night. The poison was found in his wineglass.”

Blueblood winced internally at that. Trixie sucked her teeth and met his eyes. Both ponies looked like they’d been sentenced to the gibbet.

“But that’s what was so odd.” Marshmallow hummed, shifting the sheets around. “If you’re going to assassinate someone, you’d wanna use a powerful poison, right? But this wasn’t really poison. I mean it’s not like rotroot or princebane, where the stuff is strong enough to kill a camel with a single drop.”

“So what was it?” Trixie looked over the papers, pretending she could comprehend them through the mix of awful penmanship and medical jargon. She recalled the name of a poison from a detective paperback she’d perused while waiting for a train. “Oh! Was it bitterblight?”

Marshmallow stared blankly, blinking in befuddlement. “I… I don’t think bitterblight exists. At least I’ve never seen it in my botany training.”

“Oh.” Trixie’s face fell. She swallowed her embarrassment with a piece of cheese. “Nevermind.”

“It's a mixture of chemicals.” Marshmallow ran their hoof along a paragraph of terms as long as their arm. “I recreated it in my lab, and it turns out it's an industrial adhesive. A plant-based, water-resistant glue.”

“And why use that over something stronger?” Blueblood knitted his brow. "Something more suited to the task?"

“That’s what I’m struggling with.” Marshmallow shook their head, their mane bobbing softly. “It could be that they just used whatever was at hoof. Maybe they didn’t have the money or the know-how to get their hooves on something stronger. Or it could have been a spur-of-the-moment decision, and they just dumped something they thought would be toxic into the wineglass and hoped for the best.”

“This adhesive…” Trixie downed what was left of her soup with a grimace. “Could it have actually killed the Caliph?”

“Oh almost certainly! The stuff is nasty! It’s not meant for consumption at all! Generally, you’re going to get muscle cramps, vomiting, seizing of the chest…” They rattled off the effects from memory, going down the list in a musical tone.

Blueblood listened impassively, but a slim connecting line drew Trixie’s attention.

“What about the heart?” Trixie interrupted the doctor’s sing-song symptoms. “Can this stuff hurt your heart? Like, let's say, cause a heart attack?”

“Hm? Oh! Yes! I was getting to that!” Marshmallow rapped their hooves on the table excitedly. “See, most of the symptoms on their own aren’t enough to kill someone. Feeding them charcoal and relaxing the muscles will usually help the body purge it naturally. The real problem is that when those symptoms all hit at once—” They clapped both hooves together loud enough to make their guests jump. “It can send the body into shock. Blood won’t circulate properly, and that can induce cardiac failure. You’ve gotta treat it fast! Thankfully, I guessed right that Sandalwood had been poisoned and got him treatment in time!”

Blueblood caught Trixie’s gaze. He knew where she was going with this. He cursed himself for not seeing it sooner.

“And this adhesive,” Blueblood followed her lead, winding her conclusions tighter. “Would it show up on an autopsy? Let's say this had killed the Caliph in private. Would you have been able to determine he had been poisoned?”

“Now there’s an interesting question!” Marshmallow could hardly sit still. The buzzing of their thoughts was nearly audible as they shifted back and forth in their chair. “Hm. See that’s difficult to answer. If I ran a test suspecting poison, I’d likely find that something was amiss. The question is whether or not I’d even suspect poison if they had used an adhesive rather than a traditional toxin.”

Unable to sit still and continue thinking, they rose from their chair and paced the room.

“Most poisonings will leave behind some sort of evidence. Like princebane for example. It smells faintly like coffee grounds and tends to leave a reddish tint to the hooves in its victims. Or rotroot, which makes the gums bleed. But this? Well, the only evidence is that they died in the first place. If I hadn’t seen Sandalwood collapse with my own eyes, if I’d just treated him after the fact?” They pursed their lips and hummed, drumming a hoof against their temple. “No, I don’t think I’d have assumed poison.”

“And!” Trixie was on to something. She was having a rare moment of genius and intended to fully exploit it. “How long would the adhesive remain in the body? Would it still be there after say… a few months?”

“Ha! I doubt it would last a few weeks!” Marshmallow returned to their chair, rocking from side to side as they settled into it. They thrust a stray strand of their mane out of their eyes, only to replace it with ten more. “Fluid loss after death usually means that toxicology tests need to be done within days if not hours. You could try checking hair or hoofnails for long-term poisoning, but if the poison killed them in a matter of minutes? You’re out of luck.”

That was exactly what they needed to know. The two ponies nodded to each other, grinning broadly. The mystery of Alabaster’s death was being drawn back like a funerary shroud. The pieces were coming together. Now was the moment of truth. Could they pin down a culprit?

“Doctor,” Blueblood leaned forward in his seat. “Where would someone get an industrial adhesive like this? What sort of person could get their hooves on it?”

“Oh, just about anyone.” Marshmallow shrugged their shoulders.

That deflated the ponies' excitement almost instantly.

“It’s fairly common in a lot of trades. Carpenters use it for extra security on joints. A lot of furniture uses it for upholstery. Most model kits have a little bottle included. You can use it to repair clothes, bind books, fix carriage wheels, seal leaks, or put up posters. I’ve even used the stuff to glue the handle back onto my coffee mug when it snapped off before. Pretty much every hobby store in Sarabia has it on their shelves.”

“Well, that doesn’t narrow our suspects down at all.” Trixie huffed, folding her arms across her chest.

“Sorry, wish I could help you more there!” The doctor cocked their head with a lopsided smile. They paused and glanced down at their watch. “Oops! Lunch break is over! I’d love to keep chatting, but I’ve got patients waiting. Royal Physician is a pretty busy job!”

The remnants of their lunch were swiftly scarfed down. Marshmallow wiped their mouth on the back of their hoof and waved a fond farewell before they sprinted for the door and vanished around the corner with a clatter of hooves. Blueblood stared down at his plate and exhaled slowly.

Whoever had been behind the attack on the Caliph was likely behind Alabaster’s death as well. There was no way to prove it for sure, but the clues were pointing in that direction. An unusual poison that was hard to track. Something widely available to force any investigation to cast a wide net. Their would-be assassin was covering their tracks well.

But they had a method. They had a reason why Alabaster’s autopsy had come back clean. And now they had a link between Alabaster’s killer and the Caliph’s assailant.

“So,” Trixie tapped a hoof on her plate. “My bread for your cheese?”

Blueblood sighed and passed her what remained of his surke. He nibbled on the bread and tried to look on the bright side. Victory was victory, no matter how small.

*****

Trixie didn’t want to believe that Blueblood had been right, but she was starting to get used to the heat. As the two of them walked the dusty pavement of Palm Street, she found she wasn’t sweating nearly as profusely as she expected. It was past noon, and the long shadows of early afternoon striped the streets like zebraflesh. Towering, stately palms lined the road, their broad leaves concealing bundles of scarlet dates. A young Jackal had scaled one of the nearby trees and was plucking the fruit and stuffing it hastily into his satchel. The streets bustled with barkers and zealots and patrons of all shapes and sizes. Blueblood and Trixie briefly parted to allow a pair of fillies to sprint between them, flailing freshly purchased plush toys. They ducked beneath a rug that two Jackals were carrying on their shoulders. They twisted through a throng of horses who watched a street magician who arced lightning between his hooves. They jumped over a puddle of spilled olive oil that was rapidly spreading across the cobblestones.

They felt so strangely normal in this scene. Trixie hadn’t been in Saddle Arabia more than a week, and already she felt like she belonged there. The language barrier notwithstanding. Horses smiled as she passed them by, camels nodded appreciatively, and jackals waved nonchalantly. Blueblood exchanged odd bits of conversation with street vendors, politely refusing their advances with good humor. Trixie felt that same sense of cruel domesticity she had felt the night before creep into her heart.

How sad that they were stuck playing diplomat and detective. If only they could live their lifespan in moments like these; moments of quiet bliss spent together.

Trixie’s eyes flicked to Blueblood. He was smiling that painted grin of his. As soon as his conversation ended, he returned to his resting look of scorn and frustration. His eyes caught her gaze, and he smiled again. Something smaller, fainter, weaker. When his attention was drawn elsewhere, it vanished once more.

Coworkers. That’s what he had said they were. Was that how he really felt? Or was he trying to save face in front of Fairweather?

Was that what Trixie wanted to be?

If there was one consistent thing in Trixie’s life, it was inconsistency. Every night was a new performance in a new town with a new crowd. She had never put down roots, found a community, or bothered to settle. And she didn’t intend to. Yet no matter how far she roamed, Blueblood always found her. If she was just a coworker to him, why would he travel far and wide just to reconnect?

Her eyes drifted to his again. Another frail smile before he glanced away.

“So, where are we heading?” Trixie pushed her confused emotions down as they ascended the lane.

“Since we were in the area, I figured we could check out Celestial Antiquities.” Blueblood shrugged. “Might as well figure out what they remember about Alabaster’s visit. If he seemed healthy when he visited them, then it confirms our suspicions about his death. It’d also mean he had to have been poisoned at the Waltz of the Crescent Moon, which could narrow our search to the guest list. Just another way to draw the net a little tighter.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Things were quiet between them again. Trixie could read from his expression that he was deep in thought, though she imagined their focuses differed greatly.

“So,” Blueblood cleared his throat and spoke up, his words imprinted with his smirk. “I heard you were dreaming about me last night.”

“How did you—” Trixie blurted her implication before she could compose herself. Her cheeks darkened as she harumphed and turned sharply. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Princess Luna told me.”

“When did—”

“Last night.” Blueblood chuckled softly. “So, are you saying the almighty Princess of the Moon is a liar?”

She exhaled sharply. “You’re a real ass, you know that?”

“Answer the question, Briar.”

“Technically, yes.” She waved a hoof to try and ward off his accusation. “You were a supporting character in the dream. You gifted me a crown that I sold for a very lovely pile of golden bits.”

“Glad to know I’m always on your mind.” Blueblood nudged her with a wry grin.

“Money is always on my mind.” Trixie shoved back. “It’s first and foremost in my thoughts at all times.”

“I thought that was liquor?”

“No. First money, then food, and then liquor.” She corrected. “A mare has to have priorities, you know.”

“Speaking of food and liquor,” Blueblood sidestepped a very drunken jackal who stumbled down the lane. “After we check out Celestial Antiquities, shall we get dinner before we return to the palace? Maybe a few drinks as well?”

“College cafeteria food didn’t satisfy you?”

“Celestia, no.” He wrinkled his snout and let his ears droop. “I’ve never had such bland, tasteless cuisine in all my life.”

“So back to the Grease Trap then?” Trixie snickered.

“It’s my turn to choose the restaurant.” Blueblood retorted with a snort. “And no, Al-Hawa doesn’t count.”

“Fine, you choose then. Dinner sounds lovely right about now.”

“It’s a date.”

Celestial Antiquities was a small shop situated at the corner of Palm and Dune, decorated with a stylized depiction of Celestia trying on a turban. Blueblood cringed at the tacky branding. The “Grand Opening!” banner was still strung across the front of the store four months later. Blueblood wondered if that was intentional to draw customers, or just laziness on the part of the owner. He approached the door, a frosted glass panel with a chalkboard hung on it to list out the store hours, as well as its tagline.

“The sun never sets on our empire of deals!”

Classy.

Blueblood pushed open the door and entered. His first impression was coughing and gagging on the thick layer of dust that hung in the air. Trixie didn’t fare much better, sneezing so hard she got lightheaded as she inhaled the stale air.

“Welcome to Celestial Antiquities!” A bronze pegasus popped her head up over the register counter, a stone slab inlaid with fading hieroglyphs. “How can I help you?”

The entire shop was stuffed to bursting with bits and pieces of Saddle Arabian history. Ornate prayer rugs dangled from the ceiling, and old brass weapons hung on every wall. Paintings with brilliant wooden frames were stacked in unsteady pillars. Political fliers had been torn from walls and stickered for a few bits. Bowls of assorted arrowheads and spent bullets were on sale, fifteen for three bits. The figurehead of an ancient Sarabian riverboat was prominently displayed at the front of the shop: a wild-maned lion holding a “SOLD!” sign in its bloodied jaws.

“What uh… What do you sell here?” Trixie ran a hoof over the rust-flecked blade of a scimitar.

“Here at Celestial Antiquities,” The pegasus vaulted over the counter gracefully. Her cutie mark, a lock and key, seemed appropriate. “We’re in the business of sellin’ history! Like this!”

She brushed by Blueblood to remove a warped wooden staff tipped with an iron band. “See, this here’s the staff of the Prophet Wadi, who fought Arfaj in the first days of the empire. And that—” She replaced the staff and flapped her wings, bolting up to the rafters and alighting on a prayer rug covered in faded roses. “Is the prayer rug of Chestnut the Wise, seventeenth Caliph of Saddle Arabia!”

“And how much do you charge for something like that, miss…” Blueblood trailed off.

“Cyclone’s the name!” She shook Blueblood’s hoof vigorously. “And if you gotta ask, you can’t afford it!”

Blueblood very much doubted that. In fact, he suspected he was the target audience for a shop like this. “And business has been good?”

“Boomin’!” Cyclone thumped her chest. “Got two more orders to fill tonight. One to Canterlot, one to Manehattan. Then I’m done for the day.” Her lips curled into a judgemental grimace. “But somethin’ tells me you ain’t here to buy.”

“Actually,” Trixie pushed her way into the conversation before Blueblood could drown the poor pegasus in insults. “We had a question about a friend of yours. A pony who helped out with the grand opening."

“Oh, you’re talkin’ bout that diplomat guy!” Cyclone clapped their hooves together. “Somethin’ Bastard?”

“Alabaster.” Blueblood said icily.

“That’s right! Damn shame what happened to him. Was always a friend while I was gettin’ the business off the ground.”

“Did he seem… Off to you?” Trixie questioned.

“Off how?”

“Sick? In pain?”

“Can’t say he did.” Cyclone shrugged. “Seemed like himself to me. Gave a nice speech about how we were bringin’ jobs back to the city, and how great this store was gonna be for Equestria and Saddle Arabia both! Then he cut the ribbon, bought an old jezail we were gonna ship back to Canterlot for him and headed out. Didn’t seem like he was off at all to me.”

She stopped short, suddenly glancing between her customers in a panic.

“Wait, hold on now! You ain’t tryin’ to imply I’m a suspect, right? Everythin' I do is completely above board! I got certificates of authenticity for every item! Celestia as my witness!”

“I’m implying nothing of the sort!” Blueblood grinned broadly, gently patting Cyclone on the shoulder. “Just asking questions.”

“So uh,” Cyclone returned his grin with one of her own, one that felt far too oily to be genuine. “Are ya’ll gonna buy somethin'? A nice carpet really ties the room together, y’know?”

“I don’t think we need a carpet.” Trixie giggled softly as she headed for the door. “I think our room in the palace is already quite complete, don’t you, Indigo?”

“Very much so. Thanks for the offer.” Blueblood paused on the lintel and shot a glance backward. “I’ll tell Celestia we were very impressed by your artwork of her, by the by.”

“Wait! You know Cel—”

Blueblood exited the shop before Cyclone could finish. Let her put together who her mystery shopper had really been over the next few days.

“Well, Alabaster wasn’t dying when he came here,” Trixie said, lingering in the shade of a leaning date palm.

“It sounds like he was expecting to return to Equestria.” Blueblood stood beside her and sighed. “He wouldn’t have bought a gun and shipped it home if he never expected to see it again.”

“So whoever killed him—”

“—Had to be at the Waltz of the Crescent Moon.”

Trixie’s violet eyes practically glowed with excitement. Blueblood could see faint sparks springing from her horn in the dim shadow. “Indigo, we’re getting closer. We’ve got a list of suspects. Celestia’s mane—” She shuddered, breaking out in a string of eager laughter. “We’re detectives! Real, honest to Celestia detectives!”

“And to think, you caught the link between Alabaster’s death and the Caliph’s assassin before I did.” Blueblood nudged her playfully. “Sometimes, I don’t hate having you with me.”

“And sometimes, I enjoy our time together.” Trixie immediately bit her tongue. Was that too far? Blueblood didn’t seem to think so.

“If I didn’t enjoy your company, I’d have left you back in Equestria.” Blueblood extended a hoof to her, giving her a gentle tug back into the street. “Now, I’d say we’ve earned ourselves a few drinks, haven’t we?”

“A few drinks of strong whiskey in a smoke-filled bar, like a real private eye.”

“The whiskey I agree with. The smoke, less so.” He wrinkled his snout. “Coffee is also going to be a must. We’ve got a lot to go over back at the palace, and it’s probably going to be another late night.”

“Oh, joy.” She rolled her eyes.

*****

They ate dinner at a cozy, dimly lit little tavern across the street from Lineage Park. As the sun dipped low on the horizon, they were seated outdoors beside a warm, crackling fire. They clinked their glasses and drank deeply, capping their night off with meaningless chatter and playful banter.

With liquor coursing through his veins, Blueblood felt his thoughts being drawn back to the deep dark of early morning. He sipped at his cocktail thoughtfully, his eyes dancing between the fire and Trixie as he reclined on a pile of cushions. She had dreamed about him.

In the comfort of his own mind and after a stiff drink, Blueblood could privately admit that he hadn’t exaggerated his words. He genuinely enjoyed her company. That wasn’t something he could say of most ponies. Blueblood spent so much of his time feigning smiles, painting his face with a rictus grin around pompous bastards like Fairweather and his ilk. The only time he allowed himself the vulnerability of a true, genuine smile was here with Trixie.

Yet he knew he shouldn’t.

He was a Prince of Equestria. Any vulnerability, any chink in his armor was a weakness he couldn’t tolerate. The fragility that other ponies could take for granted was a foothold for others in him. The second he allowed himself to open up, a thousand enemies foreign and domestic would sink their claws into him.

Blueblood slugged another sip of his drink. Trixie’s eyes met his and he returned it with a real, honest smile.

Equestria had to come first.

Before friends.

Before family.

Before love.

The booze tasted like ash on his tongue as a black mood drifted over him. His joy faded from his lips as he watched the fire.

“Hey,” Trixie nudged his hoof and summoned him back to reality. She was smiling. The flames reflected in her eyes, making them twinkle like amethyst diadems.

“Hey,” Blueblood replied, gently clasping her foreleg. It was the closest gesture to affection he could allow.

“Dessert?” She asked hopefully.

The prince leaned forward and scanned the menu. “Have you ever had masoub?”

“Never even heard of it.”

“Oh, then we’re absolutely getting some.” Blueblood flagged down a server and rattled off an order in Sarabic. “It’s a creamy banana pudding. It’s to die for!”

And just like that, the mood had passed. Blueblood felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He didn’t realize that he was still holding Trixie’s hoof until the masoub and coffee were on the table.

Sobriquet

"Good intentions cannot outweigh wicked deeds, just as honey cannot outweigh venom."
—Sarabic Proverb

Chapter 8: Sobriquet

“Okay, let’s review then shall we.” Blueblood stood in the eye of a hurricane of scattered paperwork. Celestia’s notes had given them the perfunctory information they had expected. Luna’s on the other hand, showed a more complete story. They had pinned up snippets of information on the walls, connecting them with a maze of red thread. Blueblood ducked beneath a string and maneuvered past Trixie, who passed him his coffee.

Pointing his hoof at a crude caricature of Fairweather, he began.

“Duke Fairweather. Duke because his father owned vineyards on the southern slope of Canterlot Mountain.” Blueblood followed the thread along to his next point. “Graduated from Manehattan University of the Arts with a degree in economics. Played Buckball, and was quite good at it.”

Another thread to the next phase of the Duke’s life. “Age twenty-five, he joined the Equestrian Navy, Merchant Marines division. Worked aboard the HMS Breezie Dancer as a gunnery officer. Awarded an Astounding Service Star for his leadership against a pirate vessel off the coast of Zebrica.”

Blueblood traced a line to the kitchen, where Chicory had busied herself cooking a small pot of tomato soup. She held out a spoonful to Blueblood, who tasted it with a hum of approval.

“Following that, Fairweather was stationed in Zebrica permanently. Luna says he was dispatched to Mareocco, to help protect the mining sector.” Blueblood prodded the paper he’d pinned there. “It looks like Celestia approved Equestrian marines to assist the Zebrican armed forces against a local separatist rebellion. And that brings us around to her…”

Two strings converged upon a doodle Trixie had drawn of Captain. “Celestia and Luna both had little to say about the Captain. Joined the Army at eighteen, earned an Astounding Service Star for a border skirmish with some rogue Gryphon elements outside of Kleinskrieg, some scattered service training up the Crystal Empire Defense Corps, and a Scarlet Stripe when she was wounded in action in Mareocco.

“She and Fairweather met while guarding a silver mine in the Mareoccan desert.” Their intertwined lines moved as one along the path Blueblood had drawn. “From what Luna gathered, they both served in the 114th Celestial Dragoons together. Their position was consistently struck by hit-and-run attacks by rebel forces, and instead of following their orders and holding the line, they decided to break ranks and go on the offensive.”

“Taking a handful of Zebrican officers with them, they fought a campaign against the Mareoccan rebels for six months.” Blueblood stepped over the line that ran along the floor. “Culminating in the Battle of Saltsooth Flats. Outnumbered two to one, Fairweather and Captain delivered a stunning victory in a night attack on the rebel encampment. Their service came to an end with a Zebrican Medal of Valor and a court martial from the Equestrian Navy for breaking orders.

“Returning to Canterlot and retiring from service, they founded Fairweather Firearms. Business was slow as they failed to win a contract with Equestria, but found that exporting arms worked even better.” Blueblood stood beside the business card he’d received at their ordainment gala. “Drawing on old connections, they opened a factory in Mareocco. They got a contract with the local army, plus tax incentives from the local government. Then they expanded. Locations in Camareoon, Neighgeria, and Zebrabwe followed.”

Everything converged on one final point. “With his wealth in hand, Fairweather and his newlywed bride expatriated to Saddle Arabia. Within two years they had a deal with the Caliph for a new factory. In four they had a mansion in the Equestrian Quarter. By five, Fairweather was on the ruling council. All things considered, they did well for themselves.”

That was where things ended. Blueblood exhaled and brushed his mane away from his face, taking a long sip of his coffee. “Did I miss anything?”

“Don’t think so,” Trixie said as she examined their intricate web of connections. “All that’s missing is how they connect with our investigation.”

“Any luck with the guest list?” Blueblood danced around the threads to slide into a seat beside her at the table.

“That’s where I’m stumped.” Trixie had unfurled the guest list for the Waltz of the Crescent Moon that Aster had brought them. “I’m comparing it with the list we got for the Ordainment Ball, and there’s plenty of overlap but—” She tapped her paper with the tip of her quill. “See, Fairweather and his wife weren’t at the Waltz.”

“They weren’t?" Blueblood cocked his head. He rushed to double-check her work. “I’ll be damned.”

He sank into a seat and Chicory set a small dish of tomato soup in front of him. She served a second to Trixie, who slurped at her spoon almost immediately.

“They could have easily done the deed through an intermediary,” Chicory said as she lowered herself into her seat. “I’d be more surprised if they didn’t. Less blood on their hooves.”

“But the method makes me doubt that.” Blueblood mused as he blew on his soup. “If they paid someone to kill Alabaster, why wouldn’t they use a more professional poison? Something to ensure the job was done?”

“Regardless,” Trixie forsook her spoon and sipped straight from the bowl. “That gives them an alibi. They weren’t there when he died.”

Blueblood pursed his lips as he looked at both guest lists. Fairweather’s words post-execution still rang in his ear.

“The Caliph attended both parties.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Trixie shrugged. “He’s the Caliph. It's his job to go to parties like this.”

“The Waltz of the Crescent Moon wasn’t an official event. It was much smaller than our ordainment gala, too. So why would he need to attend? Unless…”

Trixie narrowed her eyes. “You’re not seriously suggesting…”

“I’m only half suggesting.” Blueblood held up a hoof. “I’m just noticing a pattern. I mean, I’ve seen with my own eyes what Sandalwood does to his opposition. If he’s willing to let soldiers fire into a crowd, poisoning somepony is nothing.”

“You think he poisoned… Himself?”

“No. I think…” Blueblood scowled and filled his mouth with soup. “I don’t know what I think. If it’s not Fairweather, then it has to be someone else with the power to get it done.”

Trixie pushed the papers away and rubbed her temples. “I’m getting a headache.”

“You and me both.” Blueblood sighed and sipped his soup. “I don’t think we’re getting any further tonight.”

“Take a bath,” Trixie said as she sucked out the last dregs from her bowl, leaving a faint rusty stain on her cheek. “Soak for a while and go to bed.”

“Good idea.”

“But take one after me.” She slid from her seat and sprinted to the bathroom door. “Goodnight Indigo. Goodnight Chicory.”

“Goodnight, Briar.” Blueblood nodded.

“Goodnight.” Chicory waved lazily over the back of her chair. She glanced around the room, her eyes following the countless lines of red thread and scattered papers. “We should clean this up.”

“In the morning.” Blueblood yawned. “You’ve done more than enough for today.”

*****

Morning came and went in the palace. Blueblood and Trixie slept long and hard, barely acknowledging the sunrise and the stirring of the world around them. Sunbeams disturbed their slumber only slightly, as they rolled over and ignored it. They deserved to sleep in for a change. Well, Blueblood certainly thought he did. After a night without sleep directly into an early morning the next day, he had earned the right to sleep until noon.

So sleep they did.

Chicory had an impeccable internal clock, however, and woke with the sunrise. She drank some juice from the fridge, cleaned the dishes in the sink, and waited for them to awaken. When they didn’t, she sighed and checked the fire altar. Much to her surprise, the oil had already been replaced. Her eyes drifted to the sleeping ponies. The slightest creak of a smile graced her lips.

Not like Alabaster indeed.

She crept quietly from their room. There were other things she had on the agenda for today. Let them sleep for now. They had earned a little rest.

It wasn’t until the sun was high in the sky that Blueblood and Trixie started to stir. Blueblood was the first to wake, opening his eyes and staring vaguely at the ceiling as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. Trixie squirmed and groaned as she rolled with her face towards the light, forcing herself out of her dreams. She yawned and shifted, glancing across her pillow at Blueblood.

“Morning.” She mumbled as she rubbed her eyes.

“Good morning to you too,” Blueblood replied as he exhaled slowly. “Do you think anyone noticed we stayed in bed all day?”

“Who would care?” Trixie shrugged.

“I think they’d notice that the diplomats of Equestria were missing.”

“I don’t think anyone cares that much, Indigo.”

“Everyone cares. I’m the Prince of Equestria, damn it.”

“You’re too full of yourself.” She kicked him under the blankets.

A knock at the door startled them both from the semi-somnolent state they had been resting in. They sat bolt upright and stared at the door, not daring to move.

“Told you so.” Blueblood hissed between his teeth. “Probably Aster coming to check in and—”

“Blueblood, is that you in there?” Fairweather’s voice drifted through the door. “Ah, I was so worried they’d given me the wrong room! But of course you’re in old Rough Cut’s chambers! May I come in?”

Trixie and Blueblood glanced at their walls covered in pictures of the weapons mogul and the miles of string connecting them. Trixie cringed inwardly.

“Just a moment!” Blueblood threw himself out of bed and started snatching papers off the walls. “We’re not decent just yet!”

“Not decent? Whatever do you mean?”

Trixie began to hastily wind thread around her hooves as they scrambled to undo the evidence of their investigation. “A lady can’t be seen in a state of undress!”

“But madam, you hardly ever wear—”

Blueblood opened the door a crack and shifted himself to block Fairweather’s view of their room. “Apologies old friend! Just a moment! You know how women are!”

He slammed the door again and deflected a glower from Trixie as he raced to the kitchen, snapping off the pin that hung there and stuffing Fairweather’s Mareoccan service records into his hooves. They met in the middle, glanced across the room to ensure they hadn’t missed anything, and promptly shoved the piled documentation under the bed, kicking it back as far as they could with their hooves. Blueblood slumped to the door, breathing heavily, and opened it once more.

“Sorry about that! Just needed to make ourselves presentable!” He gestured for the duke to enter and stepped aside.

Neither of them looked remotely presentable. Their manes were still messy with bedhead, their eyelids still droopy with sleep, and their faces unwashed. Fairweather smiled politely, but even he seemed to realize he had intruded on something. The conspiratorial smirk he flashed at Blueblood made it clear he suspected something far more carnal than the reality.

“Sly dog.” He muttered to the Prince as they passed. Blueblood’s uncomfortable blush seemed to confirm his suspicions. “Well, my apologies for intruding on your fun! I just—”

His eyes fell on Trixie, who was seated on the edge of the bed, still unclothed. She smiled at him, then suddenly realized her mistake. She swept into her cape and donned her hat so swiftly she thought she would tear the fabric.

“Well, now that we’re all decent,” He chuckled. “I wanted to come by and deliver to you my personal invitation to a party we’re hosting tonight in the Equestrian District! The Summer Sun Sobriquet!” Fairweather’s wings fluttered with excitement as he punctuated each word of the title. “Oh! Isn’t it a marvelous name? I must’ve spent days pouring over the perfect idea! Rolls off the tongue so nicely! Sobriquet! Ooh! It makes me shiver to say!”

“It’s certainly beautiful,” Blueblood replied simply. He bit his tongue hard. He wasn’t going to tell the duke that a sobriquet was a nickname. He also wasn’t going to tell him that it wasn’t pronounced sob-ree-kwet. “How did you come up with it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Ah, a magician never reveals his secrets!” He slid seamlessly into a seat at their table without asking. “Blueblood, have your coworker fix us something to drink.”

Trixie fumed silently, her eyes locking on Blueblood and daring him to choose his next words carefully.

“Briar? Could you get us all a glass of tamarind juice?” He mouthed a ‘please’ at the end.

“Sure thing.”

“No alcohol? Don’t tell me you’ve gone dry!”

“Hardly,” Blueblood replied with a wry chuckle. “I simply don’t have the taste for it this early.”

“As they say in Canterlot, it’s sundown somewhere!” He accepted the drink from Trixie as if it was expected of her. “So, how have you been taking to the city?” Fairweather planted both elbows on the table, turning his wrists out to show off diamond-studded cufflinks. “It’s never dull here in Saddle Arabia, that’s for sure!”

“We’ve been well,” Blueblood replied simply. He accepted his juice and invited Trixie to sit by his side, aligning himself with her. “I’m starting to get used to the heat, and the food is growing on me.”

“Ah, of course you have! If there’s one place that knows how to cook in this blasted city it's the kitchen at the palace!” He laughed and Blueblood returned the gesture. “I heard you even went to prayer yesterday! Somepony told me that their housemaid was chittering in that brackish language of theirs about some ponies showing up at the… Temple of the Universe, was it?”

“I think it was the Temple of the Galaxy.” Trixie had already caught on to what Blueblood was doing. Play dumb. Be ignorant. Let them underestimate you. “Though it was hard to tell! Really, they ought to print these signs in Equine rather than Sarabic!”

“I agree wholeheartedly!” The duke sipped his drink, clearly missing the bitterness of liquor. “This whole place needs some better management!”

Blueblood buried a reply in his glass as he drank. Best not to speak ill of the Caliph in his own palace in such an obvious matter.

“Still, thank you so much for your invitation to the sobriquet.” He tried not to retch on the way he said it. “I think a little time among fellow ponies is just what we need.”

“Of course! I expect to see you there!” Fairweather spread a smile over the pair. “I intend to see the two of you a lot in the coming days! We’ve got a unique opportunity here in Saddle Arabia, and I for one refuse to see it squandered!” He wagged a hoof at them as he rose from his chair. “Perhaps after the Sobriquet, we can have an opportunity to talk business! I’d love for you to tour one of my factories. A chance to see the innovation at work!”

“That sounds lovely.” Trixie started to gently edge the duke towards the door. “Well, we’ve got a bit of work to do before tonight’s Sob Banquet.”

“That’s sobriquet, madam.”

“Right, right. And we’ll be in attendance, don’t you worry!”

As he headed for the door, Fairweather suddenly paused. His eyes locked on something pinned to the wall. He approached it, his wings stirring. “Blueblood? Why did you stick up my business card here? Are you that short on decor?”

“Oh, that!” Blueblood dismissed it, rubbing his mane. “I just wanted to put it somewhere I’d remember. You know how it is with paperwork. You set something down on the table and suddenly it’s buried in receipts and letters and bills!”

“Well, glad to know you care!” Fairweather chuckled and gently clapped Blueblood on the shoulder with his wing. “Ought to get yourself one of these!” He removed a leatherbound Rolodex from the pocket of his suit jacket, taking great care that the gilded Crystalline Instruments logo caught the light.

“I’ll have to ask around to find a good one.” Blueblood gave an appreciative nod toward the chintzy device. “See you tonight?”

“See you tonight! Party starts at eight, so don’t be late!” The duke laughed. “Ah, poetry! Ought to print that on the fliers! Farewell, farewell!”

Fairweather was out the door, and Trixie locked and bolted it the second he was gone. Both ponies huffed and slumped with relief.

“Sobriquet, really.” Blueblood shook his head, finally pronouncing the word as Celestia intended. “It’s a nickname! That’s what the word means! Of all the insipid, worthless drivel—”

“Right?” Trixie laughed as she pressed her back against the door. “Everypony knows that a party is a Sorbet!”

“Briar, that’s an ice cream. You're thinking of a soiree” He snorted. “And it’s not pronounced Sor-beht.”

“But it’s supposed to rhyme with sherbert!”

Blueblood rubbed his temples and sighed. “I’m going to force-feed you a dictionary tonight.”

*****

The Equestrian district looked like it was transplanted directly out of Canterlot. Palatial manors carved from white marble and slate limestone lined a lane paved with imported grey cobbles. Banners of violet and pale pink fluttered from gas-lit street lamps, which bathed the streets in an orange glow so familiar it gave Blueblood deja vu. Carefully manicured flower boxes bloomed and filled the air with floral perfume. Delicate arches of creamy brick covered the path at regular intervals, dotted with statues depicting great scenes of Equestrian history.

There was Celestia mournfully banishing her sister to the moon. Next, a statue of a unicorn, pegasus, and earthpony clasping hooves as they unified their three tribes. An abstract sculpture of Celestia sending out the first Equestrian diplomats into the wide world followed.

Then he began to see her everywhere.

Twilight Sparkle, who had defeated Nightmare Moon. Twilight Sparkle, who had imprisoned Discord in stone. Twilight Sparkle who had halted a changeling invasion. Who had saved the Crystal Empire. Who had crushed Tirek. Who had taken her rightful place alongside the sun and moon themselves in the pantheon of Equestrian royalty. Long shadows of outspread wings darkened Blueblood’s mood.

Everything is political. The refrain echoed in the recesses of his mind as he walked the streets of this new district. To force the thoughts of his replacement from his brain, he started to analyze.

The ponies here were making no attempt to assimilate to Sarab culture. All the street signs were in Equine, not a word of conversation was uttered in Sarabic, and even the architecture had been directly imported from their homeland. Why? The art and ostentation of the manors that surrounded him gave him a clue. It was a sense of superiority. He knocked on a marble pillar that they happened to pass and heard the sound echo within. Hollow. Blueblood’s eyes locked onto a bronze statue of Celestia standing placidly in a flower garden. The sprue from where it had been molded was plainly visible. Empty, false marble pillars and plaster-molded monuments. This had been made quickly and cheaply.

That’s cause it wasn’t meant to just project wealth, Blueblood realized. It needed to be done as fast as possible because it was meant to be overwhelming. The intent wasn’t just to show off patriotism, but to bury the local culture beneath it. It was stamping out all reminders that this was Saddle Arabia. To the ponies that lived here, their citizenship papers meant nothing. Equestria was wherever they settled.

As they passed a group of soldiers who sat drinking outside of a tavern, Blueblood looked over their uniforms. As he had suspected, they wore the rank and insignia of the 114th Celestial Dragoons. Fairweather and Captain’s old unit. So that’s what this was then: a place for ponies to play royalty in a land they didn’t own. A nation so tightly dependant on its dear sister that her very culture had been warped now seeing its own soil upended and remade in the graven image of foreign power.

Was Celestia aware of this? Blueblood sucked his teeth at the thought that this was all going on under her snout. A worse idea shifted into existence from the darkest depths of his subconscious. Had Celestia endorsed this? How much of Equestria’s foreign policy depended on keeping footholds like this around the world?

And what role had Blueblood played in all this?

He pushed the thought from his mind as they ascended a hill towards Fairweather’s Manor. It was festooned with the cupolas and spires of Canterlot Castle itself, a miniature mockery of the wealth and splendor Blueblood was accustomed to. He adjusted his suit jacket, fixed his crown, and drew in a deep breath.

“Ready?” Trixie nudged him, her eyes nervous.

“I feel like I’m walking into a manticore den,” Blueblood admitted.

“Glad to know I’m not the only one.”

They crossed a bridge over a small artificial creek that surrounded the property, presented their names to the guard on duty, and were admitted to the party. Both ponies shared a glance and a nod as they girded themself and shoved open the doors.

The hall they entered was lined with trophies from Fairweather’s wide-ranging travels. Mareoccan blades and Zebrabwean Spirit Masks hung on the walls, protected by glass boxes. There were flags from Equestria, Zebrica, and Saddle Arabia draped overhead, and underhoof was a red carpet so plush that Trixie felt she was sinking in it. Picture frames contained photographs of the Duke and his wife, some in uniform, some dressed casually. Fairweather grinned broadly in every picture. His wife did not.

“Such a happy couple,” Trixie commented as she stared at one of their pictures.

“What they see in each other I’ll never understand.” Blueblood shook his head lamely.

They passed from the entrance hall into a foyer that had been converted into a lounge. If the carpet in the hall had been thick underhoof, this was just overkill. The floors were layered with overlapping Sarabian rugs that must have cost a fortune. Flowery crown molding made from brilliant gold contrasted sharply with the redwood walls that still radiated the lively scent of sap. Cushions, couches, and massive ottomans furnished the space, where gaudily dressed ponies reclined with glasses of wine or expensive cocktails. A bar at the back of the room kept the drinks flowing freely. Even to Trixie’s untrained eye, she could tell the liquor must have been worth tens of thousands if not hundreds.

Beyond this little foyer was the ballroom, a massive, brilliantly lit space that shimmered with marble and crystal. Chandeliers refracted the light and sent prismatic sparkles dancing across the polished floor. A live band played from a gauze-curtained box set into a wraparound balcony, where ponies traversed even further displays of Fairweather’s culture and wealth. The entire building was redolent with the odor of freshly counted bits and crisp bills. Everywhere Blueblood looked there was designer clothing to catch the eye, designer perfume to catch the nose, and designer desserts to catch the tongue. The estate desperately thrummed with a need to be seen. A need to be noticed. A need to justify its price tag.

The pair slid into seats at the bar and ordered. A sweet and bubbly Butterscotch Flurry for Trixie and a strong, smoky Old Fashioned for Blueblood. They clinked their glasses in cheers and took a bracing sip.

“Celestia and Luna both!” A dun-colored mare with a caramel chocolate swirl of a mane practically hurled herself into the seat beside Blueblood. Her white dress unfurled around her like a lotus as she settled into place. “Prince Blueblood! What an honor!”

“It’s Indigo.” Blueblood corrected politely. “The honor is all mine, ma’am.”

“And—” She glanced past the prince at Trixie. She fumbled for a name. “Forgive me, I don’t think we’ve met.”

As if she had met Blueblood prior to this moment. Trixie snorted. “The Great and Powerful Magus Briar, at your service.”

“I’d no idea you were living in Saddle Arabia now!” The earthpony beamed, ordering an espresso martini with a gesture. “What brings you to this corner of Equestria?”

“Work, mainly. The diplomatic corps never sleeps.” He sipped his drink smoothly. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Oh! Right! Silly me! Cinnamon Mocha, Your Highness.”

“Well, it’s wonderful to meet you, Miss Mocha.” Trixie scanned the mare’s cutie mark; a steaming mug of coffee. “Do you run a cafe here in the Equestrian District?”

Mocha turned up her snout and huffed contemptuously. “Heavens no! Imagine a mare of my stature stooping to running a cafe!”

Trixie’s ears drooped and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“No, a cafe isn’t my business, dear. Don’t be silly!” She tossed her luxuriously curled mane. “My company Cinnamocha Express manages the largest coffee export business outside of Zebrica! Why, did you know fully half the beans brewed in Canterlot are Sarabica Blends that come straight from my plantations here?”

“That’s uh… Very impressive?” Trixie scratched her cheek bashfully.

“In fact, that actually brings me to my next point.” Mocha moved the conversation along swiftly. She had practiced this before. “Since you’ve been recently instated as the new diplomat to Saddle Arabia, I was curious if you can do anything about the tariffs Equestria has been imposing on foreign coffee? I know they’ve been trying to grow domestic along the southern border, but really—”

Blueblood sipped at his drink and calmly slid from his seat, his face fixed in that spiteful rictus grin of politeness. Trixie could practically sense the bile burning in him as he took her arm and led her from the bar into the dance hall.

“Oh! Wait! My prince! I wasn’t finished! I was going to ask—” Mocha tried to pursue, but Trixie was ready. She snatched a glass of Merlot from a passing server and stepped fluidly into the earthpony’s path. The two collided with a spray of red wine, soaking Mocha’s dress and dying the pristine fabric pink.

“Oh! Celestia! I’m so sorry!” Trixie pushed down the urge to smirk. “Don’t worry, I can fix this. Let me just…”

Her horn glittered as she wove a spell. Trixie focused on the dress and released a flash of magic. As the light faded, she had indeed gotten rid of the stain. However, she had also given the dress a lovely striped pattern.

“You’ve ruined it!” Mocha snarled, clutching her outfit and seething. “Don’t you know stripes are for autumn gatherings?”

“Ah, sorry! You’re right! I can fix it!”

Another flash and the stripes had been changed to polka dots.

“There!” Trixie beamed, hooves on her hips.

“This is disgusting!” Mocha shuddered and swatted at the dress like it was covered in insects. “How dare you!”

Before she could reply, Trixie was once again whisked away by Blueblood as he swept her off into the thick throngs of ponies who watched the dance floor.

“You really do have a knack for causing trouble, don’t you?” He smirked faintly as he watched Mocha stomp off to the restrooms.

“Only when the time calls for it.” Trixie returned his grin. “Is this what every Gala is like? Sorry, every Sobriquet?”

“It’s a constant.” The prince sighed. “Everywhere I go there’s always somepony who wants to get something out of me.”

“Lands sakes! Is that Prince Blueblood I see!” A pegasus dressed in beadcraft and rawhide alighted beside the prince. “Hoo-wee, boy! I ain’t seen ya since the Lunar Masquerade eight years ago! How ya been, son? Say, you remember how I was askin’ ya then about the land rights west of Appleoosa? Out in the buffalo grounds? Yeah, I was wonderin’ if ya passed that on to Celestia like I was—”

Blueblood turned his gaze to Trixie with an “I told you so” expression etched into his mein.

Truly, Fairweather’s party had truly captured the essence of Canterlot. Blueblood felt like he was back home in all the worst ways. The gaudy displays of wealth, the holier-than-thou attitudes, the new money desperate to impress and the old money always ready to rattle off their various famous relatives. He was passed to and fro between various businesses; from mining magnates to agricultural titans, from Manehattanite Real Estate moguls to Canterlotian nobility. All of them bearing petty gripes, minor requests, and complaints of all kinds. He had perfected the art of saying no while saying yes.

“Of course, I’ll pass it along!”

“Oh, how right you are!”

“Next time I see Celestia, I’ll let her know!”

He spewed non-replies for as long as it took him to finish his drink. Once he was done, he handed the empty glass off to a suited servant and scanned the crowd for his companion.

Trixie too was noticing how cleanly Fairweather had transplanted Canterlot to Saddle Arabia. She had been out of place in the real Canterlot, and she was just as ostracized here. It wasn’t for lack of effort. She tried to insert herself into conversation, tried to engage others, but everytime she was turned down or ignored. They seemed to have a sixth sense that she was an imposter. They remained stiffly polite, yet made it immediately clear to her that she was not welcome here. She wasn’t a noble with a family lineage that stretched back to the original three tribes. She wasn’t a power player in the economy with warehouses of goods and an empire of workers. She was a traveling magician who lived in a cramped carriage.

But Trixie refused to let that dampen her spirits. She sucked it up and pressed herself into a fresh conversation between a pair of regal unicorns with silk scarves around their throats. She listened in, trying to find a natural point to push in on.

“Truthfully, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it.” The one in red said in a hushed tone. “Really, she ought to have known better.”

“I give her credit at least, it was an audacious attempt.” The unicorn in blue replied as she polished off a glass of white wine. Her eyes drifted to Trixie as she approached and her expression lightened. “Oh, thank Celestia you’re here!”

Trixie sucked in a breath. She tried to tamp down her excitement at being included as she trotted up alongside them. Before she could open her mouth to speak, the unicorn thrust her empty glass at Trixie.

“Be a dear and fetch me another? Pinot Grigio, the Canterlot Supreme?” Her smile suddenly appeared less welcoming and more condescending. “Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll tell Fairweather to make sure you get a good tip!”

Trixie found herself standing there holding an empty wineglass as the party swarmed around her. What was she doing wrong?

“Excuse me,” Blueblood emerged from the crowd beside her, squirming his way past grasping hooves and calls for conversation. He laid a hoof on Trixie’s shoulder. “I was wondering what happened to you.”

“Nothing.” She sighed, setting the goblet down on a nearby table. “How long do we have to stay before it's polite to leave?”

“A few hours at least.”

“Then I’m going to need a much stronger drink.”

“Did something happen?” Blueblood cocked his head.

Trixie wavered. “It’s nothing.”

“That means it's not nothing.” He pressed her. “Did some pony say something?”

“No.” She exhaled slowly. “Nopony needs to say anything. They know I don’t belong.”

“You belong as much as I do,” Blueblood replied stiffly. The corners of his mouth turned in a playful grin. “Well, not exactly as much as I do. But you know what I mean. You’re here with me. You go where I go.”

“But I’m not…” She scratched idly at her shoulder as she adjusted her dress. “I’m not like you. I’m not royalty. I’m not wealthy. I’m just… Me.”

Blueblood’s ear flicked as he heard the music start to pick up. The band was launching into a new song, and ponies were starting to partner up for the next dance.

“You’re you, and that’s why you’re here with me.” Blueblood reached out to fuss with her mane with his hooves. “I wouldn’t have brought you halfway across the world with me if you were anything like the ponies at this party. You’ve seen how they act, how they treat each other. You think I’d ever want to associate myself with them?”

Once he was satisfied with her mane, he extended a hoof to her. Trixie took it without question.

“Plus, they’re jealous of you,” Blueblood added as he led her out onto the dance floor.

Trixie rolled her eyes. “Now you’re just overselling it.”

“No, I’m being serious!” He chuckled softly. “They’re jealous of the fact that you’ve got access to me and they don’t.”

The music started to rise and Blueblood began to step to the rhythm.

“Plus, they’re all upset that they don’t have your looks. That dress really does suit you.”

“It’s your dress.”

“Hence why it looks so immaculate. You’d hardly know it wasn’t tailored for you.”

Trixie allowed herself a delicate blush as she let Blueblood lead in the dance. “Thanks. Really.”

“Don’t mention it. Now come, let’s really give them something to covet.”

They were swept along in a lively, wild foxtrot full of graceful sweeps and swift turns. Blueblood knew this dance well. A few years ago it had been a major craze in Canterlot. Hardly a gala passed that didn’t include it. Apparently, it had never fallen out of fashion here. Trixie however, was struggling to keep up. Her gait was unsteady and she stumbled over her own hooves as Blueblood led her in the wide circle as if it were a race.

“Slow down!” She huffed breathlessly, already feeling sweat welling across her back. “You’re going to bowl me over, damn it!”

“Then you’re gonna have to move faster!”

“I can’t! I don’t know the steps like you do!”

“I can tell, you’re stepping on my hooves again.”

“So slow down!”

Blueblood didn’t stem his pace in the slightest. If anything, he picked up speed. His eyes flashed fire as they circled again. “This is what being a diplomat is all about, Briar! Learning on the fly!”

“You’re going to—”

“Get learning!”

Trixie danced back, dodging Blueblood’s hooves and trying to avoid stomping on his with her own. Get learning, he said. As if this weren’t a dance he’d practiced a thousand times and had doting tutors to tell him exactly where to put his hooves at every step. She snorted and barely dodged another step, stumbling backward with only Blueblood’s momentum to keep her upright.

“How am I supposed to learn the dance when you keep shoving?!” Trixie hissed through clenched teeth.

Blueblood refused to relent. His lips curled into a smirk as they whirled and whipped across the dance floor. “You belong here, damn it! Now show these nouveau riche bastards that you’re better than them!”

Trixie very briefly broke eye contact with Blueblood. She stamped on his hoof to do it, but it was well worth it. Everypony was struggling just as much as she was. A pair of stallions danced together and nearly dragged each other down with the speed of the dance. A pegasus spun like a dervish and inadvertently tripped over her partner. They were all able to laugh it off. If they failed, it was in front of their peers. But for Trixie?

Every eye was a dagger. Every tongue a sharpened barb. Every smile oozed venom that itched for an outlet. If she fell, she knew everypony in the room would not be laughing with her, but at her. For her to stumble and trip on her own hooves wasn’t just a mistake. It was a sign of her place. No wealth, no family name, and no culture.

Trixie set her jaw. She wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

At first, she tried to focus on her hooves. Her eyes cast downward as she watched her every step like a paranoid hawk. It didn’t help. She stumbled, bracing herself bodily against Blueblood to hold herself up. What was she lacking? Trixie sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes.

For a moment, all she did was feel. Trixie felt the rustle of chiffon as her dress swished against her legs. She felt the slick silk of Blueblood’s suit jacket on her neck as she leaned into him. Her nostrils flared with the woody, leathery scent of his perfume. The heat of his body coursed through hers, the indistinct dampness of their sweat mingled together in a way that repulsed and attracted her in equal measure. The rhythm of Blueblood’s heart matched the rhythm of his hooves pounding the floor below, which in turn matched the rhythm of the foxtrot.

Trixie could do this.

She opened her eyes. For the first time in a long while, she felt great and powerful once more.

Blueblood met her stare and immediately sensed her change. No longer watching his hooves, she predicted his moves. The entire ballroom seemed to quake with the brisk one-two-three of his steps and her staccato ripostes resounded like gunshots in her ears. The entire ballroom seemed to spiral on the pivot point of her and now the eyes that rested on her were narrow with envy. Let them loathe her. Let them secretly wish to be her in the moment. As Blueblood lifted her and the music crescendoed, Trixie glowed with smug jubilation. Nopony else was dancing as smoothly as they were.

All except one couple.

Both she and Blueblood took notice of a fresh pair that joined them on the dance floor and matched them step for step.

Fairweather and Captain moved like they were extensions of one another. They pressed so tight against each other and mimicked each other’s steps with such mirrorlike precision that it was hard to believe they didn’t share the same flesh. Captain had shed her robotic stiffness and now moved with the sort of muscular, potent purpose that Trixie had only seen in predatory cats. Fairweather was like liquid. In spite of his age, he was as light on his feet as a sparrow and as graceful as a swan. Blueblood hadn’t believed they were a married couple with any chemistry until this very moment. You didn’t dance that perfectly with just anypony.

All eyes were on both pairs as the song soared to its zenith. Silk and chiffon flew as they hurled themselves across the dance floor with reckless abandon, daring each other to make a mistake. Yet the mistake never came. The song ended in a roar of brass and strings and the four of them stood at the center of the crowd, panting and huffing to polite applause. Trixie felt as though the scales had fallen from her eyes as she stared back at the faces of ponies who had looked down on her moments earlier. She could see the green envy plain in their expressions, the frustration behind their whispers, and the nakedness of their distaste that she stood where they ought to.

“My word, Blueblood!” Fairweather dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “I’d no idea you could dance like that!”

“Lots of practice.” Blueblood drew in a short and ragged breath. “Plus a good partner.”

“Oh stop.” Trixie shoved him with a giggle.

“I’m so glad to see you both made it! And that you’re having fun.” The duke laughed loud enough that it reached the galleries. “Come, let's get some refreshments together!”

They made idle chitchat over finger sandwiches and cocktails. It felt every bit the part of a Canterlot Cotillion, from the food to the setting to the company. To Trixie, it was a special occasion full of flash and sparkle, and to Blueblood it was Wednesday night. Fairweather polished off his sandwich and rose from his seat, brushing any stray crumbs from his suit before gesturing to Blueblood.

“Sweetheart? Would you mind keeping Trixie entertained for a moment?” He smiled to his wife, who returned it with a stolid nod. “Thank you, dear. I want to speak with the Prince for a moment, just the two of us.”

“And why can’t my magus join us?” Blueblood raised an eyebrow, but nonetheless stood and stretched.

“Sometimes I just want to have a man-to-man chat! Nothing wrong with that, right?” Fairweather shrugged and grinned. “Besides, I’m sure the ladies will have a grand ol’ time without us weighing them down!”

As the two of them exited the room, Blueblood shared one final glance with Trixie. He could already tell he was about to be barraged with more requests for intervention. Trixie waved goodbye as the two of them vanished up a previously cordoned-off flight of stairs.

“So,” Trixie sipped her cocktail and cast her eyes towards Captain. “How is your sandwich? Do you like it?”

“Adequate.”

Trixie swallowed hard. “Would you like me to get you another?”

“No.”

Trixie sighed and swiftly gave up on the conversation. This was going to be a long night.

*****

Blueblood found himself in a small, dark paneled space somewhere on the second floor. The air within was leaden with the smell of cigarette smoke and fresh ink. Heavy drapes blocked out the window that overlooked the ballroom, stifling the music and filtering out the celebration below. The room was lit by a pair of gas lamps that sputtered and hissed, sending out grubby orange and red illumination. Blueblood was directed to a comfortable overstuffed chair to the left of a brick fireplace. Fairweather presented him with a finger of good whiskey, the sort that filled the air with woody aroma, and took one for himself as he sank into the opposite chair.

“Do you smoke?” Fairweather commented as he drew a silver-tipped cigarette from his suit pocket.

Blueblood shook his head.

“Wise.” He lit his cigarette in the flame of a nearby gas lamp. “It's a bad habit. I swore to myself when I was young that I’d never do it, but you’ve seen soldiers and their smokes.” He chuckled softly and inhaled slowly, the cherry of his cigarette put out thin, spidery wisps that smelled faintly floral to the prince’s nose. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“Not at all.” Blueblood sipped at his whiskey. “We all have our vices.”

Tension hung in the air as thick as the smoke Fairweather exhaled. Both stallions gazed at each other with a sense of dull expectation, waiting for the other to make the first move. Fairweather breathed a cloud through his nostrils and spoke up at last.

“I told you I was a Navy stallion, didn’t I?” He flicked his ear in thought.

“You did.” Blueblood nodded. Was Fairweather trying to determine how much he already knew? Erring on the side of caution, Blueblood didn’t elaborate.

“You’d think,” The duke chuckled lowly. “That I’d have been deployed to Saddle Arabia with how well I’ve acclimated to the culture. But it was Zebrica I left for first. Mareocco to be precise.”

“I’ve been once or twice. Beautiful country.”

“It's one of the most lovely places in the world. A shame that their Malik was corrupt to the core.” Fairweather sucked smoke. “My service there was in the mining sector with a bunch of other Marines. Keeping things safe from various unwanted elements.” He gestured lazily with his hoof. “Those were Celestia’s orders.”

Blueblood plastered on a smile and decided to turn on the flattery. “And I’m sure you followed them faithfully.”

“I did, for a time.” The duke stroked his chin. “See, therein lay the problem. We would sit behind makeshift walls while zebras took potshots at us day and night. Sure, we could ride out and do battle, but they’d turn tail and flee the second we opened the gate. Eventually, they’d be beyond our reach to regroup, rearm, and retrain. It was a losing strategy.” His eyes were downcast with recollection, sparkling like flint. His voice took on an acidic edge that Blueblood recognized as his own. “I can’t tell you how many times I wrote to Celestia begging her to reconsider. We were there on the ground taking bullets to protect her friend the Malik, but she stayed back in Canterlot demanding we stay put. So you know what I did?”

“Broke your orders?” Blueblood rattled the ice cubes in his drink.

“I did the right thing.” Fairweather’s wings flared as he spoke. “I gathered a group and put my training to good use. We rode into rebel territory and rooted them out, burned their supply caches, and put them to the sword.” Fairweather shifted in his seat and took a drag on his cigarette. “Celestia had us locked into an unwinnable stalemate. I took things into my own hooves and made Mareocco whole again. I did what she couldn’t do.” He exhaled slowly. “But it wasn’t enough.”

“The rebels returned then?”

“No. I realized that even though we had won the war, we hadn’t made things any better in Mareocco. The slums were still packed with zebras too poor to live anywhere else, jobs were still scarce, clean water was still a rarity…” He rattled off the countless issues with a tap of his hoof. “The problem was the root of things. The Malik was hoarding wealth and treasure in his mountaintop palace while his people starved. Sound familiar?”

Blueblood could see where he was going with this. He nodded and set aside his drink. He didn’t need to cloud his mind any further. “So what happened with the Malik?”

“He stayed in power,” Fairweather said with a grim frown. “I brought my firearm manufacturing business to Mareocco and won contracts with the army. It made good money, sure, but that wasn’t the important part. It gave zebras jobs. They had money to spend when all they had known was poverty. So we reinvested. We dug wells, we built housing for workers, we made Mareocco a better place for zebras who never dreamed of change.”

“And that’s a good thing, but I don’t—”

“It still wasn’t enough.” Fairweather sighed deeply. “Nothing we did was enough because we couldn’t fix the root of the problem.”

“The Malik.” Blueblood inclined his head.

“Exactly. Change always comes from the top down. We could fix problems as they came up, but the corruption at the heart of Mareocco always ruined things.”

They were silent for some time. Blueblood could feel the pull of the conversation. He knew where this train of thought led.

“I’m telling you all this because I think you and I are more alike than you realize.” Fairweather stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“How do you figure?”

“Celestia cast us both out, didn’t she?” The duke cocked his head.

Blueblood blinked in confusion.

“She hasn’t cast me out.” He said firmly. A defensiveness rose in his throat that he struggled to tamp down. “She assigned me as diplomat to Saddle Arabia. Before that, I was diplomat to Kleinkrieg, and before that, I was diplomat to Yakistan. To say I was cast out is a bit of a stretch.”

“And yet,” Fairweather’s lips shifted into a sneer. “I can’t help but notice that there are four princesses with wings and only one prince without them.”

Blueblood clenched his teeth so hard he felt it in his temples. The constant throb of embryonic wings synced with his heartbeat and sent shockwaves through his entire being. He couldn’t let Fairweather know he’d struck a nerve. He sucked a breath through his nostrils and exhaled meditatively.

“Let’s face facts.” The duke steepled his hooves and leaned forward in his chair. “Celestia doesn’t like those who take matters into their own hooves. She’d have had me sit back in Mareocco and watch my comrades wither away. And now she’d rather have you playing diplomat in a barbaric backwater like Saddle Arabia than embracing your full potential at home.”

“And what would you have me do? Go home and declare myself King of All Equestria?”

“No.” Fairweather slid from his chair and drew close to Blueblood, his voice as sibilant as the sputtering gas lamps. “Blueblood, do you know what Alabaster and I were working on together?”

Blueblood tried not to recoil as the pegasus draped a wing over his shoulder. “You told me that you were pursuing mutual business interests together.”

“And that wasn’t a lie.” Fairweather grinned. “Business is just another path to harmony, isn’t it? After all, some of the first diplomatic groundwork is always trade. But we can’t have harmony here for the same reason we couldn’t have it in Mareocco, Blueblood.”

“Because the ones in power are unfit to rule,” Blueblood replied grimly.

“You’ve seen the way the Caliph treats his subjects. In your first week, you’ve seen his guards fire into a protest, arrest innocent palace servants, and put his own people before the firing squad. What more do you need to know about him? He’s a tyrant, Blueblood.” Fairweather inhaled slowly, clearly choosing his next words carefully. “And he’s a tyrant who’s dying.”

“He wasn’t well when I met him, and the assassination attempt certainly did him no favors.”

“No, Blueblood. He’s dying now.”

The prince swallowed hard. His heart thudded against his ribcage like a sledgehammer. “How long does he have?”

“A week, if he’s lucky. The nurses attending to him say he’s been on the decline. Today he didn’t get out of bed at all. His eyes are unfocused and he struggled to speak. It’s bad.” His grip on Blueblood’s shoulder tightened as he spoke. “You’ve seen the way they rule here, Blueblood. They hold on with an iron hoof and crush all dissent. Equestria has her problems, but surely you see we’re better than this?”

And so it came to this. Blueblood’s throat felt dry. “Fairweather, are you suggesting that a pony should be the new Caliph?”

“Not just a pony.” The duke’s oily smile stained Blueblood’s soul. “You. Caliph Blueblood has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Blueblood opened his mouth to reply, but couldn’t find the words. What was one supposed to say to an offer like that?

Fairweather was right in part. Saddle Arabia wasn’t going to get better without a change. Equestria didn’t have the same problems that her younger sibling had. Celestia had pulled him from his pet project to give it to her lapdog. Had she sent him here because she believed in him, or because she was setting him up to fail?

The thin crown on Blueblood’s brow felt heavy. A long while ago, Celestia had seen him as her best and brightest. Then Twilight had hatched a dragon’s egg and suddenly it was much less impressive that he could draw Equestria’s borders from memory and conjugate sentences in High Gryphonic. Suddenly Auntie had a new favorite. Ever since that day, he’d become a part of the background, as consistent as the palace furniture. Somewhere deep down, Blueblood knew no wings were waiting for him in his future. But to acknowledge that was psychological suicide.

So why not make something of himself here? Why settle for being a Prince of Equestria when he could enthrone himself as Caliph of Saddle Arabia? He had spent a lifetime preparing to rule and never had the opportunity. Wouldn’t he be a better leader than Sandalwood? With a stroke of his pen, he could end slavery and set Chicory free. He could call for the soldiers to stand down and end the bloodletting in the streets. He could remake the economy of the nation, nationalize foreign interests, and heal the divide between rich and poor.

And who better to do it than Khitab Al-Shams?

But was it right? This wasn’t his country. These weren’t his people. Was it right for him to rule over them when he still didn’t know their customs? Blueblood only wanted to do right by them, but did that give him the right to take the helm of their nation? Was he to be the capstone of the Equestrian district? The ultimate victory for a group of ponies playing at royalty on foreign soil would be to secure real and tangible power. If Blueblood took the throne, would Saddle Arabia even be Saddle Arabia anymore? With the backing of the expatriate community, it would become Equestria in all but name.

“I don’t expect an answer tonight.” Fairweather’s touch jolted him from his thoughts. “But think about it. You’re already more popular than Alabaster ever was. Your little stunt at the execution has your name on everyone’s lips! You’d be a shoo-in for the Caliph’s position!”

“And you’re sure they would pick me over everyone else on the council?” Blueblood raised an eyebrow incredulously.

“My wife and I would make sure of it! You just leave it to us! We could do real good here, Blueblood. We could make Saddle Arabia a place of real harmony. It's like Celestia always says, 'It takes harmony to change the world'."

“I’ll have to think about this.” The Prince exhaled a sigh. “It’s a lot to take in all at once.”

“Take your time.” Fairweather gently patted his shoulder with a knowing smile. “We’ll check in with you in a few days to get your answer. For now, enjoy the sobriquet.”

Blueblood’s blood froze in his veins.

The duke had pronounced it correctly.

Kings and Successions

"As a diplomat of Equestria, it's important to remember that your decisions will affect others! It might feel good in the moment to cut off trade because somepony called you a mean name, but think about just how much it will hurt the rest of the country you're serving! Remember, you're the voice of Celestia and Luna to the world!"
—The Precocious Princeling's Guide to Diplomatic Relations

Chapter 9: Kings and Successions

“I get that you’re stressing over a big decision,” Trixie said as she and Blueblood walked the moonlit streets of Saddle Arabia. They had turned off a major thoroughfare and were now entering the coolness of a shady park. “But it's late. A mare needs her beauty rest after all.”

“I can’t think if I’m sitting still.” Blueblood huffed as he went on, trudging like a pony condemned. “Nopony is stopping you from returning to the palace without me.”

“And risk getting lost without my translator? I’d think you want me dead sometimes.” She rolled her eyes and sped up to match his pace.

The moon had risen and the stars came out to play. The street lamps were lit and the world became one of long shadows and long thoughts.

“He played us.” Blueblood tangled a hoof in his mane, repeating the sentiment for the fifth time tonight. “All this time I assumed I had an advantage, and he saw right through me.”

“So you’ve said.”

“He knew exactly what buttons to push.” This one he was repeating for the fourth time. “He had me right where he wanted me and he knew it. All this time I was playing right into his hooves.”

“You’ve said that too.”

“Celestia was wrong about me.”

“You really are just playing your greatest hits tonight, aren’t you?” Trixie said as she trotted alongside him.

“What else do you want me to say?” Blueblood shrugged despondently. “We were beaten before we even started to play.”

“Okay, now you’re just being dramatic.” Trixie stopped him and gripped his shoulder hard. “Get a grip, sad sack. We’re not beaten.”

“But—”

Trixie cut him off, pressing a hoof over his mouth to shut him up. “Celestia help me, if you keep moping I’m going to slap you.”

He didn’t reply, but clearly swallowed the words on his tongue.

“It’s not over until a new Caliph is sitting on the throne. Until then, we’re still very much in this.” Trixie pulled her hoof away from his mouth. “So let's start with the most pressing question. Do you want to be Caliph?”

“I don’t know.” Blueblood wavered. “There’s no way to be worse than Sandalwood is right now. I could do real good here, Briar. Chicory would be free, the riots would stop, and I could fix the sagging economy. To rule is what I’ve been training for since I was a colt.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

“But I’d be doing it backed by Fairweather. He would want to be the power behind my reign. If he can put me on the throne, what’s stopping him from putting somepony else there if he doesn’t like my style? That gives him a lot more sway than I’d be comfortable with.”

“Plus, you’ve both failed to consider the fact that the Caliph has a kid,” Trixie said plainly. “Cedar is next in line, even if he is just a child. So really, Fairweather would be the power behind you, who was the power behind Cedar.”

“Poor kid.” Blueblood exhaled a sigh. “No colt should be thrown into politics so early.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Very much so.”

“So if you don’t want to take the position, where does that leave us?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Fairweather likely has other irons in the fire. Alabaster was one of them. I’m another. I just know that when Alabaster rejected his deal—”

“—He turned up dead.” Trixie finished for him. “Yeah, that’s troubling.”

“Fairweather asked us to meet him in a couple of days for a tour of his factory.” Blueblood tried to brush off the thought that he was in the crosshairs of a murderer. “I’m guessing he’ll want an answer then.”

“Then we have time to think about it.” Trixie gently shouldered him as they came to a fork in the road, and Blueblood began to march towards the palace. “But you’re tired. I’m tired. We can come up with a solution in the morning.”

Blueblood could only nod silently. The morning would clear things up.

*****

When they arrived back at the palace, Blueblood shoved open the door to their room and expected to see Chicory. What he didn’t expect was to see Aster standing in the middle of his room looking like a statue.

“Ah, my prince. Welcome back.” The horse bowed as Blueblood entered. “I was concerned when I arrived and didn’t find you.”

“Did you need something, Aster?” Blueblood instinctively scanned the room. Nothing appeared out of place. Everything was where he had left it before the Sobriquet.

“Just a moment of your time to talk.” The liaison smiled broadly and gestured for the door. “Come, walk with me.”

“It’s been a long night, Aster.” Blueblood yawned. “Can it wait until morning?”

“It cannot.” His voice took on the same hardness it did when he spoke for the Caliph. “My prince, come with me.”

Blueblood glanced to Trixie, who flashed a worried frown. It seemed she was being cut out of all the political talks. But he sucked in a deep breath and steeled himself despite his exhaustion.

“Alright. Briar, I’ll be back soon.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved a hoof nonchalantly, despite her concern. “I’ll be asleep when you get back.”

“Sleep well.”

Blueblood closed the door behind him and fell into line beside Aster. His liaison held himself with a potent air, the aura of a horse protected by legality and procedure. “My prince, I’ve been concerned about you recently.”

“Understandably so,” Blueblood replied as they passed through the gallery of the diplomatic wing. “My predecessor was murdered, and then the Caliph survives an assassination attempt. Things are moving too fast to track these days.” He paused and took a breath. “Speaking of, how is he?”

“The Caliph, whose bravery is unmatched, is recovering nicely.” If Aster was lying, he didn’t betray it in his expression. “But your actions have not been helping during what ought to be a time of rest for him.”

“I’m sorry, but my work never rests.” The prince shrugged.

“My prince,” Aster stopped dead in his tracks. He stood close enough to Blueblood that it was an invasion of his personal space—stepping inside his guard yet again. “I’m afraid you fail to understand what I’m saying.”

“To be fair, I’m still not sure what this is about.”

“Did you think no one would notice that Equestria cut trade with Saddle Arabia by more than thirty percent overnight?” Aster’s stillness cracked for a split second as he produced a sheaf of papers from his jacket. He flipped open his dossier and pressed his hoof to the first line. “For cultural reasons which have recently come to light.” Aster snorted. “And what ’cultural reason’ would that be?”

Blueblood swallowed hard and pushed the papers out of his face. “The ‘cultural reason’ that you deem so insignificant is the Caliph’s personal slave, Aster! That wasn’t disclosed to me when I started my tenure here, and it's frankly disgraceful that my predecessor didn’t mention it!”

“A slave by right of justice.” Aster’s eyes were dark and flinty. “Does Equestria not have prisons? Does she not have criminals of her own?”

“We don’t make them slaves!”

“You lock them away. We put them to work. The outcome is the same.” The horse shrugged his shoulders. “Our nations need not see eye to eye on every issue.”

“The issue you’re talking about is slavery.” Blueblood’s voice was a low snarl. “That’s not something I negotiate on.”

“My prince,” Aster sighed, rolling his eyes. “Do you not understand what you’re doing? Our Caliph is fighting for his life. Cutting trade at a time like this is putting more stress on him during his time of need.” His tone dripped concern like honey. “It is not your job to judge my people. Nor is it our job to judge yours. We are here to foster harmony, are we not?”

Blueblood was silent. He was beginning to loathe the taste of the word harmony.

“We’re here to build bridges together. From your culture to mine, and my culture to yours.” Aster smiled. Blueblood could feel the force it took for him to turn up the corners of his mouth. “And we cannot do that while we’re wasting our time judging each other. So let's leave this argument behind us. Write home. Tell your Sun Queen to resume trade as usual. Let us move forward into a golden age of love, cooperation, and harmony together.”

Blueblood heard Sandalwood’s voice echo through those last words. He inhaled slowly. “And if I don’t?”

“My prince,” Aster swallowed and held his gaze. “I feel you don’t understand me. I am your liaison, yes, but I am also a servant of the Caliph. There are many doors in this city which you cannot open.” The corner of his mouth twitched. That ghost of a grin was too genuine to ignore. “And there are just as many that can be closed to you.”

“Are you threatening me?” The prince raised an eyebrow.

“Call it a warding,” Aster said coldly. “You’ve enjoyed a lot of freedom in Sutaf, prince. You’ve left the palace without protection several times, have you not? Ventured as far as the Equestrian district, I’ve heard. But if our countries were to have some sort of impasse—”

“You are threatening me.”

“I’m simply saying that perhaps you would need to be protected.” The liaison shrugged with a self-satisfied grin.

“Protected in a way that would restrict my movement.”

“But protected nonetheless.”

“Protected in a way that would impede my duty to investigate the Caliph’s assassin.”

“The power is in your hooves, my prince.” Aster exhaled and disengaged from Blueblood’s guard, brushing his mane to one side. “I do not want to do this to you. My job is to ensure that you are integrated smoothly into our culture, but above that is my duty to the Caliph.” He put a hoof on Blueblood’s shoulder, patting it gently. Condecension shone in his eyes. “The Duke has come to ponies with plans before, Indigo. His designs are not wise, and I counsel you to ignore them.”

Blueblood said nothing. Aster knew too much already. Any word out of his mouth would just confirm their truth.

“Know this, my prince. Saddle Arabia is to be ruled by horses. The Caliph will reign until his death and I will ensure his son succeeds him, by any means necessary. Am I clear?” Aster lowered his eyes. He exhaled harshly when he received no reply. “Write the letter tonight.”

“I’ll consider it.” Blueblood brushed his hoof away. “Right now, I really need to rest.”

“Goodnight, my prince. Sleep well.”

*****

Trixie found that her nerves made it impossible for her to sleep. She had laid in bed and flip-flopped from one end to the other before giving up. Even though she had just criticized Blueblood for his restlessness, Trixie declined to follow her own advice. Kicking the blankets off, she decided that burning off some energy would do her good. What better way than to practice a bit of magic?

Moving to the center of the kitchen, Trixie checked to make sure she wasn’t standing near anything flammable and ignited her horn. She pressed her eyes shut and tried to picture the gardens below. She could see it all in her mind's eye—the pond where the koi swam in lazy rings, the willow trees sharing the water, the soft tufts of grass under her hooves. She felt it in the very marrow of her being. Exhaling slowly, Trixie cast her spell and blinked out of reality.

When she opened her eyes, she was not in the garden. In fact, she wasn’t even close. Trixie stood in the Kitchen surrounded by jackals in smudgy smocks who stared at her in shock.

“Whoops! Sorry!” She flashed a smile and slung the spell again.

This time, she found herself not in the garden, but in the bedroom of a diplomat from the Buffalo Tribes. He yelped and staggered backward, his huge bulk nearly crushing his dresser to splinters.

“Sorry! Third time’s the charm!”

Before the buffalo could question what she meant, Trixie vanished again.

At last, she could smell the fresh fragrance of the gardens. She wasn’t anywhere near the koi pond she had been aiming for, instead landing face first in a flowerbed and crushing countless lilacs under her body. Rising and spitting petals, Trixie congratulated herself on a job well done. Three times to get vaguely where she was going was a good record for her! And this time she hadn't set her coat on fire! Though she still smelled like smoke. Bounding out of the flowerbeds, Trixie decided to take a moonlit stroll.

She passed through a statue garden full of abstract designs, under arches of greenery, and through a grove of olive trees. The gardens were all but deserted at this time of night. Trixie saw only one groundskeeper, an ill tempered old camel who muttered to himself as he dug out space for new saplings. It felt oddly peaceful, considering how close the country was to a crisis. Trixie supposed she was standing in the calm before the storm. But at least the calm was beautiful.

After some time wandering, Trixie found herself approaching the koi pond she had actually been aiming for. The air was tangy with the aroma of lemon trees as Trixie brushed aside a screen of willow branches and took a seat on a bench. Stretching her back and yawning, Trixie almost felt she could sleep right here. Everything felt cool and lovely and quiet for a change.

Too quiet.

Something heavy and ancient blanketed the garden. The rhythmic whorl of the koi in the pond ceased suddenly as they dove deeper into the depths. Trixie felt her coat stand on end as the smell of lightning mingled with the citrus. The wind changed abruptly—switching its course from east to west in the span of seconds. Leaves whirled around her hooves in invisible eddies as the footprints of something unfathomable approached her. It smelled like a temple. Trixie’s nostrils twitched at the odor of incense and woodsmoke and dark, holy blood. The waters of the pond roiled in anticipation. The grasses knelt low to a higher power.

Trixie knew she ought to run.

She didn’t.

Fingers came to rest upon her shoulder. Another hand gripped her hoof like a handshake. A weight pressed against her body in an embrace that was somewhere between loving and threatening.

“How long will you deny me?” The voice was a hot, dry whisper. The voice of someone crying out in thirst in a desert.

“What are you?” Trixie replied, her own words sounding hoarse and uncertain. “What do you want?”

“I am River-That-Cuts-The-Canyon.” The hands which held Trixie seemed to melt away. “Will you not give your name?”

“No.” Trixie squirmed away. She tried to prepare a defensive spell, but how could she defend against something she couldn’t see? “I know how those stories end. I’m not stupid.”

“As sure as the sun rises, you will give up your name.”

“What makes you so sure?” Trixie glanced from right to left, trying to find something she could latch on to as real.

“You will need me in the days to come. You will have no choice but to embrace me. Though you may not always feel me, I am always here. Call my name, and I will come.”

“You’re lying.”

And just like that, the fog lifted. Trixie felt weightless as the heaviness of the djinn’s presence vanished. She clung to the trunk of the willow tree, panting for air. Her back and forehead were slick with sweat. Trixie had to get out of there. She thrust aside the curtain of willow leaves and dashed off into the nearby lemon grove. She stumbled over the fallen fruit and pressed her back to one of the trees, sliding into a sitting position as she fought to catch her breath.

A lemon fell from the branches and bounced off her head. Trixie ignored it.

Then another dropped into her lap.

And at last, a third landed square on her horn and impaled itself there. Lemon juice squirted down onto her cheeks and made her yelp. A high, childish squeak of laughter resounded from the upper branches, and Trixie threw her gaze high.

“Hi, Miss Briar!” Cedar clung to a branch with both hooves. He levitated a lemon with his magic and hurled it down at her. “Catch!”

Trixie caught the flung fruit and breathed a sigh of relief. “Cedar, what are you doing up there? And what are you doing out this late?!”

“You sound like my nanny.” He stuck out his tongue and blew raspberries.

Trixie blew one back as she pried the lemon off her horn. “Well, unlike your nanny, Briar isn’t going to turn you in to the palace guards.”

The emir hopped down from the tree and landed with a thump. He brushed leaves out of his mane and smiled up at Trixie. “So, whatcha’ doin’?”

“Just taking a walk.” She plucked a few twigs he had missed out of his hair. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.” Cedar huffed and set his mouth. “The nurses wouldn’t let me in to see my dad tonight. I wanted to show him the new spell I was working on, but they said he’s sleeping.” The little horse sniffed and wiped his nose. “He’s been sleeping for three days now. Or at least he seems to be every time I ask the nurses. Maybe he'll be better tomorrow?”

Trixie bit her tongue. She couldn’t break the news that his father wasn’t going to get well. Thinking quickly, she changed the subject. “Well, why don’t you show it to me? So long as you’re not going to set the garden on fire!”

“Promise I won’t!” Cedar crossed a hoof over his heart. “I’ve been practicing!”

Cedar stood and squared his shoulders, set his eyes, and took a deep breath. Trixie took a step back, then took two more just in case. The golden band around Cedar’s foreleg glowed deep amber as a small flame began to dance on the tip of his hoof.

“I saw one of the magi in University Square do this!” Cedar grinned as he made the fire slowly spiral upward and taper into a thin wire of brilliant orange. “Here! Hold one of the lemons for me!”

Trixie winced. She didn’t like where this was going. “You’re sure you’ve got it under control?”

“I’m sure! I’ve done it fifty times now!”

Trixie levitated a fruit with her magic, keeping it well away from her body as a precaution.

The Emir suddenly slashed with his fiery whip, cracking it loudly as he sliced through the lemon as smoothly as if it were butter. Trixie had to admit she was impressed. She would have been even more impressed if the whip didn’t burst into sputtering flame the second it hit the dirt. Trixie leapt back as the fire narrowly avoided scorching her coat. Cedar stumbled backward and landed on his rump, shielding his face with his hooves as he rolled in the dust.

Thinking quickly, Trixie tapped her magical reserves and countered the blaze with a minor frost spell. The story she usually used to cool off soup that scalded her tongue. Frigid icicles formed on the brim of her hat as crackling ice hit the flames and left only a damp, splotch of blackened mud. She clutched a hoof to her chest and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Was it uh,” Trixie brushed the chill from her hat. “Was it supposed to do that?”

“No.” Cedar coughed as he fanned away smoke. “I don’t get it! It worked so well a few days ago but now it just explodes!”

He stomped to a flat rock and sat on the edge, huffing and crossing his arms. Trixie worked her mouth as she came to stand alongside him, unsure of what to say.

“My tutor says that I shouldn’t be doing magic while Dad is sick.” He sniffed and stared at the ground. “She says that when my mind isn’t in the right place my magic is gonna be unstable.”

“I’m… Not exactly familiar with how Sarabic magic works.” Trixie admitted sheepishly. “Is it usually so... unstable when you get upset?”

The Emir shrugged. “Magic is in the memories. That’s what all my tutors tell me. You ponies have horns for magic, but we need something to focus on. My dad always had a little game piece in his sleeve to channel his magic. He told me that when he was my age, he got really good at board games, and kept the winning piece from the best match he ever played. So anytime he would cast a spell, he thought about that game.”

“And you use your armband, right?” Trixie said, reaching out to prod it.

“Yeah. At least until I find a stronger memory.” He nodded.

Trixie’s mind started to work. “Here, let’s try that spell again.”

She took him by the hoof and gently led him back to the center of the lemon grove. Still pouting, Cedar let his band glow and recreated the long, quivering lash of flame. He held it in the air and watched it intently, unable to take his eyes off of it.

“Okay, doing great!” Trixie said as she took another few steps away. “Now, what memory are you focusing on?”

“Huh?”

“You said ‘magic is in the memories’ right? So, what memory is on your mind?”

“I uh,” Cedar blushed sheepishly. “I was thinking about my armband. I got for my birthday last year.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“My dad.” There was a pause as Cedar as the connection formed. “You think that’s why—”

“If the memory becomes bittersweet, so does the magic.” Trixie grinned ear to ear. “Well, I assume so anyway. I only just learned about it two minutes ago.”

“But it makes sense, right?” Cedar’s magic flickered slightly. “Okay, lemme try thinking of a different memory.”

He pursed his lips and closed his eyes. A small smile graced his lips as he nodded. “Alright. I’ve got one. This time, nothing can make it bad.”

“Okay.” Trixie sucked in a breath and lifted an unburned lemon from the grass. “I’ve got the lemon. Let’s try it again.”

Cedar breathed in, breathed out, and swung the magic in a swift arc. Fire sliced through the lemon and filled the air with the scent of scorched fruit. This time, however, the whip didn’t shatter against the dirt. It swung back, and Cedar lashed it again. Then again. And again. By the time the lemon touched the ground, it had been neatly chopped into quarters that steamed and sizzled. The fire went out with a faint hiss as Cedar whooped and leapt into the air. He screamed out loud, galloped in a wide circle, then threw himself at Trixie. She caught him and stumbled back, crushing him in a tight hug before setting him down.

“I did it! I did it! I did it!” Cedar couldn’t stand still. He jumped and kicked and spun, eyes wild and sparkling. “Thank you, Miss Briar!”

“It was nothing! A Great and Powerful Magus like myself can understand any magic in mere minutes of course.” She smirked, head held high. “But I’m glad I could help! Glad you found a new memory to power it!”

“Yeah! I just thought about a really old one!” The little horse bounded circles around her and skidded to a shaky stop. “I remember how my mom used to sing me lullabies before bed, and that worked!”

Trixie’s excitement wavered slightly. “Your mom?”

“I can’t wait to show my dad!” Cedar bounced excitedly, either ignoring the question or not hearing it. Trixie’s heart ached for the kid. She considered telling him—Breaking the news to try and soften the inevitable blow.

Thankfully she didn’t have to.

“Emir Cedar!” A stern looking black horse with a white snip on her muzzle approached from a nearby set of hedges. “I’ve been looking all over for you! Get back to your bedroom this instant!”

“Uh oh.” Cedar swallowed hard. “I’m in trouble.”

“You want me to take the heat?” Trixie offered in a hushed tone.

“Nah. I’ll be fine.” The Emir smiled up at her. “Goodnight, Miss Briar!”

“Goodnight, Cedar!”

The colt galloped off to greet his caretaker, who took him roughly by the hoof and nearly dragged him through the garden. Trixie waited until he had vanished around a bend in the trail before she lit up her horn. It was past her bedtime as well.

Her first attempt at teleporting back to her bedroom took her to the koi pond. Sure, as soon as she wasn’t trying to reach it, her magic took her there. Great.

Trixie tried again and found herself smack in the middle of the empty ballroom where the Ordainment Ball had been held. A lonesome horse was mopping the floor, glaring at her as she stood right on the wet floor he had just finished. He muttered a complaint in Sarabic before she blinked away. C’mon, the third time is the charm!

The third time she found herself back in the right wing of the palace, but in the library rather than her room. Huffing, she figured this was the best she was going to get. As she headed towards the exit, Trixie paused as she noticed a pair of books resting on a table. The first was a comic book for children, Amazing Heroes #1 The Prophet Arfaj! Evidently, River had adjusted to her reading level. The other book, however, lay open. Trixie’s horn glowed softly to illuminate the page.

The Prophet Arfaj and the Binding of the Djinn stared back at her. The book was a collection of pieces from the Modern Art Museum, and although the print didn’t convey the sheer sense of scale seeing it in person had, it inspired the same cold, eldritch dread in the back of her brain. Trixie sucked her teeth and tucked it under her foreleg.

A question rattled about in Trixie’s mind. Why put so much effort into teaching her the story of a Djinn losing? Arfaj had bound the Djinn and channeled their magic. Why dangle that tale in front of a pony they intended to possess?

Unless they wanted her to make the attempt.

River was setting her up to fail.

Fine. If that was the game they wanted to play, let them. They still needed her name, and she would never, ever give it up.

She passed Aster in the hallway, though he didn’t deign to regard her with so much as a glance. Trixie harrumphed as she approached the door to their room and shoved it open.

Blueblood sat on the edge of the bed, looking defeated. Trixie tossed the books down onto the table and flopped lazily into the center of the bed, her mane splayed out behind her like a halo.

“How did talking with Aster go?”

“Poorly.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Trixie puffed and blew a strand of her mane out of her face.

“Where were you?” Blueblood laid back slowly, ensuring that not a strand of his hair ended up out of place.

“Took a walk in the garden. Needed some fresh air.”

“Fair enough.”

They were silent for some time. Both too tired to speak yet too awake to sleep. Blueblood sighed.

“Have you thought about what happens if we fail?”

Trixie didn’t reply for a bit, letting the wheels in her mind turn. “We go back to Equestria, don’t we?”

“But what happens here?” Blueblood groaned. “Does Fairweather just take everything over? Does the country just dissolve into infighting?”

“I don’t know.” Trixie sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“Neither do I.” The prince rolled over, sitting up in bed and rubbing the back of his head. “But I have a feeling we’re going to have to start.”

He slowly drifted from the bed and crossed the room. Blueblood stood by the table and gently rapped a hoof on the book Aster had provided them. There had to be something they were missing. Some piece of the puzzle they had overlooked. He looked at the book once more and cracked it open. Maybe there was some insight he had passed over? He really didn't want to read the entire thing over again. The glue in the spine crackled softly as he flipped through the—

The glue.

“Briar,” Blueblood’s voice shook. It couldn’t have been this obvious. “When you got the guest lists for the parties, did you get the staff listings too?”

“Yeah, why?” Trixie rolled onto her side and raised an eyebrow.

Blueblood whispered something under his breath as he dug through their scattered papers to find it. Sure enough, the guest list also included the staff assignments for the night.

“We’ve been going about this all wrong.” Blueblood pinned the guest list to the wall and dragged out the red thread. “We got so focused on Fairweather and the Caliph that we didn’t even consider one of the palace staff as a traitor.”

He levitated a pencil from the table and circled a name on each of the staff listings. “Aster was on the staff for both events as a dinner coordinator. He would have had access to both Alabaster and the Caliph's wine goblets.”

Trixie’s eyes glinted like daggers in the dark as she sprang from the bed. Blueblood passed her the string and she raced across the room and pinned it to the cover of the book he had given her. “Aster is from a family of bookkeepers, and bound this book for us.”

“Which means,” The prince raced to her side, used his magic to tear open the spine, and extract several globules of hardened glue. “If this matches the adhesive that Marshmallow found in the Caliph’s goblet—”

“Then it would tie Aster to the assassination attempt!” Trixie clapped her hooves together. “But… Then what’s the motive?”

Blueblood had to pause at that. What would give the Caliph’s most loyal servant reason to murder him? He started to mentally replay their conversation and his eyes were opened.

“When I spoke to him tonight, he seemed aware of Fairweather’s plot.” Blueblood gestured with a hoof as he paced back and forth. “And he hinted that Fairweather had tried this before, back when Alabaster was the diplomat.”

Blueblood rummaged through his papers until he found Fairweather’s letter to Alabaster. Slapping it down on the table, he stuck a pin in it and connected the thread.

“Alabaster got cold hooves, it was too late. Aster had already made his move. Even he had to see that Sandalwood wasn’t going to last long. When we met him he was already sick with fever and barely able to walk. If he knew that Fairweather was already plotting against the Caliph—”

He stopped suddenly. His eyes went wide with realization.

“Briar, tonight he told me he would see the Caliph’s son on the throne, by any means necessary.”

“He wanted to speed things along.” Trixie’s eyes shared the glare of his. “Aster wanted to make sure that Fairweather didn’t get the chance.”

“At first he assumed killing Alabaster would be enough. Killing Fairweather's prospective Caliph should have been the end of things. And for four months, it was. But our arrival threw a wrench in his plans. Aster needed to make sure that his next move would stop Fairweather for good. He needed to ensure the power was transferred to Cedar before Fairweather’s plan went through. If he could get Cedar on the throne and assign a proper Sarab mentor, then he’d have outplayed Fairweather and ruined his chances of getting a pony as the power behind the throne.” Blueblood recalled something else Aster had mentioned. “Saddle Arabia is to be ruled by horses.”

“In the morning, we need to—” Trixie began, only for Blueblood to grab her by the hoof and drag her towards the door. “Hey! Blueblood! It’s two in the morning!”

“We need to get to Marshmallow now!” He said as he threw open the door and dragged her along. “I don’t care if I have to drag them to the lab myself! They need to test this adhesive immediately! This is it, Briar! This is the break in the case we’ve been waiting for!”

“Can we at least slow down a little?” Trixie yelped as he whipped her around a corner.

“No time! To the medical campus!”

Soot and Sooth

"Graviora Manent."
—Old Equine Phrase engraved upon Blueblood's Royal Seal

Chapter 10: Soot and Sooth

The medical campus was shut up for the night. The night watch on duty gave Blueblood Marshmallow’s address, and he ran with it. There was no time to lose. He had to know tonight.

For a royal physician, their home was unnervingly plain. They lived in a tenement house only a few miles from the campus, barely above the level of a college dormitory. Blueblood bribed the horse at the front door for access and dragged Trixie up two flights of stairs. Marshmallow’s room was at the end of a long, dimly lit hall choked with trash waiting for pickup. Blueblood vaulted over a garbage bag and landed deftly outside room 326.

“Marshmallow! Open up!” Blueblood shouted loud enough to wake the dead. “By order of the Prince of Equestria, I demand you open this door!”

Silence answered him. Sucking his teeth, Blueblood pounded on the door again.

“I know you’re in there!”

“Hey! Keep it down!” Someone shouted back from behind a closed door. “It’s three in the morning!”

“Shut up!” Blueblood snarled back. He turned his attention back to the door and decided to try lying. “Marshmallow! I come bearing orders from the Caliph himself! If you don’t open up, then—”

“Go home, asshole!”

“I said shut up!” Blueblood threw his full weight against the door, thumping hard with his shoulder. “Marshmallow if you don’t open this door I swear on Celestia’s sun I’ll break it down!”

“Please don’t break my door.” An exhausted, slurred voice came from behind Blueblood. He whirled around to see Marshmallow leaning against the wall for support, their eyes glossy and their breath leaden with liquor. “Indigo? How come you’re trying to bust into my apartment?”

“We’ve got a new lead in the case.” Trixie stepped in. “We need you to analyze some—” Her snout scrunched as she sniffed the air. “Are you drunk?”

“Very!” Marshmallow beamed, slinging a hoof around Trixie’s shoulders. “Just got back from a party. C’mon, you ponies can crash at my place while I sleep this off!”

“There’s no time,” Blueblood stressed, double-checking that he still had the samples tucked into his jacket pocket. “How long do you need to sober up?”

“A few seconds.” Marshmallow unshackled themselves from Trixie and leaned forward, tapping their cheek. “Hit me.”

“What?”

“Hit me! Slap me in the face! Really make it sting!” They chattered excitedly.

Blueblood stared, wincing as he lifted a hoof. He gently batted their cheek like he was patting a kitten.

“Nah, c’mon! Really slap me!”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I can take it! Whack me a good one!”

“You’re sure you want this?” Blueblood raised an eyebrow.

“Do it!”

The crack of the slap was louder than a gunshot. Marshmallow was spun fully around by the sheer force of it, staggering back to lean against the wall for support as they clutched their ringing cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Blueblood replied, reaching out to steady them. “Are you okay?”

“Better than okay!” Marshmallow rubbed their face. Already the gloss in their eyes was starting to fade. “I’m sober! Let’s go!”

Rolling up their sleeves, Marshmallow revealed the band along their arm. The blade of a scalpel encased in amber pulsed excitedly as they prepared to get to work. They grabbed Blueblood and Trixie by the shoulders and took the lead, reversing the roles as now Blueblood was dragged along behind them.

*****

Marshmallow had taken the samples and entered their lab. Blueblood was too stressed to watch the process but too stressed to look away. He paced up and down the hallway, peering in through the window every time he passed it. His knowledge of the scientific method was limited, and he had no idea what any of the countless devices inside the laboratory actually did. His heart leapt anytime Marshmallow paused to examine their equipment or adjust a gauge.

Trixie on the other hand had brought along reading material to pass the time. The comic book the djinn had left for her retold many of the same stories she had already read. It told of how Arfaj envisioned a united Saddle Arabia, how he waged war against the disparate tribes of the Sarabian Desert, how he sat for forty days in the desert to contemplate the mysteries of the sun, how he raised up water from the dust in arid places, and most importantly to her, how he bound the djinn. It reiterated the words she had read once before, the ritual of binding:

“By the sun and her flame, I bind your mind and magic.
By the moon and her chill, I bind your breast and heart.
By the river Akhal, I bind your left hand
And by her sister Teke, I bind your right.

In the Sea of Sorrows, I bind your belly
And with the desert dunes, I bind your legs.
I bind you in body, soul, and spirit.
And you are mine.”

The comic, however, gave her one bit of extra information. Arfaj and his first disciple, Sandstone, spoke after he had bound the djinn. Sandstone asked how he had done it, and Arfaj’s reply was simultaneously simple and impenetrable.

“The flesh is weak, but does it not contain the spirit?”

Trixie furrowed her brow. What did that mean? She hated trying to decipher all these ancient riddles. Why couldn’t old desert mystics just say what they meant? Why didn’t Arfaj write a book about djinn binding and have it mass-published? If Trixie had bound a supernatural being to her service, she would never let anypony forget it. She’d be touring, getting book deals, endorsing politicians—for a fee of course.

But how was she supposed to capture a djinn when all the advice she got was written in riddles?

Huffing, she pushed the book away. Blueblood was still pacing, his hooves click-clacking on the tiles as he pursed his lips and glanced furtively into the lab.

“Do you wanna sit down?” Trixie motioned to the plastic seat beside her.

The prince stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the chair. “I don’t think I can. I have to know. I need to be right.”

“You can be right without wearing a hole in the hospital floor.”

Blueblood sank into a seat and sighed. He crossed his hooves over his chest and tried to avoid watching the process. Everypony always said a watched pot never boiled, and he supposed a watched laboratory didn’t deliver results.

“So what happens if we’re right?” Trixie slouched in her seat. “Do we arrest Aster?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? The Caliph tasked us with finding his assassin, so we would technically be acting on his orders.” Blueblood shrugged his shoulders. “But there’s something we’re missing here. Killing Alabaster is one thing. He wants Saddle Arabia to remain as it is, and killing off a conspirator was a way to slow that down. But killing the Caliph is a big step up. If it had worked as he intended, Sandalwood would die, his son would be enthroned, and he’d have Saddle Arabian tutors guiding him. But why now? Why not kill me? It worked for Alabaster, so why not murder the next ambassador who seemed like they’d throw their lot against his beloved Caliph?”

Blueblood rapped his hoof nervously against the arm of his chair.

Trixie’s mind was working overtime as she tried to process things. Blinking clarity, Trixie realized something they had missed. “What about Chicory?”

“What do you mean?” Blueblood raised an eyebrow.

“Why her? If Aster planned this all out, why would he just choose a random horse to be the one to take the fall?” Trixie could see pieces clicking together. “So why Chicory? If she was convicted of killing the Caliph, she’d have been killed by a firing squad or imprisoned for life if she was lucky, right?”

“You think he was trying to take down two birds with one stone?” Blueblood’s eyes burned as the gears in his head whirred. “What threat could a slave be?”

“Maybe she’s a slave because she was a threat.” Trixie met his gaze. “Do you know why the Caliph enslaved her? They said it was punishment for a crime, right?”

Blueblood froze. He didn’t. He hadn’t even thought to ask. That was it. That was the missing link.

And Chicory hadn’t been in their room when they returned. Aster had.

“As soon as we know for sure, we need to find her.” Blueblood’s voice held that determined edge Trixie was coming to understand. “I’ve got a feeling Aster is thinking the same thing. If he really did want her dead, there’s not much stopping him from trying again.”

“Other than us.”

“Exactly.”

The door to the lab swung open. Marshmallow stood in the doorway, adjusted their lab coat, and flicked their mane to one side. “Results are in!”

Blueblood and Trixie were on their hooves in a heartbeat. Blueblood was trembling as he stepped forward.

“It’s the same adhesive, isn’t it?” His voice nearly broke.

“You had it right, Indigo.” Marshmallow brandished the results in their magical grip. “Same adhesive as I found in the glass.”

“That’s what I needed to know.” Blueblood breathed an exhale of relief as he wiped his brow. Vindication felt good. “I think we have our culprit.”

“And with that,” Marshmallow shed their lab coat and untied their mane. “The sun is coming up, and I’ve got my work cut out for me today. Especially with no sleep and still slightly buzzed.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to do surgery like this.” Trixie narrowed her eyes.

Marshmallow’s cheeks glowed faintly. “Worse. I’ve got a date.”

“Oh dear,” Trixie’s ears flattened against her skull. “Good luck! I hope it goes well!”

“Oh, it will! My charms are irresistible after all!” Marshmallow tossed their mane. The whiplash made them reel, and they stifled a deep belch into the back of their hoof. “Oh, that’s not good.” They braced themselves as they staggered down the hall towards a trash can. “I think I’m gonna hurl…”

“We should leave.” Blueblood jerked Trixie’s hoof and took off down the hall. “I really don’t want to see them lose their lunch.”

“Wouldn’t they be losing their breakfast? Actually, I don’t think they ate this morning. So… Dinner?”

“I don’t care what meal it is, I don’t want to watch them spew it into the trash!”

*****

Truthfully, Blueblood had no idea where to start looking for Chicory. Nor did he have any idea what their next move ought to be. The sun was painting the horizon scarlet as they stepped into the street, the muezzin's cry echoing down the alleyways like a condemnation. They had their suspect. They had evidence. They had a motive. But at the same time, he still felt like he was groping in the dark. Every day his grasp on the situation grew clearer, yet it hardly seemed to matter. Saddle Arabia was hurtling towards a point of no return, and Blueblood could only slow it down. The Caliph would die. The succession would be messy. And he himself still didn’t know where his loyalty lay.

Siding with Fairweather would make him Caliph—the ruler he had always dreamed of being. Siding with Aster would mean working with someone who wished to uphold the despicable legacy of slavery and oppression. Taking a third path? Taking the throne for himself without Fairweather’s backing? Perhaps.

Trixie bought them both coffee from a vendor and handed a cup off to the prince as they passed through the cool spray of Lineage Park. This early it was devoid of the usual crowds of fillies and colts splashing in the puddles. A few camels were seated on the benches surrounding the fountains playing a card game. The golden sunlight caught the water and doused the park in a spray of dancing, prismatic shards. Trixie felt she could grow to love this place as she sipped her coffee and sighed.

“Every day we spend here, the less I miss Equestria.” She splashed a hoof through the runoff of the fountain. She flicked droplets at the prince, who scrunched his snout as the water struck him.

“If Saddle Arabia ever stabilizes, I’d love to live here.” Blueblood mused softly. “Once you adjust to the heat, it really is beautiful.”

“We don’t have to go back, you know.” She mused as they strolled down a lane shaded with colorful awnings. “To Equestria I mean. We could just… Stay.”

“And get caught up in regime change after regime change?” Blueblood chuckled casually. “I think I’ve had enough of the stress of being Saddle Arabia’s Ambassador for now.”

“I didn’t mean as ambassadors. I mean just… as ponies, you know?” She shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be Saddle Arabia either. We could travel for a while. See the sights. Zebrica, the Gryphon Kingdoms, maybe even go far west and visit the Great Plains.”

“Celestia would never let me.” The prince shook his head. “I’m too valuable as a diplomat, plus I’m a member of the Solar Court.”

“You think she’d drag you back, kicking and screaming?” Trixie smirked over the rim of her mug.

“I’m not worried that she’d come after me. I’m worried she wouldn’t even notice I was gone.”

“If she wouldn’t notice you left, why stick around?”

Blueblood was silent for a long while. He sipped his coffee and seemed deep in thought. The answer didn’t come easily to him. It was a vulnerability—a chip in his armor. Blueblood couldn’t tolerate weakness in himself of all ponies.

Yet he knew the answer. He could feel it like a crystalline mass in his heart. It was a part of his core that he refused to acknowledge. To speak it was to make it real.

But after all they had been through together so far, didn’t she deserve to know?

“Because I’m owed my wings.” The words came out of him like bile. “Every time I’m told to do the impossible, I know it’s cause I’m being tested. And every time I’m tested, I’m found wanting.” He sucked breath through clenched teeth. “That’s what this is. It’s all a test. Celestia wants to see how I’ll handle things here, whether or not I’ll measure up to her faithful student.”

Blueblood paused, took a sip of his coffee in a futile attempt to steady his nerves, then went on.

“I can’t leave because the second I give up, the second I turn my back on it, I’m admitting they were all right about me. Admitting that she's better than me, has always been better than me. That I’m not worthy.” He took a deep breath as his muscles knotted. “And I’m not letting them have the satisfaction.”

Blueblood felt like a piece of him had been torn out. The dull ache in his spine started to throb in time with his heartbeat.

“I know how you feel.” Trixie breathed a low sigh and toyed with a stray strand of her mane. She didn’t like admitting her flaws either. The Great and Powerful Trixie shouldn’t have flaws, lest she no longer be Great and Powerful. “Just in the opposite way. I feel like if I ever settle down somewhere, then I’m giving up a part of myself.”

“How?”

“I’m a traveling magician.” She emphasized her point with a sweep of her mane. “Anypony could settle in some place like Las Pegasus or Manehattan or Fillydelphia and play the clubs or casinos. But for me, if I settle, if I take one of those gigs? I’m admitting I’m not good enough to make it on the road.”

Her horn glowed faintly as magic pulsed within her. “So every night I don’t have bits for dinner, every day where my act bombs and I get pelted with tomatoes, every time I have to drink that Appleoosan Vineyards Moscato you hate so much—” She saw him shudder faintly at the name. “Even though they’re terrible, they’re little victories to me. If I wake up ready to move on to the next town and perform again, then I’m still winning.”

“That explains why it’s always so hard to track you down when I need you,” Blueblood said with a small chuckle.

Trixie managed a grin. “What a mess we are. You can’t leave, I can’t stay.”

“What a terrible pair we make.”

“Opposites attract, don’t they?”

“I guess that’s why it seems I can’t get rid of you.”

“As if you’d ever want to. How would you survive without my impeccable wit and charm?”

They stood close. Too close for either of their comforts. Yet they didn’t back away. Blueblood knew this would never work out. They were too fundamentally opposed. He was confined to Canterlot, she was shackled to the open road. When they returned home to Equestria they would part ways and it would be months, maybe years, before they had another time like this.

So why not enjoy it while it lasts? Blueblood had already pried out part of his core and placed it in her hooves. She had returned the favor, hadn’t she? For the first time in a long while, Blueblood felt he wasn’t wearing the guise of a prince. He was past all the polite smiles, false platitudes, and plastic nobility that being a royal entailed. No longer was he nobility, and no longer was she great and powerful. They were Blueblood and Trixie. No more no less.

Blueblood said nothing, but gently slung a hoof around her as they walked. Wordlessly, Trixie settled comfortably into his embrace.

“You still have no idea where we’re going, do you?” Trixie said with a teasing lilt in her tone.

“Not in the slightest,” Blueblood replied, scanning the streets ahead. “If you were Chicory, where would you be right now?”

“Sleeping.”

“Aside from sleeping.”

“Getting breakfast?”

“Good lead, but where?”

“Is this another test?” Trixie raised an eyebrow. “Another political thing you’re trying to drill into me?”

“No, I genuinely don’t know where to start looking.” Blueblood sighed. “Sutaf is a big city.”

“Well, we’ve gotta start somewhere.” Trixie gently nudged him onto a side street for a shortcut. The fact she was starting to recognize shortcuts in a city not her own made her feel even less connected to Equestria. “And I suggest we start with breakfast. I’m going to need more than coffee to get through the day. Plus, it’s my turn to choose the restaurant!”

“Alright, fine.” Blueblood followed along, shuffling his hooves. “So long as it's not the Grease Pit.”

“But what if that’s my choice?” Trixie plead with her eyes.

“Then you can eat alone.”

“But you liked it!” Trixie huffed indignantly. As they turned back onto the main thoroughfare and merged with the traffic of horses and camels flooding to work, Trixie felt like she was being watched. She slung a side-eye over her shoulder and noticed three palace guards working through the crowd. She’d had enough run-ins with the police to know what it looked like when they were pursuing a target.

Keeping her pace quick but steady, she whispered into Blueblood’s ear. “Don’t turn around. We’re being followed.”

“By who?” Blueblood replied, his gaze fixed in front of him.

“Palace guards. Three of them.”

“We can outrun them.”

“Don’t run. If you run, you're guilty”

“Okay, so we don’t run. What then?”

“Play it cool. Follow my lead.” Keeping his foreleg around her body, Trixie began to maneuver her way through the crowd, weaving through groups of workers to gain distance. “This way.”

They slipped into a cafe and passed by groups of horses getting breakfast. They exited through the backdoor, stepping into an alley strewn with refuse with a creek of fetid slime oozing down the center. Blueblood retched on the smell and had to be dragged along by Trixie as he danced away from rank puddles.

“Wait! I can’t step in—”

“Keep moving!” Trixie hissed, vaulting over the central river. “Now turn!”

They ducked into the doorway of a small tenement, concealed behind a curtain that kept their entryway private. Trixie put a hoof to her lips and shushed. A moment passed before they both heard sharp Sarabic voices and a clatter of hooves. The sound passed them by as the hooves beat their way down the alley, eventually vanishing into silence. Trixie peered out through a small hole in the curtain and exhaled in relief.

“Coast is clear.” She motioned for Blueblood to follow her as she headed back out into the alley.

“I need a bath.” Blueblood shivered as he picked his way carefully around the assorted filth and offal.

“Your bath can wait.” Trixie rolled her eyes and stepped back out onto a deserted side street. “They were looking for us, I’m sure of it.”

“Aster must know we’re getting close.” Blueblood practically leapt for joy as they exited the alley. “He must still have something he doesn’t want us to know.”

“You there!” A voice interjected in barking Equine. “Halt!”

Blueblood and Trixie turned to see another pair of guards approaching from around a bend in the road.

“Do we run now?” Blueblood whispered.

“No. Let me handle this!” Trixie’s horn lit up as she grabbed onto Blueblood’s hoof. She’d been practicing for a time like this. Just as the guards reached them, Trixie’s spell went off and the two of them blinked out of reality.

When they reappeared, they were about forty feet off the ground and falling fast. Trixie flailed to grab Blueblood again, quickly slinging the spell a second time.

This time, they appeared in the center of a metal foundry. The air was thick as syrup and sweltering hot, and horses stripped to the belly surrounded them. They blinked at the intruders in their midst before Trixie vanished once again, leaving them to wonder if the ponies they saw were just a trick of the heat.

Third time being the charm, Trixie landed them in a dark, humid side street somewhere in the city where the sun refused to shine. She landed with a thump on a bale of moldering hay, while Blueblood crashed head-first into a half-finished building. He kicked up clouds of dust as he rolled over half-mixed mud bricks and bags of unmixed concrete.

“You okay?” Trixie popped her head out of the hay, spitting straws as she tried to brush them out of her mane.

“My coat is soiled, my mane is ruined, and I’ve chipped the clearcoat on my hooves!” Blueblood’s voice crackled with horror.

“But are you alive?”

“I wish I wasn’t.”

“You’re fine.” Trixie stepped over an unfinished section of wall and helped the prince to his hooves. He shook the dirt from his formerly pristine coat and tried to brush out his mane. He looked miserable.

“Where are we, anyway?” Blueblood stepped out from the unfinished house and glanced up and down the street. They were closer to the city wall, which was currently blocking most of the rising sun. Everything here was lit in a faint, gloomy grey color occasionally broken by lamplight. The air held faint undercurrents of factory soot and unwashed bodies. He recognized that scent. He had smelled it as soon as they entered Saddle Arabia. “Nevermind. I think I know.”

“We’re in the slums.” Trixie stepped into the lamplight and brushed some dirt from her cheek.

“Were you aiming for the slums?” Blueblood raised an eyebrow.

“I was aiming for anywhere that wasn’t there.” She shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Better here than prison.” Blueblood took a step into the street and something squelched under his hoof. His entire body squirmed as he recoiled in horror. “Nevermind. I prefer prison.”

“Oh come on you big baby.” Trixie rolled her eyes. “Let's get moving.”

The two ponies made slow and careful progress through the underbelly of the city. Here, Trixie was reminded less of Canterlot and high society and more of the small, impoverished towns she had passed along the border of Buffalo Territory. The houses were a mix of brick, concrete, scrap metal, and fabric held together with little more than rusty nails and optimism. A rare three-story building seemed to list aimlessly in the breeze as they passed it by, tempting the wind to blow just a little harder. They felt anxious to move out of its shadow.

There were fewer horses here, Blueblood noticed instinctively. Jackals were far more common, often spotted scavenging what they could from the gutters and glaring at him with confusion and defensiveness in their features. When they spoke to him, it was polite—almost excruciatingly so. They looked like they expected him to strike them senseless should they utter a single word out of line. Many bore a strange, ashen mark on their cheek like someone had drawn there with soot.

All around Blueblood could see the signs of revolution. Crossed blades backed by flames were painted on any wall large enough to contain them. Political treatises and incendiary newspapers spun their way down the damp, dirty streets. Hushed conversations that abruptly ended when they spotted ponies heading their way. Sandalwood had done a good job of keeping this hidden from his visitors, and Blueblood could see why. This wasn’t Saddle Arabia as it appeared on the brochures. This was Saddle Arabia as she truly was; Saddle Arabia when nobody was looking and had no one to impress.

Factories, refineries, and mills seemed as omnipresent as the uncollected trash. Blueblood recognized the names painted into the faded red brick: Fairweather Firearms, Cinnamocha Express, Appleoosan Petroleum, Starswirl Steel Works, and many others. They were like countless Equestrian hooves throttling her younger sibling.

“Indigo? Briar?” A familiar voice reached Blueblood’s ear from the doorway of a blackened, blighted house. Chicory stood on the porch, head cocked. “What are you doing here?”

“Teleportation mishap,” Trixie replied with a bashful smile. “On the bright side, it brought us to you!”

“Is this where you live?” Blueblood scanned the building. “When you’re not at the palace I mean.”

Chicory nodded. “Well, ‘live’ is a strong word. It’s where I sleep.”

“A bunkhouse?” Trixie had seen similar things in heavily industrial areas of Manehattan.

Shaking her head, Chicory motioned for them to step forward. They ascended the steps and peered in through the door. The stench inside was miasmatic. Sweat and vomit and urine and Celestia knew what else had mingled into an oppressive fetor that made Blueblood gag. Within there wasn’t a single bed, but long ropes strung from one end of the room to the other. Horses, Jackals, and a few camels lay slumped over the ropes in various stages of sleep. Some snored loudly, others clung to the ropes in a state of drowsy drunkenness. All were dressed in dirty, well-worn fatigues branded with the name of their employer.

“They’re called Flophouses,” Chicory said softly. “Charges less for a night than a hotel, and way less than average rent.”

“Celestia’s mane…” Trixie breathed, her eyes watering.

Chicory gestured for them to exit, letting them breathe the less tainted air of the slums. Blueblood’s face had been locked into a grimace.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you both, but if you’re here.” Chicory descended the steps two at a time. “I’d like to take you to a Fire Temple. Since you promised you’d come to see one. I was just on my way to the temple anyways.”

Blueblood and Trixie shared a glance. He shrugged and nodded.

“Sure. Since we’re in the area.”

It would give them some time to contemplate things, and potentially some time to interrogate Chicory’s role in these proceedings.

And so they set off, following her through the maze of cracked, crumbling streets.

*****

Blueblood had been expecting something on the scale of the Temple of the Cosmos they had visited. What he got was something far less opulent. Situated in the remains of a shuttered cannery, the entire complex was surrounded by a wall, not of brick, but of stretched sheets of black fabric. Plumes of white smoke rose from within the compound, and Blueblood’s nose could pick out the different types of wood burning within—the sweet scent of cherry, the aromatic cedar, the sticky, sugary pine. Chicory led them to the entrance gate, a ramshackle construction made from brushwood and sunbleached bone, and pushed them inside. There, they washed their faces in a brass basin and entered the courtyard of the temple.

A bonfire burned in a shallow pit in the warm earth, around which a throng of horses and jackals were bowed face down in silent prayer. One of the dogs rose, placed a paw over his heart, and promptly spat into the blaze. When Blueblood wrinkled his snout at the act, Chicory nudged him.

“Prayers without a connection are never answered.” She whispered. “You have to offer up a part of yourself to the flame.”

“But… Spit?” He swallowed, eyes flickering between her and the fire.

“If you’d rather not spit, you can offer blood.”

“I’ll stick with spit then.”

As the jackal passed them by and headed for the gate, he paused by a second basin that had been heaped with grey ashes. He took some in his paws and made a mark on his cheek. That explained the soot sigils he had seen on the Jackals in the slums.

Unlike the Temple of the Cosmos, there was no service here. There were priests, or at least Blueblood assumed the jackal with the long, sooty robe and kindly eyes tending the bonfire was, but they didn’t direct the worship. It felt somehow more personal, more ancient. Blueblood could visualize these same rituals being enacted on a pale dune under the dim moonlight, with only the crackling campfire keeping the vast blackness of the desert at bay.

“How do we—” Trixie motioned to the proceedings but was cut short as the priest approached her.

“Salaam.” The jackal exhaled as he bowed. “It’s not often we have guests at our temple. Even less often do we see ponies. I apologize for not attending to you sooner. Please, call me Brother Sycamore.”

“Wa’alaykumu s’salaam.” Blueblood replied with a nod. “It’s our pleasure to meet you, brother. I am Prince Indigo of Equestria.”

“And I’m his magus, Briar.” Trixie crossed her forelegs for a bow.

Sycamore glanced beyond them to Chicory, who he rushed to embrace tightly. She squeezed him back, pressing her face to his cheek. Blueblood only caught a snatch of the words that rushed out of him.

Ukhti. Sister.

“We’re honored to have you here.” Sycamore seemed deeply anxious to place. “If you have any questions, feel free to ask.”

“How do we do this, exactly?” Trixie repeated her question. “You know, the service and such.”

“Ah, it will depend, my friend. If you wish to approach the flame in prayer, simply bow and speak. When you’re done, rise and bind it. Anoint yourself with ash and know your prayer is heard.” He paused, stroking the soft tuft of greying fur on his chin. “If you wish to have your flames read, then it will take some time.”

“Should we have our flames read?” Blueblood glanced to Chicory. “You’re the expert here.”

She nodded to him. “Please do.”

“Then I shall prepare the fire.” Sycamore gestured for them to follow. They crossed the courtyard towards a pair of heavy, darkened tents that steamed with aromatic smoke. Beside it, fresh bundles of chopped wood were stacked in neat rows. The jackal gestured for them to select one for themselves and wait until called.

Blueblood grabbed a fresh bundle of lovely-smelling rosewood and leaned on it as he watched the proceedings around him. Unlike the Temple of the Cosmos, with its solemn atmosphere and ushers who directed worshipers towards the door when the service ended, this place was a center of community. Horses leaned against the walls and chatted about their lives. A pair of jackals sat on folding chairs and exchanged snippets of poetry they had written. A mother and her pups were passing out sandwiches wrapped in butcher paper. Chicory followed his eyes and smiled faintly.

“We look out for each other here, prince.” She said quietly.

“I can see that,” Blueblood replied, shifting his bundle. “It’s not exactly a glamorous life, but it’s…” He struggled to find something kind to say about the slums he had waded through.

“But it’s life.” Trixie stepped in, having selected a fragrant cedar as her wood. “Life goes on here, even if the palace ignores it.”

“We have to fight for what we have here, but we've managed to survive.” Chicory seated herself on the ground. “This is where I was born and raised. Before I was taken to the palace to serve Sandalwood.”

“That actually reminds me,“ Blueblood bent his knees to sit beside her. “I wanted to ask you something. I apologize if this feels too forward, but how did you end up as Sandalwood’s slave?”

Chicory’s smile faltered. “I wish I knew.”

“You don’t know?” Blueblood questioned, brow raised. “But, it had to be for a crime, right?”

“It was, but I don’t know what I did.” She turned over her hoof and showed it to the prince. A dark sigil had been etched into the frog of her hoof: a game piece. Trixie recognized it. The same game piece that Cedar said Sandalwood used as his focus.

Chicory prodded it with her other hoof, and it flickered a faint green. “Sandalwood put this on me. There’s something that he doesn’t want me to remember, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it was.” She bit her lip and closed her eyes, as though trying to dredge something out of her memory. The sigil pulsed and glowed as she worked her mouth, finally falling silent as she exhaled. “All I know is Sandalwood has something that belongs to me. He took something from me and enslaved me for it.”

“And if the Caliph dies?”

“Then his magic fades.” Chicory turned her hoof back to the ground. “Unless someone else takes over the spell.” She sighed. “It’s only a matter of time before I know for sure.”

The flap of a nearby tent opened. Sycamore stood in the entryway and motioned to Blueblood.

“Indigo.” He nodded softly. “I’m ready for you.”

*****

The air within the tent was utterly stifling. Smoke choked Blueblood’s lungs as he sat on the hard earth facing a pit full of smoldering coals. Sycamore seemed unphased as he took Blueblood’s bundle of rosewood and began to arrange it into a tower of logs.

“Bind yourself.” The Jackal spoke quietly yet firmly.

Blueblood steeled himself as best he could, then finally spat into the coals. It hissed and sizzled as the flames consumed it.

“Thus bound, the fire must be roused with life.” Sycamore produced three small branches, still green and springy. He laid down a palm leaf just out of reach from the crackling blaze. “Palm shades us and is invoked for protection.” Next came a bough of birch. “The birch has many eyes, and is invoked for her foresight.” And lastly, a pine branch covered in needles. “Aromatic pine is the choice of lovers, and she’s invoked for romance.”

Blueblood considered his options. Taking a breath of the smoke-wisped air, he felt his decision was already made for him. “Birch.”

“A wise choice, prince.” Sycamore nodded sagely, his dun-colored fur seeming to glow in the firelight. He tossed the live branch into the flames, watching intently as the leaves began to curl and crack under the heat. “Bow and speak your request. The fire shall answer.”

The prince pressed his face to the stamped earth, careful not to let it ruin the makeup he had spent hours on that morning. Even with his coat, mane, and hooves befouled he would at least retain this basic dignity.

There were so many questions he wanted to ask. Had Celestia been right to send him? Would Fairweather’s schemes succeed? Was Aster really behind Alabaster’s murder? Who would succeed the Caliph? He pursed his lips and considered as he heard the fire spit and gutter and spark. He made his decision.

“Will I prevent Saddle Arabia from falling into chaos?” He mouthed the words silently, then slid slowly back into a sitting position.

Sycamore’s eyes never left the flames. His pupils became black and glassy as the firelight danced in them. The jackal hummed in his throat and stared unblinking. Blueblood couldn’t help but feel a sort of sacrificial weight behind his gaze.

“Now, touch the flame.” The dog rumbled.

Blueblood flinched and demured. “But why? Won’t that hurt?”

“The truth is painful for those who must hear it.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Blueblood reached out and passed his hoof through the flames. He pulled it back with a yelp and a hiss a split second later. Sycamore didn’t flinch. Exhaling slowly, he reached out a paw and gently rubbed a numbing salve on the burn. The fire burned suddenly hotter, cooled to embers, and spat one final defiant spark before dying out.

“The flame has spoken.”

“And what did it say?”

“In the coming days, there will be grave violence. You will doubt, you will waver, and you will sacrifice much.” The jackal gently squeezed his hoof. “But you will live to see the end.”

Sycamore scooped ash from around the rim of the fire pit and shook it in his paw. He gently smeared a streak of black across Blueblood’s forehead with his thumb. His eyes were soft with pity. “Flame light thy path.”

That didn’t give Blueblood much hope. A future of grave violence awaited him as he was slowly ushered into sunlight. Trixie smiled at him as she took his place. He struggled to meet her gaze as she was enveloped in that warm, acrid-smelling darkness.

Chicory stood by a group of horses and jackals who questioned her in hushed, conspiratorial tones. Blueblood noticed that Chicory passed one of them a satchel that they quickly tucked into his sirwal. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled as he approached.

“Indigo, what a pleasure.” The jackals splintered off in different directions. “How was the reading?”

“It certainly was an experience I’ll not soon forget.” Blueblood’s nostrils flared as he caught wind of something in the air. It smelled distinctly sulphuric. “Friends of yours?”

“Good friends indeed.” She nodded. “Do you plan on going back to the palace tonight? If not, I can make arrangements for you to stay here.”

Blueblood opened his mouth to reply, but Chicory stopped him.

“And no, I will not make you sleep in the flophouse with me.”

Blueblood hadn’t considered it until now. Going back to the palace while Aster was still trying to put him under tight guard was a bad idea. Yet it felt so wrong to not be there as the Caliph was dying and his advisors were scheming. Not to mention Aster likely knew he was in Blueblood’s crosshairs and was taking precautions to cover his tracks. But as the sun dipped lower on the horizon, Blueblood was becoming acutely aware that he hadn’t slept and was currently subsisting on nothing but coffee. He was in no state to face Aster. Nor was Trixie.

“Do you know a good hotel around here?” He suggested with a shrug. “Preferably one suited to nobility? Money is no object for me.”

“I’ll find you the best accommodations we can provide.” Chicory bowed and nodded.

Trixie emerged from the tent moments later, trailing smoke from her mane and bearing a smudge of ash just under her horn. She coughed a few times but grinned broadly as she stepped into the light. “Well, that was enlightening. Learned a lot about myself in there!”

She practically collapsed against Blueblood as she stood beside him, flopping across his back.

“Now, can we please get some sleep?”

Sycamore stepped out, smirking slightly to himself. “I asked her to bow and pray, and pretty soon I heard her snoring.”

“I was resting my eyes!” Trixie snapped, tossing her mane.

*****

They were put up in a hotel right on the border of the slums, named fittingly, the Gatekeeper Inn. It wasn’t anything special, a chintzy little abode with worn, brightly colored carpets, cheap wallpaper, and barebones amenities. But the bed was soft, the door locked, and there were no insects buzzing around the room. Blueblood had double and triple-checked for them. He’d flipped over the mattress, pulled the furniture away from the walls, and even peeled back the wallpaper in two places just to make sure. It wasn’t up to his lofty standards, but it would be livable.

The food was much the same. Room service for dinner was all they had the energy for, and what they received was by all means edible. Blueblood and Trixie shared a fruit salad, with Trixie picking out the honeydew for him while he picked out the blueberries for her. Certainly, the least glamorous meal they’d shared since their entry to Saddle Arabia, but on an empty stomach after so little sleep, they hardly cared.

The palace was visible from their window, seated atop a distant hill and shimmering in the sunset. Blueblood sat on the edge of the bed and stared out at it. He could see the black-robed soldiers moving through the streets below, their peaked helmets glinting bloody in the sunset. They were still looking for him. Already he could see them starting to spread into the slums, having determined that he was no longer within the upper part of Sutaf. It was only a matter of time before they checked his hotel. He just prayed that the bribe he’d paid at the counter below would be enough to keep his presence secret.

Grave violence in his future. The words echoed in his mind as he chewed his melon. Was grave violence being done to him? Or was he doing the violence?

“I come bearing an omen.” Luna had said as she put a sword in his hooves.

Grave violence.

You will sacrifice much.

Blueblood’s eyes drifted to the burn on his hoof. It hadn’t blistered, but it still stung. Too many questions swarmed like insects in the back of his brain. What had Chicory done to deserve a life of slavery? Why had they sequestered her memory? What did they have that belonged to her, something so precious to them that they were willing to enslave her and blot out her thoughts? His head leaned forward, heavy with unanswered queries, until he snorted himself awake.

Trixie laid back on the bed, half asleep already. Her eyelids were closed and her breathing was slow and steady. Blueblood glanced back at her and wondered if perhaps she had the right idea. They were as safe as they could be in this city, away from Aster’s prying eyes and Fairweather’s machinations. Yet still Blueblood felt as if any minute now the door would be broken down and he’d find himself clamped in irons. He needed rest, but he didn’t dare sleep.

Blueblood reclined stiffly in bed, cupping his hooves behind his head. There was a crack in the ceiling surrounded by a blossom of browning stains. As his eyelids fluttered, it looked like a branch set ablaze.

*****

The moment came.

A knock at the door roused Blueblood from his sleep, and his heart rate skyrocketed. Trixie stirred, propping herself up on her pillow with ears raised. Another sharp series of knocks echoed through the dark room. Blueblood sat up fully and faced the door. He sucked his teeth and hissed.

“Should we answer it?” Trixie whispered harshly.

“I don’t think we have a choice.” Blueblood pushed himself off the bed and shook the sleep from his head.

“Here, take this.” Trixie passed him a plastic fork from their salad.

“I’m not going to stab them with a fork.”

“Well, what else are you gonna stab them with?”

Blueblood crept across the floorboards with catlike tread. He pressed his eye to the peephole and breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s Chicory.”

“Oh, thank Celestia.” Trixie slumped, dropping the plastic fork to the floor.

Chicory remained in the doorway as Blueblood opened the door. She pressed a hoof to her lips and gestured for them to follow her into the hall.

Trixie and Blueblood shared a nervous glance as they stepped out of their room. Chicory didn’t speak as she led them down two flights of stairs and into the lobby. There, they were met by a group of horses and jackals dressed in rags and carrying old, worn-out jezails. Well, the lucky ones carried jezails. The less fortunate ones were armed with rusty spears, planks of nail-studded wood, or chipped knives. They stood in awkward lines, attempting the neatness of military formation despite the hotel furniture standing in their way. They saluted sloppily as Blueblood approached, his expression falling. He recognized them. He’d seen several at the Fire Temple earlier that day. His nostrils smelled sulfur, and this time he recognized it.

Gunpowder.

“Chicory, who are these—” He gestured vaguely, biting his lip. He scanned the crowd and saw the same sigil, twin blades over a flame, repeated like a canticle. There it was on a headband. There in a tattoo. Here in a necklace.

Chicory accepted a firearm from one of the jackals and stood at the front of the formation, slinging its strap around her shoulder. It fit her like an old friend. The way Chicory held herself, had always held herself, suddenly made perfect sense to Blueblood. She was a mare all too comfortable with a weapon in her hooves.

Trixie rubbed her eyes as if she were still dreaming. Her eyes darted between the armed intruders and the hotel staff, who seemed to regard them without fear.

“Some soldiers from the palace came by earlier.” Chicory’s voice was razor sharp. “They went door to door in the slums letting everyone know that you’re a wanted stallion. The Caliph has demanded your presence in the palace, and only a fool refuses the demands of the Caliph.”

Blueblood swallowed hard. “And you mean to take me in?”

“I knew I should have brought the fork,” Trixie muttered under her breath.

“Quite the opposite.” Chicory went on. “When the word reached me, I gathered some old friends.” She gestured to the ragtag squad of Fire Worshipers. “We’re going to make sure that no one takes you in.”

“But if you fire a shot to protect me,” Blueblood’s hooves trembled. “You’d be taking a shot at the Caliph.”

“We’re willing to accept that.” A bronze, slick-coated jackal barked. Blueblood’s heart thudded as he recognized him. The last time he had seen this jackal, he had been bound and muzzled before the guns of the Caliph.

“You stood up to Sandalwood on our behalf.” Chicory’s words were edged with iron. “Now let us return the favor.”

Grave violence.

Ill omen.

Blueblood’s mouth was too dry to speak. Trixie could feel his tension knotting in his shoulders as she gently pressed a hoof to his back.

“We’ll spread out around the hotel and keep an eye on things.” A horse with a ruddy coat and vibrant silver mane broke rank and headed for the door.

Chicory smiled warmly as she leaned on her jezail. “Sleep well, my friends. We’ll keep a tight watch. No one gets in or out without us seeing.”

“Thank you,” Trixie replied in his stead. “Indigo is just tired. We’ve been awake way too long, y’know?”

She gently took his hoof and led him back to the stairwell as the makeshift army started to break formation and spread out. Blueblood’s head throbbed. He had to lean on Trixie as his knees grew weak.

“They’re taking up arms in my name.” His voice cracked. “Celestia and Luna both, what have I started?”

“We need to make our move on Aster tomorrow.” Trixie hushed as they entered their room and locked the door. “Arresting an assassin is something everyone can get behind, right?”

Blueblood nodded as he sank uncertainly into the bed. “Right. If we can put him behind bars, that might diffuse some tension. It’ll at least buy us some time.”

“And then what?” Trixie slipped under the covers, settling back into the warm cocoon of blankets.

“We decide whether or not we want to ride out the succession crisis or pull the plug and head back to Equestria.” Blueblood stared at the ceiling again. “My reading today says that things are going to get ugly.”

“Funny, mine told me not to worry.” Trixie yawned as she snuggled deeper into her comfy spot.

“You asked about what was going to happen to Saddle Arabia during your reading? I’m impressed. You’re really starting to think like a proper—”

Before Blueblood could finish, he was interrupted by Trixie’s noisy snoring. He rolled over to face her and found that she was already sound asleep, mouth agape.

There was nothing he could do now. Tomorrow would make or break things. Settling his nerves, Blueblood closed his eyes and tried to sleep. As he drifted off, he couldn’t help but notice that Trixie smelled faintly of pine smoke.

The River

"She dealt with djinn in the rosy light,
And camels armed her with their gold.
She dealt with djinn in the midday bright,
And horses joined her conquest bold.
She dealt in midnight grim as well,
And with the djinn marched off to hell."
—Saddle Arabian Nursery Rhyme, author unknown.

Chapter 11: The River

The morning dawned grey and gloomy. The sun faintly shimmered behind a screen of leaden clouds that roiled with dismal thunder. The air was weighty, charged with static and grim purpose. Blueblood rose, showered, and tried to wash himself with the cheap bar of soap that the hotel had provided. It barely lathered and the scent was so faint it was nearly nonexistent. He supposed it was better than nothing.

Draped in a towel, he gazed at himself in the mirror. He looked exhausted. Deep bags hung under his eyes and his mane was fraying at the edges. If this didn’t end soon, he might return to Equestria unrecognizably ugly. He sighed and pressed a hoof to the cool glass, trying to find the connection between himself and his reflection. Blueblood pulled away. He didn’t need to stress about his looks when there was already so much else to stress over.

Trixie rolled out of bed and yawned, rubbing her eyes. Blueblood silently surrendered the bathroom to her, clouds of steam billowing behind him as he exited. She stood there quietly, stretching her back and rubbing her cheek. Blueblood found himself staring.

She too was exhausted. Her eyes seemed duller, less vibrant. Her coat was no longer silky and well brushed, but tangled and matted in places. She rose from the bed and groaned quietly, shaking out her dry hair. She wasn’t beautiful in the same way he wasn’t beautiful.

Blueblood sidestepped her and she shut the bathroom door behind her. The shower gurgled to life seconds later.

The prince stood at the window and watched the city below. The streets were disconcertingly empty. Maybe it was the threat of rain. Maybe it was the tension. Whatever it was, most horses seemed content to stay indoors today.

Blueblood didn’t want to face the day. Portents and omens clung to him like rancid perfume, choking the clean air from his lungs. All signs pointed to the problem being too big to fix. He wasn’t an alicorn. He wasn’t immortal. He was just himself, and himself wasn’t enough.

The shower dripped to quietude and Trixie emerged, her mane still soggy. They looked at each other for a brief moment, no words sufficient to explain how they felt.

“Are you ready?” Blueblood said plainly. What else could he say?

“Let's go.” Trixie hooked the clasp on her cape and thrust it behind her.

Blueblood gently stopped her with a hoof as they approached the door. She had forgotten her hat. Wordlessly, he plopped it onto her head. She turned to him and reached out with her magic to tighten his tie. Fragile, nervous smiles were exchanged. Mirthless, small laughs escaped their lips.

Then they opened the door and faced the music.

*****

Blueblood expected to be arrested. He expected guards to be waiting for them at every intersection. He expected the butt of a jezail to smash into his snout and leave him shattered on the pavement. And yet, nothing happened.

Exiting the slums was the easy part. Horses and Jackals kept watch over them, assuring they traveled unmolested. Chicory followed them silently for a time but broke off when they reached the demarcation line. She assured them she would be returning to the palace later that day, whispered a short prayer for them, and smudged their brows with an anointment of ashes.

They traveled up the main street on a beeline towards the palace. The wind had picked up, blasting through their hair with a ghostly howl. Thunder echoed through the alleys of Sutaf, and Blueblood knew that rain couldn’t be far behind. Rain was rare in Saddle Arabia, but when it rained, it poured. Blueblood unconsciously scouted out spaces where he and Trixie could shelter from a downpour. As if that mattered now.

It started with a few drops on Trixie’s snout. The two ponies picked up their pace as raindrops started to fall, splattering on the dusty cobblestones beside them. Within seconds the rain went from a drip to a drizzle to a downpour, falling in shattering sheets that drenched right through their coats. The ash Chicory had marked them with ran down their faces like watery mascara. They reached the palace gardens and wove through the muddy paths, ducking for relief under broadleaf trees as they picked their way toward the doors.

Bedraggled and soaked, they stepped into the palace, their hooves leaving muddy prints across the white marble. Trixie shook herself dry, splattering Blueblood with runoff. He squeezed his mane like a rolled-up towel and rang out a bucketful of water. The palace still hummed with activity, but it felt directionless, like a beehive bereft of its queen. A servant approached them with a set of towels, while another appeared with a mop to erase their hoofprints.

“Shouldn’t we be arrested?” Trixie whispered as they shivered and dried themselves. “Or at least, y’know, stopped?”

“I get the feeling they want us here. Getting into the palace was the easy part.” Blueblood replied in a hushed tone. Sure enough, as if in reply to his intonation, a pair of soldiers stood alongside the door they had entered through, glancing at the ponies with a vicious side-eye. “They don’t intend for us to leave.”

Trixie swallowed hard. “So where to?”

“We find Aster,” Blueblood said, ascending the staircase. A pair of servants crossed his path and bowed reverently. “He’ll say we don’t have the authority to arrest him, and maybe we don’t. But that’s not going to stop us.”

“This place is in sore need of some good news,” Trixie replied as they turned towards the diplomatic wing. “I don’t think anyone will object to us taking in an assassin.”

They strode down the hallway with a confidence that neither of them felt. Blueblood considered stopping by his room to grab his blade. Having Pride at his hip would probably make him feel a whole lot better about himself. He decided against it. The temptation to actually use the damn thing would be too strong.

Aster’s office was beside the Zebrican diplomat’s quarters. A pair of them were seated in the hall, picking at a platter of mixed veggies and playing cards. They nodded quietly as the ponies approached them, muting their conversation down to a hush. Blueblood and Trixie shared a glance. One last brittle smile. Blueblood knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

They pushed open the door to Aster’s office. They weren’t remotely surprised by what they saw. It was a modest yet comfortable space, with a wide mahogany desk covered in neat stacks of paper. Bookshelves lined the walls and the air smelt of leather and ink. Aster himself was seated in a thick, plush chair studded with brass buttons. There were no windows, but a lantern hung from the ceiling shed flickering red light across the liaison’s features.

“Ah, my prince.” He grinned in an all too comfortable manner. “I’m glad to see you’ve returned safely. I will admit, I was very worried when you weren’t in your quarters last night. But since you’re here, I have something for you.” Aster pushed a sheet of paper across his desk and gently tapped it. “If you just sign here, we’ll resume trade with Equestria at full—”

Trixie cooly levitated the page with her magic, crumpled it, and tossed it back to him. Aster frowned ever so slightly.

“Magus Briar, I’d appreciate it if you’d let the Prince reply.” His eyes never left Blueblood.

“Consider that a reply from us both.” Blueblood closed the door behind himself. The room was tight; just larger than a Canterlot storage closet. “I’ve got no intention of resuming trade with Saddle Arabia until slavery is abolished in full.”

“Then I must ask, Prince Indigo, why are you here?” Aster’s eyes narrowed.

“Aster,” Blueblood placed a hoof on the desk. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Diplomat Alabaster of Equestria and the attempted murder of Caliph Sandalwood of Saddle Arabia.”

If he was shocked, Aster didn’t betray it. He inhaled slowly and masked his feelings with a paternal smile. “Indigo, I don’t know who you’ve been listening to for Sarabian legal advice, but for one thing, you don’t have the right—”

“I have every right.” Blueblood snorted derisively.

“You’re not denying the charge.” Trixie tilted her head slightly.

“I don’t need to defend myself from spurious allegations.” The liaison rolled his eyes. “You speak confidently for someone with no evidence.”

“You were the dinner coordinator for both events.” Trixie retorted.

“As I am for many events here in the palace.”

“You had access to the exact sort of adhesive used to poison both victims,” Blueblood added.

Aster shrugged calmly. “So does everyone in Saddle Arabia.”

“You have the motive.” The Prince leaned across the desk. “You wanted to see Sandalwood’s dynasty go on, no matter the cost. When you found out that Alabaster and Fairweather were collaborating for the throne—”

“If I cared so much for the Caliph, why would I kill him?”

“Because you knew if you didn’t, Fairweather could take advantage of him. He was already on the council. He had the Caliph’s ear.”

“But to kill him?”

“Better to kill him quickly and get his son on the throne with a proper Sarab advisor that let him wither with fever and get swooned by his foreign friends.” Blueblood dropped his voice low and added sardonically. “Saddle Arabia is to be ruled by horses.”

Trixie saw the slightest chip in Aster’s illusory armor. He blinked and sweat beaded on his brow. The liaison corrected quickly.

“You have no direct evidence.” Aster amended his counterargument. “And you won’t arrest me.”

“Bold words for someone outnumbered.” Trixie was already preparing her magic for a fight. Her spells weren’t designed for combat, but she had always been good at improvising.

“You won’t arrest me, because you can’t.” He smiled with unerring confidence. “You don’t have the right. According to the civil code of Saddle Arabia, section fourteen, the right to arrest lies solely in the hooves of the Caliph’s Guard and the local police. Nowhere does it mention foreign ambassadors having the power of—”

Aster was shocked into silence as Blueblood slapped his cheek with a backhoof so violent it threw him from the chair. He hit the ground with a clatter and a gasp, his hoof cupping his bruised cheek with shock.

“You struck me!” Aster hissed through clenched teeth. His pupils were pinpricks.

“Don’t you dare try to bandy your legalese with me,” Blueblood growled as he yanked the liaison to his hooves and pressed him to the wall. “Law? I was charged to investigate the assassination attempt by the Caliph himself. Law means nothing to me.”

“He didn’t mean you were immune to—” Aster was roughly slammed against his bookshelf.

“I have the authority of Sandalwood himself on my side.” Blueblood’s voice shook with repressed contempt. “He put me on this path. He commanded our investigation. He gave me the authority. You do not get to tell me what I can and can’t do. Do you understand me?”

“My prince, you’re not above the—”

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!"Blueblood bellowed the Royal Canterlot Voice and made the walls ring with authority. His throat ached and he swallowed hard. When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “Aster, you’re under arrest by order of his benevolence Caliph Sandalwood.”

“I refuse.” Aster squirmed. His eyes darted from side to side. “You can’t do this to me.”

Trixie fumbled in her hat, pulling out two plush toys, a hairbrush, and a bucket of white paint. At last, she found what she was looking for. A pair of cuffs she used for some of her escape artist acts. “Tell it to a judge.”

Aster thrashed as his hooves were pulled forward and chained together. He snorted, glowering at them both with acidic hate.

“Release me.” Aster snarled, pushing against his bonds.

“I’d like it if you would stop talking.” Blueblood rubbed his throat and jerked his head towards the door. Aster dug in his heels and resisted as Trixie shoved him.

“Indigo, if you imprison me,” The liaison grunted as he clenched every muscle to root himself in place. “You’ll never know who Chicory is!”

Trixie and Blueblood suddenly went limp. Aster took a deep breath and smiled despite his bruised cheek.

“There are only two people in all of Sutaf who know her story. Sandalwood and myself. When Sandalwood dies, I’ll be the only one left.” His breathing was ragged and shallow. “You want me to rot in prison and die with no one knowing the truth?”

Blueblood felt a pang in his chest. The empty space where that knowledge ought to lie. “Then speak now.”

“My prince,” Aster smirked. “You know that's not how bargains work.”

Trixie looked to Blueblood, uncertainty dancing in her eyes. What choice did they have but to bargain?

“What do you want?” The prince said flatly.

“My bonds undone, for one thing,” Aster replied with a snort. “And an apology for striking me.”

“You’ll get neither.”

“Then I shall take Chicory's secrets to the grave.” The liaison sneered. “Where’s all your bravado, my prince?”

“Shut up.”

“Not knowing scares you. You know you’re not playing with a full deck, and you’re terrified that someone else at the table is holding a winning hoof.” Aster stood confidently, his cuffs rattling. “I hold that winning hoof, Indigo.”

“If you had a winning hoof, you’d have played it by now.” Trixie retorted, crossing her hooves over her chest. “Why would you delay winning?”

“Because winning doesn’t matter.” Aster’s eyes blazed. “I’m not playing to win. I’m playing to see you lose. Saddle Arabia will be ruled by horses.”

Blueblood’s heart was pounding like an onrushing army. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins. He needed to choose. The more time he gave Aster to talk, the more he was being swayed from his course.

Saddle Arabia needed something they could all get behind. They needed an assassin behind bars. They needed a victory over someone so obviously guilty that their condemnation bridged the divide.

But it was going to cost him dearly. He would lose out on unraveling the last mystery, the final piece of the political puzzle that kept him from comprehending this country. Aster was right about one thing. He was playing without a full deck. Blueblood was in uncharted territory for a foreign ambassador. Celestia had charged him with impartiality, and here he was defying the law with a revolution brewing around him.

Blueblood sucked his teeth. He made his decision.

“Keep your secrets.” Blueblood spat. “We’ll find another way.”

Aster stiffened. He set his jaw. “Have it your way, my prince. You’ve lost.”

Blueblood didn’t dignify him with a reply. He was done playing games. Aster didn’t resist when they roughly shoved him into the hallway. The response from the palace guard was immediate. They rushed in, jezails at the ready, demanding Blueblood step away from the liaison. He didn’t.

“By order of Caliph Sandalwood,” Blueblood shouted over the protests of the horses. “I charge Aster with the attempted assassination of his Caliph!”

Silence.

Nervous glances and confused whispers were exchanged. The fact that Sandalwood had charged the prince with the investigation was well known among the guard. They simply hadn't expected success.

One of the soldiers spoke up at last. “He’ll need to be questioned and tried.”

“I release him into your capable hooves.” Blueblood shoved Aster into their arms.

A pair of soldiers flanked the liaison, glancing nervously at one another. Aster was led off through the palace, his eyes never leaving the prince. Already the palace servants were whispering to one another. Rumors were starting to spread. Within a day, someone would get the word out of the palace and into a newspaper. Saddle Arabia would have this small victory at last. Blueblood felt a faint relief run through him. It was stopped when it struck the familiar knot of anxiety that choked his chest. This wasn’t over. Far from it.

“Why does it feel so empty?” Trixie mused. “We won, didn’t we?”

“We won the battle, not the war.”

“So what’s our next battle?”

“We figure out the truth about Chicory. Aster was right about one thing. We’re not playing with a full deck.”

“But where are we supposed to get that?” Trixie rubbed her temple with the tip of her hoof. “Like he said, there’s only two horses in Saddle Arabia who know the truth. Aster and—” Trixie stopped herself. “Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re going to—”

“What other choice do I have?” Blueblood sighed, his heart heavier than ever. “Let's go meet with Sandalwood.”

*****

Getting access to the Caliph was easier said than done. He was surrounded by more guards than the rest of the palace combined; a wounded queen bee at the center of a buzzing hive of soldiers, workers, and nurses. It took convincing, lying, and bribery to secure an audience, but those were areas in which the prince excelled. Blueblood was questioned and checked at every turn, searched for weapons, disinfected, given a layer of spells to dampen his magical abilities, and dressed in crisp, medicinal-smelling robes. Trixie had chafed at having her magic dampened, but she held her tongue. Soldiers flanked them as they entered the Caliph’s resting place, and the doors were locked behind them.

The room was luxurious and cold. The temperature was as low as it could be for Saddle Arabia, and the room had been scrubbed to blinding white. Sandalwood lay in the center of an utterly massive bed, swaddled in cloths soaked with potent, reeking herbs and made to breathe curative incense that crackled faintly at his bedside. If he was indeed still alive, he didn’t look it. Sandalwood had never looked particularly healthy to Trixie, but now he looked to be on death’s door. His skin was tight and dry, his eyes were sunken in their sockets, his lips were faintly cerulean in color, and his hooves seemed to be racked with tremors.

The ponies knelt as they approached his bedside, but it felt farcical. The Caliph didn’t tell them to rise, but they stood anyway. His rheumy eyes focused vaguely in Blueblood’s direction. Trixie wondered if he was going blind.

“You.” Sandalwood rasped, his breath coming in desperate wheezes.

“Your majesty,” Blueblood kept his voice low, as though speaking up would break the sacrosanct silence. “How are you feeling?”

“Why are you here?” The Caliph brusquely dismissed his attempt at small talk.

The prince decided prevarication was worthless. “When I first met you, you told me that your only goal was to ensure your people lived in harmony. You said you would do anything to uphold that fragile balance.”

“The harmony you insisted on upending.” He coughed hoarsely, his throat sounding horribly dry. Trixie poured him a glass of water from a pitcher on the table and offered it to him. He accepted it and guzzled greedily.

“I’m trying to hold what’s left of it in the balance,” Blueblood replied, sucking his teeth. “Saddle Arabia is on the brink. I’m not one of your people, but I’ll be damned if I sit by and watch it fall to ruin.” He held his tongue, trying to choose his words carefully. “Your assassin has been arrested and jailed, and will be prosecuted to the fullest.”

“Good.” Sandalwood croaked. “Was it the slave?”

Blueblood opened his mouth to respond, but Trixie took the initiative. “Sadly, yes. All signs pointed to Chicory after all.”

The prince stared at her, but Trixie flashed her violet eyes as if to assure him she knew what she was doing. Biting his lip, he let her take control.

“So I suspected.” The Caliph sighed, closing his eyes. “Only fitting she would try this.”

“But why?” Trixie questioned, trying to pry out the reason with honeyed words. “What sort of grudge would she have against someone so benevolent?”

“Because she was my slave.”

“Then she must have committed a truly grievous crime, right?” She was on the verge of knowing.

Blueblood held his breath.

Sandalwood didn’t answer. He lay there with his eyes closed, breathing silently. His lips were unmoving.

“Your majesty?” Blueblood tried to wake him, but the Caliph’s only response was a faint smile.

He knew what they were trying to do.

Blueblood decided to throw out subtlety. They were desperate. “Sandalwood, please. We’re trying to save this country.” He reached out and held the Caliph’s blistering hoof. “We need to know. If we don’t, the streets will run with blood.”

Grave violence.

Ill omen.

Sandalwood opened one eye. He glowered defiantly from his deathbed.

“You reject me and insult me, and now you beg for my help?” He hissed serpentine Sarabic in a voice so venomous it withered Blueblood’s resolve. “Go to hell.”

Blueblood pulled his hoof back slowly. He rose to his full height and replied in his own fluent Sarabic. “I’ll meet you there.”

Trixie didn’t dare to request a translation as they were ushered from the room. The tone of their voices had told her everything she needed to know.

*****

“I take it things didn’t go well.” Chicory was back in their quarters, having cleaned and polished the room from top to bottom and relit their fire altar.

Blueblood and Trixie were uncharacteristically quiet. Trixie lay flat on the bed and was staring at the ceiling, while Blueblood continued to pace the room with a prickly aura about him.

“No.” The prince replied simply. Trying to take his mind off of things, he sorted through their mail. Advertisements, expatriation requests, and a note from Fairweather. That last one he tore open and read carefully. “And now we’ve been invited to tour Fairweather Firearms' factory tomorrow. With refreshments to follow at his manor.”

“He’s going to want you to make a decision tomorrow then,” Trixie said with an exasperated sigh. “Can things just slow down?”

“Celestia, I wish.” Blueblood sank into a chair, buried his face in his hooves, and suppressed a scream. “And we’re still groping in the dark. Until we know where she fits into all this," He gestured towards Chicory. "Then we're as good as blind."

Chicory stared at the faint mark in the frog of her hoof. Her eyes drifted from it to Blueblood, to Trixie.

“What about you, Magus Briar?”

“What about me?” Trixie arched an eyebrow.

“You’ve said before that you’re a great and powerful magus where you come from, have you not?”

“I…” Trixie pursed her lips and scratched her neck. “Well, I am, but that’s more of a marketing phrase, you know?”

“If you’re a great and powerful magus, could you not break the spell?” Chicory drew closer, holding out her hoof. “Can you not at least try?”

Blueblood met her flustered eyes. Could she?

“I can try.” Trixie stressed. “But, I can’t promise results.”

How many times had she said that? How many times had she given up after just trying? It wasn't good enough now to only try. She took a deep breath and knew she had to succeed this time. Do or die.

A faint periwinkle glow lit up her horn as Trixie started to examine the spell. Spellbreaking was something that every unicorn learned in Magic Kindergarten, but only the truly gifted ever specialized in. To break a minor spell was nothing. To break a powerful spell required more schooling than most surgeons. Trixie prayed that Sandalwood’s spells were the simple kind. Especially since she had been absent that day in Magic Kindergarten.

It wasn’t simple.

Trixie’s horn flickered and flashed as she delved into Sandalwood’s brand. Cedar had told her that Sarabic Magic was in the memory, but she hadn’t fully comprehended it until now. Sandalwood’s magic was a lattice of his lifetime, memories woven together into a shimmering shield to keep her out. She reached out and touched it with her own magic, scouring it for a weak point. There was none.

Instead, Sandalwood’s magic lashed back into her, and Trixie was suddenly awash with his life. She was a colt sitting at the game table alone, no opponent willing to challenge her. She was crowned and decked with jewels as she sat upon a gilded throne. She was married thrice. Twice it ended in premature death; one to fever, one in childbirth. Once it ended in divorce. She sat at negotiating tables with foreign snakes, forked tongues cutting away chunks of the country he loved and laying claim to what was his by birthright. She witnessed his legacy crumbling, his desperation to cling onto any shred of power. His utter terror that his son would never take the throne.

His fear of death.

Feedback kicked Trixie so hard in the chest that she was flung across the room. She slammed into the wall and slid down into a sitting position, her entire body ragdoll limp. With a wordless cry, Blueblood rushed to her side and tried to snap her back into consciousness.

Magical feedback made Trixie’s limbs tremble. Her vision was full of sparks. The room whirled around her, listing this way and that. Her horn ached. She forced herself to focus, blinking her eyes and trying to focus them on Blueblood. He was saying something, but his words were like indistinct clanging in her ears. Her tongue tasted bile and she managed to force herself to stand on shaky, weak hooves. She staggered to the bathroom, collapsed in front of the toilet, and vomited. Her guts heaved, her back arched, and her spine shuddered.

Clinging pathetically to the seat of the commode, Trixie wiped a thin trickle of blood from her nose and shivered. Her stomach lurched again and she couldn’t stop it. Graciously, somepony pulled back her mane as she did so, keeping it out of her face as she hurled. When she finally emptied her gut and was reduced to meek dry heaves, she glanced up to see that Blueblood was holding her hair. His eyes were anchored away from her, staring fixedly at the opposite wall.

“Are you okay?” He said, still unable to look down at her.

“No.” Trixie spit, wiping her mouth with the back of her hoof. “You can’t look at me, can you?”

“If I look at what’s happening, I’ll be sick too.”

“Of course, you’d sympathy puke.”

“Can you please stop talking about it?” Blueblood shuddered.

Trixie washed her hooves, wiped her face, and flushed her mouth with water. Her head still ached and her body was shaking. The magical feedback was bad enough, but the embarrassment was worse. Despite her efforts, she hadn’t even come close to breaking Sandalwood’s spell. She had sprinted to the first hurdle and face planted spectacularly. Some great and powerful magus she was turning out to be.

“I’m going to try again.” Trixie exhaled sharply.

“You were close?” Blueblood raised an eyebrow.

“Something like that.”

Horn ignited, she tried again. She saw the Caliph’s spell arrayed before her again. This time she wasn’t going to probe it for a weakness. Whatever she had done, she had triggered some sort of inbuilt protection that had thrust her out. Trixie drove the full force of her own magic against it, her horn blazing like a newborn star as she thrust the point of her power through the Caliph’s armor.

The feedback that struck her this time was weaker, but still enough that it knocked her off the bed. She rolled over on the floor, dug her numb hooves into the carpet, and snarled. Forcing herself to stand, Trixie wobbled drunkenly towards the bed, where Chicory stared back at her with a look of concern.

“Maybe we should stop.” Chicory nervously retracted her hoof.

“I’m not done.” Trixie choked the words through clenched teeth. “I’m getting closer.”

“Briar!” Blueblood gripped her shoulders and shook her. “Stop!”

“I can do this!” Trixie glared back. She snorted and felt a bubble of blood burst from her nose. Blinking in shock, Trixie stumbled back, pawing at her face and coming away with streaks of red on her hooves.

“You tried,” Blueblood said quietly. He reached out and touched her cheek gently. “You tried. Please, don’t hurt yourself.”

“I don’t want to just try damn it.” Trixie felt herself on the brink of tears. “I’m sick to death of just trying. I just need to push a little harder and—”

“I’m not going to watch you die,” Blueblood said firmly. He squeezed her tight enough that his own hooves shivered. “Please. Please don’t do this.”

Trixie stared at her bloodied hooves.

Magical feedback started with headaches and vomiting. Then numbness in the limbs. If a unicorn kept straining against an empty magic reserve, it progressed to hemorrhage in the brain and death. How far along was she already?

“Trixie.”

She heard the sound of her name, her real name, whispered in her ear. It felt wrong. Blueblood had pulled her close and embraced her tight, and she hadn’t even noticed.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Trixie squeezed back, both for reassurance and to ground herself in reality. But Blueblood was wrong. She did have to do this. They needed to know. Aster wouldn’t give up his secrets. Neither would Sandalwood. After the Caliph died, someone else would take up his spell and keep them in the dark until the country collapsed. If she didn’t break the spell, who would? If she couldn't break it, who could?

As Trixie tried to steady her breath, a final option emerged in the back of her mind. She wasn’t great and powerful. She never had been. But she had someone great and powerful who had a vested interest in her. Maybe, just maybe, they could break the Caliph’s spell.

Blueblood released her, and Trixie fixed her mane and cleaned her face again. “Wait here. I’m going to get some fresh air before I try again.”

“Don’t.”

“I have to do this, Blueblood.” Trixie saw him wince at his name. “Please. I need you to trust me. Just this once.”

He worked his mouth and worried his mane in his hooves. “One more attempt. And if it doesn’t work—”

“Then I promise I’ll let it be.”

“Promise me you’ll be okay.”

“I’m going to be fine. I just need a break.” Trixie painted a smile on her lips. She hated being such a good liar. Blueblood sighed and retreated to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of wine to steady his nerves.

Trixie stepped out into the hall, closing the door gingerly behind her. She followed the curve of the diplomatic wing until she came to the wide balcony just outside the library. Most days it was filled with ambassadors from abroad, but tonight it was empty. The rain continued to fall, soaking her mane in seconds. She took a deep breath of the lightning-scented air. All it took was a name.

“River-That-Cuts-The-Canyon.”

The raindrops froze in midair. Thunder rumbled from the distant desert, growing louder and louder until Trixie had to cover her ears with her hooves. It stopped suddenly, and the air grew heavy and warm. Wisps of something moved through the stilled downpour, vague shapes reflected in a thousand tiny mirrors. Suggestions of a gnarled hand, outlines of horns, and distorted visions of eyes with black sclera swam in a swarm around her.

Celestia help her.

“You bleed.” The djinn said blandly, its voice slopping and damp.

“I need your help.” Trixie ignored it, trying to sound strong in the face of her terror. “What do you know about spellbreaking?”

“I have beheld magic in the cradle of its birth. There is no spell that is beyond me.”

“I need you to let me break a spell. Just one.” Trixie tried to fix her gaze on the djinn, but it never stayed in place. It seemed like it was everywhere all at once. “One spell, and then we’re done.”

“That is not the deal I’ve offered.” It crackled and filled the air with a smell of smoke. “I can empower you to break worlds, and you would use it to break one spell? All I need is a name. Your true name.”

“Here’s the deal I’m offering!” Trixie leveled her voice. “You’re asking me to trust you before I’ve even seen what you’re capable of. I wouldn’t buy a used carriage without a test drive, and you’re asking me to just trust you with godlike power?”

“I am beyond this comparison.”

“No, you’re not. I’m not just going to take you at your word. All my life I’ve been negotiating contracts, and I never sign anything without proof.” Trixie crossed her hooves. “You’re probably bluffing. I’ll give you my name, and you’ll take over my body and give me nothing in return.”

The air grew warm and muggy. Steam rose from the soggy cobblestones around her. “You dare to doubt me?”

“I doubt everyone. You’re not special.” Trixie rolled her eyes. Lightening suddenly flashed mere inches away from her, burning the stone to slag. She yelped and threw herself to the earth, hooves over her head. Evidently, she had struck a nerve. Shivering, she uncovered herself and stared at the black sky. “If you don’t want me to doubt, then put up or shut up! Give me the power this once, and show me what I’m missing! Unless you can’t do it?”

“Your name.” The djinn refused to give even an inch.

Trixie held in a frustrated breath. She had played all the cards she knew to play and hadn’t moved it. But she hadn’t played all the cards she had. Trixie had one final card she kept close to her chest, a trump card she hadn’t dared to reveal unless all other measures failed. River had to know she wasn’t bluffing. There was still one thing she could do that would undo all of the djinn’s careful tricks and clever machinations.

“Then I’m going to march right back to that room and die.” Trixie’s voice didn’t quiver this time. "You saw I was bleeding when I came to you. That's what trying to break that spell did to me. And if I try again without your help, it's going to kill me."

Silence from the djinn. The air seemed to shift, as though the creature were weighing its options.

“You wouldn’t.” It replied at last. “I have seen the content of your heart. You live for too much.”

“Then you know I’m a stubborn bastard when I want to be.” Trixie glared with a power she didn't hold. “And you know that right now, for the first time in forever, I’m not bluffing.”

It repeated itself. “You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.”

Trixie whirled on her heel and marched back into the palace, her coat dripping and her mane wilted. She thrust it out of her face and felt it plaster wildly to the side of her skull. Good. Let her look wild. She certainly felt it.

When she reentered the room, Blueblood looked at her with pleading eyes. Silently, he begged her not to do this. She stubbornly flashed her fiery gaze. He fidgeted, holding his promise to trust her against his heart.

Horn aflame, Trixie dove back into the spell. She knew now that she was never going to break it herself, but that wasn’t her intent this time. This time she needed to show the djinn that she was serious. Sandalwood’s magic rushed into her as she intruded upon its domain once more, lashing out at her with violence from the Caliph’s own life: bullets fired into protests, a bejeweled hoof slapping a cheek, a razor-sharp scimitar sundering flesh. She felt them as distinctly as if she had been on the receiving end. Magical feedback coursed through her limbs and throbbed at the base of her horn. Trixie could feel bile rising in her throat. She could taste blood. She must have screamed, because she was vaguely aware that Blueblood was on his hooves, hovering and threatening to intervene.

It hurt. Celestia’s sake, it felt like she was being flayed from horn to breast. Her flesh shrieked, her lungs screamed, and her eyes felt like they were melting in their sockets. Blood bubbled from Trixie’s lips as she clenched her teeth so tight they nearly shattered. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, deafening her. Her vision swam. Her brain felt like it was seconds away from bursting through her forehead with a vicious crack.

Somewhere in her senses she could feel Blueblood’s hooves pawing at her, trying to pull her back, try to restrain her. Chicory’s eyes were wild as she tried to cover her hoof, attempting futilely to sever the connection.

“Is this what you want?!” Trixie’s lips didn’t move, but her magic cried out louder than any voice. “You need me, you son of a bitch! If I die, I’m taking all your precious plans with me!”

“Stop this.” River-That-Cuts-The-Canyon spoke directly to her mind. Despite how calm its voice was, Trixie could feel its desperation. “Stop.”

“Make me!” She screamed petulantly.

As Trixie renewed her attack on Sandalwood’s unyielding magic, she threatened to dash herself to pieces against his will. She prayed to Celestia, Luna, and whatever deities would hear her that the djinn judged her worth saving.

Just as her will neared its end, Trixie felt something like a sigh against the nape of her neck. Something cool washed over her, filled her magical reserves to bursting, and dragged her back from the brink. Trixie instinctively knew the djinn had given her the power it had promised.

Trixie tried to wrap her mind around the strength that coursed through her, but her words failed her. She could feel every inch of the palace all at once. She felt the desert beyond. She felt each stone in all of Saddle Arabia, every star in the heavens, and every invisible eddy in the air. Most importantly, they all cried out to her in a language she didn’t know, yet instinctively understood.

They all begged her to use them. Demanded she mold them to her will. Take them in her magical grasp and shape them to purpose. It was a cacophony that overwhelmed her and dragged her along like a river. She didn’t control this power so much as she was swept along in its current, unable to fight it, but able to steer herself through it. With a clear mind and a stonecutting river at her hooves, Trixie faced Sandalwood’s spell with renewed vigor.

Magic is in the memory.

Cedar’s spells had all failed when his memory had become tainted. Trixie knew where Sandalwood’s weakness lay. She prodded his barrier anew, but this time she understood it better. It attempted to overwhelm her with the harsh facts of the Caliph’s life, but now she welcomed them. Every negative memory that Sandalwood had attempted to weaponize collated in her hooves like foam in rapids. Thrusting out her hoof in an accusatory motion, Trixie hurled the Caliph’s memory back at him. She would make him his own damnation.

The memories mixed and mingled like factory runoff befouling a tributary. The shield of willpower that had once held her out began to melt like so much sludge. Trixie gathered the tiny shards of her magic and thrust through it. With a liquid sizzle, Trixie drowned the embers of his power.

As the spell dissolved, Trixie felt the strength she had tapped fading from her. It leached from her body and soaked into the carpet around her like cold sweat. She lay flat on the floor, breathing heavily and too weak to stand, but very much alive.

“Know this, Briar.” The djinn hissed, its voice seething like a sandstorm. “I will not grant you my boon a second time. You are not the only piece in my plan, and I am patient above all things.” It exhaled myrrh. “If you try this again, you will die. Your schemes are measured in the beating of eyelashes. Mine are measured in the lives of stars. Never assume your importance to me.”

And like that, it was gone.

Blueblood didn’t know what to say. He knelt beside Trixie, gently stroking her back and listening to the rise and fall of her breath. She was alive. His heart raced as he considered how close he had been to losing her. And yet, she had done it.

Chicory hadn’t moved since the spell had been broken. His eyes were as wide as dinner plates as she stared at the wall. She kept repeating something under her breath in a desperate mantra. Blueblood leaned closer to listen.

“He took my son,” Chicory whispered. Her hooves twisted the bedsheets and her muscles knotted in horror. “My son. He took my son.”

All the dots suddenly converged for Blueblood.

The empty space at the Ordainment Ball for the Caliph’s wife.

The way Sandalwood had looked at her when he turned her over to Blueblood at the wall.

Aster’s need to frame her and get her out of the picture to safeguard the Caliph he loved so dearly.

Chicory had a claim to the throne. She had a son next in line to rule.

This was it. The end of the succession crisis was at hand. Blueblood could have screamed aloud.

“My son!” Chicory suddenly cried, her eyes filled with tears. “Indigo, he—”

“He’s still alive.” Blueblood took her hooves and gently held them to reassure her. “He’s alive, Chicory.”

She looked like she was about to snap. Blueblood pressed what was left of his wine to her lips and let her drink deeply. Her breathing fell from fitful hyperventilation to merely rapid. She brushed tears from her eyes and tried to convey the memories that flooded back to her.

“His other wives had failed to conceive.” Chicory gasped. “One of the courtiers approached me, begged me to consider bearing a child for the Caliph. I was…” Her eyes grew unfocused. “I was a liaison to the Caliph on behalf of my faith. A go-between from the Fire Temple in the slums and the palace. I agreed, thinking it was for the good of the nation.”

“And then he enslaved you?”

“No.” She shook her head. “He said we would rule together, husband and wife. But the council didn’t approve. I didn’t respect the traditions. My kind could never understand. When he tried to sweep things under the rug, I threatened to go public. I’d tell every paper in the city that would listen that the Caliph had cheated me. That was when they decided I needed to be dealt with.”

She looked like she was seeing spirits. “He took my son, Indigo. My son.”

“And we’ll get him back.” He assured her, his eyes blazing with resolve. “We’ll go before the council tomorrow. I’ll fight tooth and nail for your right to your son and for your claim to the throne.”

“The throne?!” Chicory shrank. “But I’m…”

As she prepared to demure, the weight of who she was started to dawn on her. Mother of the emir.

“Flame guide me.”

Blueblood checked Trixie’s breathing. She was alive and faintly snoring. Gently rolling her onto her side, he saw she was smiling in her sleep. Thank Celestia.

They had survived this day.

Surviving tomorrow was another matter.

Blueblood mentally prepared himself to face the council tomorrow. That would mean facing Fairweather and rejecting his offer to his face. But after what the Caliph had done in secret and with Chicory’s legitimate claim to the throne— Celestia’s mane, he was going to do it. He was going to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Celestia hadn’t misjudged him.

For once, he had been tested and come out triumphant.

The toll of a bell shattered those delusions. Blueblood and Chicory locked eyes as the peal rang through the city. Mourning ululations went up from every temple in the city. Lightning cut through the night and briefly illuminated Sutaf in corpselight.

The Caliph was dead.

Grave Violence

"Dear Blueblood,
You never cease to amaze me! Seven years old already! It feels like just yesterday you were sitting on my lap begging me to read The Very Hungry Parasprite and now look at you! Reading and writing all on your own! I'm so unbelievably proud! I asked my scribes to put this book together for you. You spend so long staring at the maps in my office, asking about all the counties. You'll make a fine diplomat when you get older, I'll bet!

Remember, my little prince, I love you so much. No matter what you do or where you go, I will always love you.
Your Favorite Auntie,
Princess Celestia"
—Note written on the inside cover of Prince Blueblood's copy of The Precocious Princeling's Guide to Diplomatic Relations

Chapter 12: Grave Violence

The funeral was held in the palace gardens, in the shadow of the willow tree Sandalwood had loved. He lay in his open coffin, hooves folded over his breast, his face serene in a peace he had never known in life. Blueblood and Trixie attended, sitting silently among the Caliph’s mourners and hangers-on. Blueblood felt something akin to pity as he stared at what had once been Sandalwood. He struggled to tear his eyes from the body as various council members gave speeches lauding the life of their dearest leader and personal friend.

This was going to set things back. The entire city was in mourning. Businesses were closed, banks were shut up, temples were encouraging attendance in record numbers to pray for the Caliph’s immortal soul, and the palace was as taciturn as a tomb. To force a council meeting now, especially as a foreigner, would come off as disgustingly callous. Everything was political, and what was politics if not preserving your reputation on a national stage?

“In conclusion,” A horse nearly as old as Sandalwood rambled as he stood at the podium, adjusting his spectacles. “Good luck in the next life, old friend. By Sun and Moon, we’ll play senet again someday.”

He approached the coffin with bleary eyes, sniffling softly as he laid a pawn beside his old friend.

Trixie leafed through the hastily printed program she had been handed at the start of the ceremonies. Nudging Blueblood’s shoulder, she pointed to the next speaker on the agenda.

Wormwood.

Duke Fairweather took his place at the podium and swept the crowd with his gaze. There were no tears in his eyes, no sorrow in his expression. Blueblood sensed something sharp and calculated in his mein, a grim determination in the face of disaster. How far along were his plans? Things were proceeding as he had predicted: the Caliph was dead only days away from his Summer Sun Sobriquet. Blueblood scanned his program and found that Fairweather was the only foreigner to speak at the funeral. Had Sandalwood known the extent of the duke’s betrayal? Or did he die surrounded by false friends with plastic smiles all secretly awaiting his downfall?

What a horrific way to go.

“It is a tremendous honor to speak here today,” Fairweather ran a hoof through his salt and pepper mane, swallowing hard. “I am not, by birth, a Sarab. But I’ve made this beautiful country my home. I thank you all for accepting me, my wife, and the countless other ponies in our midst.”

The duke’s eyes fell upon Blueblood and Trixie, lighting up with a faint, knowing smile.

“Sandalwood was my Caliph, same as you. He believed in me when no one else did. It was his guidance that let me establish Fairweather Firearms here in Sutaf. His encouragement that allowed me to persevere when the times got tough. His kindness that allowed me, a foreigner, to sit on the esteemed royal council to help build a better, stronger Saddle Arabia.

“But more than a Caliph, Sandalwood was my friend. I’ll never forget his laughter when he beat me in a game of Senet, or the fierce pride in his eyes when he regaled me with long tales of Sarabian history. I remember the way he smiled when he held his son. I remember his quiet strength during every national crisis.” Fairweather’s eyes grew misty. Trixie knew crocodile tears when she saw them.

The duke wiped his face with a silk handkerchief. “But one thing I’ll remember most about Sandalwood was his dedication to harmony. We have a saying in Equestria, ‘It takes harmony to change the world’. No one I’ve ever met has embodied that saying more than Sandalwood did. He understood that above all, harmony needed to be preserved.”

His eyes moved across the assembled councilmen, politicians, and robber barons like a predator seeking a sick member of the herd.

“From my time spent here among you, I’ve met many who shared his vision. Harmony, peace, and prosperity for all.” Fairweather’s wings spread dramatically behind him. “And I know he leaves this nation in capable hooves.” He gestured with a hoof towards Cedar, seated statue-still beside his father’s coffin. His eyes, however, never left the crowd. He was staring straight at Blueblood. “Come what may, harmony will be preserved. Upon Sandalwood’s honor, I will do whatever it takes. We will do whatever it takes.”

A wave of applause swept the crowd. Fairweather nodded solemnly as he stepped towards the coffin. He reached into the pocket of his vest and produced a single, pressed flower. Blueblood recognized it instantly. It was a sunburst lily; the regional flower of Canterlot.

“Goodbye, my Caliph. Goodbye, my friend.” Fairweather said, his voice cracking once with feigned grief. “May your name be writ in the stars one day.”

As he watched Fairweather return to his seat, Blueblood had a feeling he was going to be receiving a meeting as soon as the body was buried.

*****

The last prayers were given, the coffin was sealed, and Cedar gave his departed father one final farewell. The casket was hoisted onto the shoulders of several of the Caliph’s closest advisors. Of the six horses who carried it, Blueblood recognized only Marshmallow. The casket would be carried down main street, Sutaf’s old royal road, and would be laid to rest in a tomb prepared for the Caliph beside the wall.

Blueblood chose not to follow them. He had seen the tombs once before and had no desire to stand among the dead once more. The last thing he needed now was more bad omens.

Refreshments were served in the garden for those who remained. Bite-sized quiches, pan-seared oats, and fresh lavender cakes were brought out in large covered dishes. Trixie filled her plate and returned to a table at the edge of the garden where Blueblood had taken up residence. He was stressed.

“Indigo, eat something.” She pushed a cake in his direction. “When was the last time you ate?”

“I had a glass of wine last night,” Blueblood said, shrugging. “I’m not hungry.”

“Yes, you are. That’s why you’re stressed.”

“I’m not stressed.”

Trixie placed the cake into his hoof. “You are. I can tell. Now stop making me be your mother and eat.”

Blueblood nibbled on the cake with a vacant expression. His shoulders were taut, his eyes were detached, and his expression was glum. “I’m not looking forward to my upcoming chat with Fairweather.”

“I wouldn’t be either if I were you.” Trixie popped a quiche into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “After that speech he gave today, you’re really gonna throw a wet blanket on his party.”

“He doesn’t strike me as someone who can take a loss with dignity.” Blueblood mused, picking at Trixie’s oats. “After I deny him, we’re going to need to get a council meeting as soon as possible. He’ll move fast to consolidate power, and he has the advantage of being a part of the inner circle.” He sighed. “I’m so sick of playing from the back hoof.”

Trixie put a foreleg around him and squeezed. If he could hug her last night when he thought she was dying, then she deserved to return the favor. For once, Blueblood didn’t try to mask his emotion. He turned in his seat and embraced her fully. Trixie smelled lavender in his mane. They released each other like nothing had happened.

“Thank you,” Blueblood muttered, gently squeezing her hoof.

“You’re gonna do fine.” She gave him a warm smile. “No one gets politics more than you do.”

As if on cue, Fairweather approached their table. He held himself differently. He was more rigid, more upright, and more confident. Beckoning Blueblood with his hoof, he had fully shed his foppish facade. This was a stallion Blueblood truly believed had been in the Royal Navy.

“Blueblood, old friend,” His smile was smaller, more conspiratorial. “May I have a word with you?” He glanced to Trixie and noticed their hooves linked together. “Don’t worry, miss. I’ll have him back to you in just a moment.”

One more squeeze, and then Blueblood was up and moving. Fairweather didn’t speak, moving through the mourners with a silent grace. The two of them crept past the edge of the gathering, where servers were doling out portions of food to the various bleary-eyed guests. Fairweather led him across a gravel-strewn clearing towards a neat little cluster of olive trees. He gestured for Blueblood to sit on the stone edge of an oil press, but the prince demurred.

“I presume you realize what this means for us.” Fairweather didn’t waste a second. Right into business. He struck a match, lit a cigarette, and sucked nicotine. “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for, Blueblood. The Caliph is dead, his son is waiting to take the throne, and he’s going to need an advisor.” The duke blew smoke through his nostrils like a pensive dragon. “You’ll be that advisor. The power behind the throne. A Caliph in all but name, and even that could change.”

Blueblood swallowed hard, fanning a hoof by his face to disperse the acrid cloud. Fairweather continued.

“You can feel it, can’t you? The country is on the brink of chaos. It needs a strong hoof to guide it. It needs your hoof, Blueblood.” His eyes were pleading as he stepped closer. “So what do you say? Will you take the throne?”

Blueblood had been mulling over his reply from the moment Fairweather had made him the offer. He had to choose his words carefully. Sucking his teeth, he began his response.

“It’s flattering beyond all measure that you think I’m capable enough to be Caliph.” Blueblood tried to keep his voice flat and quiet. “But I’m not the right pony for the job.”

“Don’t be modest, Blueblood.” Fairweather gestured his worries away. “You were born to rule! Canterlot didn’t recognize your talent, but I did!”

“It’s not modesty.” Blueblood shut that down immediately. “Would I make a good Caliph? Perhaps. But if I take this position, then I lose any chance at Canterlot. I can’t give that up. I’ve fought too long and too hard to just let it go and go traipsing around ruling countries that aren’t my own.”

Fairweather’s cigarette flared. “Think about what you’d be giving up. You’d be abandoning Saddle Arabia to another Sandalwood. Can you walk away and leave them to that? To another half-century of poverty? Bullets fired into protests? Blood in the streets and revolt in the air?”

“No.” Blueblood exhaled hard. “I’m not going to let them suffer like that. But this isn’t the way we fix things. We can’t go around uprooting governments we don’t like just because—”

“They keep slaves, Blueblood!”

“Let me finish, damn you!” The prince snapped, pounding a hoof against the bark of an olive tree. “We can’t uproot governments because we think we can do better. Equestria isn't perfect either. I know that better than anypony. All we would do is bring over our flaws and impose them on someone else. We need to let Saddle Arabia change for herself.” Blueblood took a deep breath. “There’s plenty living here who want to see Saddle Arabia change for the better. All we’re doing is standing in their way.”

“We don’t have time to let Saddle Arabia figure out whether she wants to be a dictatorship for eighty more years.” The duke spit into the grass. “We have the opportunity to change things right now, Blueblood. We can fix things.” He moved uncomfortably close to the prince, laying a heavy hoof on his shoulder. “Don’t you want to be on the right side of history?”

“I intend to be.” Blueblood jerked his shoulder away.

Fairweather stood there with his hoof extended for just a moment too long, his eyes flushed with frustration.

Blueblood straightened his tie. He didn’t want to give away too much of what he knew about Chicory. The last thing he wanted to do was play his cards too early and let Fairweather get ahead of the curve. “I’ve found another way. A way that doesn’t involve putting myself on the throne.”

“And what way would that be?” Fairweather arched an eyebrow incredulously. He puffed on his cigarette and tapped embers from its tip.

“You’ll just have to wait and see.” Blueblood managed a faint, slightly playful smile. Let him play from the back hoof for a change. “I’ll be calling a council meeting as soon as the fervor over Sandalwood’s death dies down. I trust you’ll be patient?”

The duke dropped his cigarette to the grass and stomped it out with his hoof. “Two days. I’m giving you two days to either put a solution forward or accept my offer. That’s it. On the third day, I’ll take matters into my own hooves.”

“Understood.” Blueblood returned a shallow nod. He and Fairweather shook on their deal, and Blueblood slowly backed out of the conversation. He watched as the Duke spread his wings, gave them a single, massive flap, and took to the skies.

Two days.

That was more than Blueblood had been expecting. He could work with that.

*****

Trixie picked at her food as she awaited Blueblood's return. Every time he went and negotiated with Fairweather, she half expected him not to come back. She jabbed her cake with her fork and worked her mouth. Weren’t there usually open bars at funerals? Or was that weddings? She couldn’t remember. Regardless, liquor would have greatly helped her to deal with this day.

Someone slid into the seat beside her. Trixie turned in her seat, hoping to see Blueblood beside her.

“Miss Briar,” Cedar looked up at her with an utterly crestfallen expression. “Thank you for coming.” He screwed up his face in thought as he dug for words in his memory. “Saddle Arabia is embedded to you.”

The little horse was holding himself so stiffly that Trixie wasn’t sure he was breathing. He had puffed out his chest, lowered the tone of his voice, and— Trixie took a slight whiff of the air. Was that cologne? Oh, Celestia, what were they doing to this poor kid?

“I think you mean indebted.” Trixie corrected gently. She pushed her cake over to him and he stared at it hungrily.

“I knew I got something wrong.” Cedar huffed, slumping forward until his head hit the table. “I’m never gonna be a good Caliph like Dad.”

Trixie didn’t quite know what to say. Her mouth hung open as all the wrong words turned over on her tongue. She finally settled on something quietly kind, something suggesting he would get the hang of it, the same way he had been getting the hang of magic.

Then he started to sniffle with his head down.

Then his lip started to quiver.

Then Cedar was fully in tears, his back shuddering with sobs as he kept his face rigidly pinned to the table, refusing to look up and show his emotion. Trixie felt an ache go through her. He was trying to emulate his father.

Trixie didn’t know the first thing about being a Caliph. Blueblood was her only legitimate link to any sort of royalty, and even that relationship was often distant. She had no titles, no lands, no regal authority to throw around. But Trixie knew sorrow intimately.

Slowly, sweetly, she lifted Cedar’s chin from the table. His eyes were red and puffy and glistened with tiny diamond tears. He tried not to look her in the eyes. He stiffened his back and tried to tamp down his sniffles. Trixie didn’t let him. He was a child. A royal child, yes, but still a child nonetheless. And a child deserved to cry like one.

Trixie pulled Cedar to her chest and held him tight. In a split second, all the titles and authority in the world didn’t matter. Cedar pushed his face against her coat and cried. Really cried. Trixie suspected it was the first time he’d been allowed to since his father had died. She felt his hot tears soaking into her, felt his hooves squeeze her as tight as they would allow, and felt his entire body tremble.

“I’m so sorry,” Trixie whispered as he held the newly ascendant Caliph in her hooves. “I’m sorry.”

Cedar’s father had loved him. Trixie had experienced so much of Sandalwood’s memory that she couldn’t doubt that. Cedar’s mother had never known him, and his own memory of her was nothing but a faint shadow. All he had left to comfort him were tutors and advisors who were so intent on making him into a Caliph that they couldn’t see his sadness.

It took some time before he had cried out the worst of it. His sobs grew weaker, the tears stopped flowing, and his grip went slack. He finally sniffled, pulled his face from her chest with a sticky, peeling sound, and wiped his eyes. Trixie offered him a napkin to blow his nose.

“Thank you, Miss Briar.” He let her gently brush the streaks of tears from his cheeks. “I’m sorry that I’m not—”

Trixie squeezed his hoof. “Don’t be. You don’t have to be a Caliph just yet.”

“But my teacher said—”

“You’ll grow into it.” Trixie gave him a fragile grin. “Don’t worry about growing up too fast. You’re allowed to be a kid, Cedar. No matter what your teachers say.”

He snorted and leaned against her, his hooves still shaky and his nose still running. His eyes drifted from hers and back to her plate. Cedar licked his lips. “Miss Briar?”

“Hm?”

“Can I still eat the rest of your cake?”

“It’s all yours.”

Cedar grabbed her fork and dug in. He scooped globs of frosting off the cake and ate them without bothering to try the actual cake itself. Trixie grinned to herself. He was still a kid, no matter what they tried to force upon him.

Trixie’s eyes shifted from Cedar as she saw Blueblood approaching. He looked somewhat less distressed than she’d been expecting. That was good news at least. Cedar glanced up from his cake and cocked his head.

“Who’s that?” He mushed around a mouthful of icing.

“That’s Prince Indigo,” Trixie said as Blueblood arrived at the table. “Indigo, this is Cedar.”

Blueblood half-bowed. “I’m sorry about your father, emir.”

“If you’re a prince,” Cedar glanced between the two ponies. “Is Miss Briar a princess?”

“Oh, no no no!” Trixie tried to quash that rumor as quickly as she could. “Indigo and I are just—”

“Friends.” Blueblood finished for her. Trixie gave him a slight side-eye.

“I thought you said coworkers?” She raised an eyebrow incredulously.

“A lot has changed since then,” Blueblood replied, noncommittally. “Consider yourself bumped up to a friend.”

“Why don’t you make Miss Briar a princess?” Cedar cocked his head.

“It was lovely getting to meet you, emir.” Blueblood dodged the question entirely, his cheeks faintly glowing. “But Briar and I do have a lot of work to do, so we really must be going.”

Trixie practically leapt from her seat, bidding farewell to Cedar with another long hug. One of his innumerable tutors stood by, keeping a close eye on the soon-to-be Caliph.

“How long have you been this friendly with the Emir?” Blueblood asked as the two of them left the funeral and headed back into the hollow silence of the palace.

“Since the Ordainment Ball,” Trixie replied. “How long have I been upgraded to friend, rather than coworker?”

“Don’t make me bump you back down.” Blueblood chided as they ascended their staircase to the diplomatic wing.

“I’m just curious since you seemed adamant that we weren’t friends in front of Fairweather.” She arched her eyebrow.

Blueblood held his breath and let it out with a slow hiss. “I’ll just be honest, I think you’re the only pony I can actually call a friend.” He alighted on a landing and turned to face her. “But I don’t want Fairweather to know that. I can’t turn you into a target.”

“Let him target me,” Trixie smirked defiantly. “I can take care of myself, Indigo. You know that.”

“I know but—”

“No buts.” Trixie shoved him playfully. “If I wasn’t ready for danger, I wouldn’t have followed you this far.”

Blueblood returned the favor and shoved her back. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“Look out for yourself first.” Trixie sidled up to him and pulled him into a hug. Blueblood didn’t fight it but squeezed right back.

“I just—” Blueblood fought with the words, his lips twitching as he tried to force them out. “I just feel bad that I dragged you into this.”

“If I wanted to go back, I would’ve taken a train to Equestria already.” Trixie disengaged from the hug and brushed her mane from her face. “I want to be here, Indigo. We’re in this together. I’ve gone through this much already. What’s a little more gonna do to me?”

Blueblood could practically see the ghost of her from the night before flickering in his vision. Eyes strained, jaw clenched, blood frothing at her lips and dribbling from her nose as she wrestled with magic she couldn’t comprehend. That’s what staying could do to her.

Blueblood shook the thought from his mind. The last thing he needed right now was to think about losing her, especially not when the end was in sight.

“Fairweather is giving us two days.” He changed the subject with all the tact and subtlety of a brick to the skull. “After that, we need to go before the council immediately and present Chicory as Cedar’s mother and Sandalwood’s successor.”

“Then we put her on the throne and wash our hooves of everything?”

“So long as the council votes in our favor.” Blueblood pushed open the door to their room. Chicory was sitting on the balcony watching the funerary procession as it wound its way through the city streets.

“How long, Indigo?” She asked without looking back at him. “How long until I can see my son?”

“Two days.” Blueblood shed his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. “Once we reveal you to the council, you’ll be free to spend the rest of your life with him. But first, we have to win.”

Blueblood levitated a sheaf of papers, a fresh pot of ink, and a quill to the table. He fell into the chair with a weighty thud and took a deep breath.

“Strap yourselves in. It’s going to be a long night.”

“When isn’t it a long night?” Trixie rolled her eyes. “Should I order dinner?”

“Yes, please.” Blueblood dipped his quill into the ink and set it to paper. “I want to get this done tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll be meeting with as many of the council members as we can. Then we’ll bribe, cajole, lie, threaten, and generally do whatever it takes to secure their vote.”

“It doesn’t sound very honest to me.” Chicory frowned.

Blueblood’s lips curled into a smirk. “Of course not. It’s politics.”

*****

Hours and hours wore on. Their arguments were set down in writing, rewritten, refined, and rewritten again. Dinner arrived late, and they shared trays of roasted veggies with a white wine sauce, warm flatbreads, and cups of mint tea. Blueblood gave his speech to the council no less than four times, and every time he tried to read it, he found another error that needed correcting. It had to be perfect. It had to flow without flaw and be so persuasive that the council would drop their thoughts to take power for themselves in favor of a rank outsider.

The sun had set and darkness had spread over the gardens. The moon was half in shadow, half in light. Blueblood rubbed his temples and stepped out onto the balcony for some fresh air. The effort was stifling him. He took a deep breath of the night and tried to steady himself.

He had more time than he had expected, and yet it still wasn’t enough time. To change the ruling regime of Saddle Arabia was a project that Blueblood would have measured in years, if not decades, and he was being asked to do it after only weeks in the country.

Celestia believed that he was the only pony for the job. If he let her down here, the last shred of his dignity would be torn away. She would insist she loved him. Tell him that everything will be okay. That she could still salvage his work when she dispatched her favorite student to pick up the pieces.

But what good was love if he did nothing to deserve it? Blueblood’s spine throbbed. He had to prove he was worth loving.

The palace felt quiet. Mourning had come and gone, and it seemed the palace had cried itself to sleep. The only sound was the faint din of hooves marching on cobbled roads; likely Palace Guards returning from burying the Caliph. Blueblood exhaled as he turned his back on the gardens and returned to the room. Chicory munched on a piece of flatbread as Trixie sipped her tea. Blueblood could feel their exhaustion radiating through the air.

“Alright,” Blueblood scooped up his notes and tossed his mane. “Let’s go over this one more time.”

Trixie pushed her tea to one side and leaned over the back of her chair. “One more time, and then we sleep, okay?”

The prince checked the time. Just after midnight. Trixie was probably right. He needed a good night's sleep.

He nodded quietly as he cleared his throat.

“New evidence has come forward when it comes to Caliph Sandalwood and his relations. His throne—”

Blueblood’s ear flicked as he heard something. Voices echoed from somewhere in the palace, talking all too loud for the somber atmosphere. Chicory noticed it as well. Trixie frowned.

“Someone had too much to drink, perhaps?” Chicory offered a suggestion.

Something dreadful and cold filled Blueblood’s stomach. The hair on his neck raised. The air was charged like he was awaiting a lightning strike.

“Indigo—” Trixie tried to stop him as he headed for the door. “Don’t!”

“I just want to see what’s going on.” He slung his coat around his shoulders. “I’ll be right back, promise.”

“I’m with her,” Chicory said, her voice was low, like she feared being overheard. “Don’t leave. Let the Palace Guard sort it out.”

Blueblood paused, his hoof trembling on the doorknob. He sucked in a nervous breath as he released it.

Gunshots suddenly echoed through the marble walls. All three of them leapt nearly a foot in the air. Blueblood flew to the door and locked it tight in an instant. Screams followed the shots, cries in Sarabic for more ammunition, to raise the alarm, to protect the palace at all cost. Blueblood and Trixie’s blood froze when they heard harsh, barking replies ringing out.

Replies not in Sarabic, but in Equine.

“Move, move, move!”

“Cover me!”

“Split up! Catch them in the crossfire!”

More gunshots. Pained shrieks from wounded horses. Whoops of triumph and bloody, rattling gurgles.

“What’s happening?!” Chicory leapt into motion like a trained soldier. She shoved a chair under the handle of the door and dashed to the kitchen to grab a knife from the block.

The truth dawned too late as usual. Blueblood’s throat constricted. “It’s a coup.”

“What?!” Trixie’s horn lit up as she tried to ready a defensive spell. “But… But Fairweather—”

“Lied to my face.” Blueblood snarled. Reality was rushing into him. “He wanted me to be the new Caliph. He assured me that he could get the council on his side.” He paced, every nerve firing at full speed. “He was always planning this. He said his wife could help him.” Blueblood twisted his hooves in his mane. “Celestia’s mane… He’s going to kill the rest of the council members.”

Chicory suddenly went stock still. “Indigo. My son!”

All eyes were suddenly on her as her shoulders tensed to breaking.

“He’s going to kill my son!” Knife shaking, Chicory suddenly pushed past him and rushed to the door. Blueblood and Trixie had to drag her back, step by step, kicking and crying.

“Chicory, they’ll kill you!” Trixie snapped, shoving her harshly into a chair. “We have to—” Her voice broke. Trixie looked to Blueblood, who looked like he was about to crack under the pressure. “Indigo, what do we do?”

“I don’t know!” He clutched his hooves to his head. “I’m a diplomat, damn it! Not a soldier!”

Chicory had reverted to speaking Sarabic, her head hung as she babbled out a seemingly endless stream of prayers.

Trixie grabbed Blueblood’s chin and forced him to meet her eyes. “Indigo, we need a plan.”

“I’m not—”

“I know, I know you’re not a soldier. But you’re not just a diplomat, either. You’re a prince, damn it!” She gripped his shoulders hard. “Now act like it!”

Blueblood went rigid. The tears that had started to twinkle in his eyes went dry. Trixie could sense something had changed in him.

“Cedar,” Blueblood said, exhaling his stress. “Cedar is the key to this.”

Chicory’s eyes were wide as saucers. “But he could—”

“He can’t kill Cedar.” Blueblood’s voice was hard. “Without Cedar, he’d never be legitimate. He can distance himself from tonight as much as he wants, but he knows no one would accept a pony on the throne. Aster proved that there's enough resistance to the thought. He wants to be the power behind the throne, not sit on it himself.” Blueblood rationalized things out, his hooves trembling. “He needs the emir. That’s the key.”

“The key?” Chicory was breathing heavily, clutching the knife like a lifeline. “What does that mean?”

“It means we need to get Cedar and get him out of here.” Blueblood’s tremors left him as he started to craft a concrete plan. “If the emir lives and opposes Fairweather’s claim to the throne, then Fairweather can never win.”

Chicory rose from the chair, tucked the blade into her belt, and turned her gaze to Trixie. “Teleport me to the slums. There are thirty brave, armed souls there waiting to fight. We’ll blink them to the palace and—”

“We won’t have time.” Blueblood dismissed the idea immediately. “Get Cedar out of the palace. If we can do that, we can get him to the slums. From there…” The prince cast his eyes out the balcony window, staring at the silver, moonlit dunes of the desert. “We leave Sutaf.”

“We need to stay and fight.” Chicory insisted. “This is our city. We’ll gather troops in the slums and retake—”

“These are trained Equestrian mercenaries, Chicory.” Blueblood tried to impress the sheer scope of what they faced onto her. Another volley of gunshots thundered from the hall. “We’re not taking the palace back. We need to get out of here. We can form a government in exile. Bring you and Cedar to Equestria or the Gryphon Kingdoms. I don’t know yet, we’re having to plan this all in the moment.”

Blueblood smelled smoke. Something in the palace must have caught fire.

“But first, we need to get to Cedar.” Trixie took a deep breath and tried to steady her nerves. “I can try to teleport the three of us over to Sandalwood’s room, the one we saw yesterday. That should get us close.”

Chicory took Trixie’s left hoof in hers. Trixie extended her right to Blueblood, who shook his head.

“You two find Cedar.” He met Trixie’s confused gaze with the smile of one condemned. “I’ll meet up with you outside the palace.”

“Indigo, you can’t stay here!” Trixie pled. The sound of shots was growing closer. They heard hooves pounding the carpeted halls of the diplomatic wing. The chaos that was engulfing the palace was growing closer. “Please. Please don’t leave me.”

“Find Cedar,” Blueblood repeated, tenderly touching Trixie’s shoulder. “I’m going to try and tie them up here as long as I can.”

“I’m not gonna let you stay here and die!” Trixie let out a shuddering exhalation. “Damn it, Indigo—”

“Briar, go!” Blueblood hissed. “We don’t have time!”

“Not without you!” She squeezed his hoof. “When I said we were in this together, I meant it!”

Voices in panicked Zebrish called out down the hall.

“Back to your rooms, now!” Somepony screamed orders that came muffled through their door.

“I promise I’ll catch up with you outside the palace.” Blueblood tried to reassure her. “But I need you to trust me. Just this once.”

Trixie sniffed and shook her head. “You’re using my words against me. Bastard.”

“Please.” Blueblood took a step closer. “I trust you. Now I need you to trust me back.”

"Promise me," Trixie stared up at him, tears glittering in the pockets of her eyes. "Promise you won't die."

Blueblood was out of time and out of options. Before his terror at his own vulnerability could catch up with him, he pushed himself forward. He pressed his lips to Trixie’s cheek with a faint smack.

“I promise not to die.” He murmurred.

Trixie grabbed his shoulders, pulled him tight against her body, and kissed him back. Deeper than he had anticipated. Blueblood’s heart nearly snapped as she broke off their embrace.

“You’re an awful kisser by the way.” Trixie breathed out a sour laugh. “I’ll find you after we’ve got Cedar. We'll meet you outside Lineage Park. Promise me you’ll be there.”

“I promise.” Blueblood was in too deep to say anything else. He wiped his eyes and steeled himself. The second he said what he was thinking, he would put an irreconcilable crack in the indifferent armor he wore. He said them anyway. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Trixie managed an earnest smile. She gripped Chicory’s hoof and gave Blueblood a self-assured nod. “Good luck.”

“You too.”

And like that, they were gone.

Blueblood felt an odd sense of calm wash over him. He could hear the hooves barreling down the hallway, yet they felt so muted in his ears that they hardly mattered. Digging the ebon box out from beneath his bed, he levitated Pride from its velvet resting place and tucked its shards into the lining of his suit jacket. He felt safer knowing it was on his body.

Next, as voices at the door began to call his name, he trudged to the kitchen and poured himself a shot of whiskey. Blueblood downed it and felt its fire course through him. He needed every ounce of courage he could muster. He dipped the tip of his hoof in the bottle and dabbed drops of the liquor along his cheeks and neck. Breathing deeply, he grimaced. He reeked like a drunk.

The prince scattered the speech he had been preparing to the wind and grabbed a piece of parchment from the table. He needed to send a letter home, but he didn’t know the words. Closing his eyes, Blueblood knew there was only one thing he could say.

My dearest Auntie Celestia,

I’m sorry. I’ve failed you.

You will hear horrible things said about me. They’re all true. But know that above all, I did these things because they were my only—

“Prince Blueblood! Open this door!” A guttural voice shouted. Hooves were pounding against the wood. “We mean you no harm!”

Blueblood blotted out his last sentence.

But know that above all, I did these things because they were right.

Your favorite (and only) nephew,
Prince Vladimir Blueblood, First of His Name

The green blaze of dragonfire reflected in Blueblood’s eyes as his letter burned. There was only one thing left to prepare.

Blueblood ignored the battering sounds coming from the door, even though he could hear the wood beginning to splinter. He stared at his crown, running a hoof across its bejeweled surface. Tears misted his eyes as he realized that he would have to renounce it. Resting the silver band lightly on his brow, Blueblood readied himself to commit the unforgivable sin.

“Huh? Who’s there?” Blueblood slurred his voice, stepping to the door and kicking the chair aside. “Somepony looking for me?”

Almost instantly, three ponies staggered through the now open doorway. Two unicorns and an earthpony. Both unicorns had blades at their hips. The earthpony carried a musket slung around his body.

“Prince Blueblood of Equestria, I presume?” One of the unicorns, a dapper-looking fellow with a verdant coat approached the prince, his nostrils flaring at the smell of whiskey. “Have you been drinking?”

“Just a little.” Blueblood winked conspiratorially. “And you are?”

“Lieutenant Blitz Krieg of the 114th Celestial Dragoons.” He clicked his hooves together. “We’re here to protect you, your majesty.”

“Protect me?” Blueblood snorted. “Why?”

“As I’m sure you’ve noticed,” The other unicorn, dressed in full uniform with a stylistly pomaded mane, chimed in. “The palace is under attack.”

“Fairweather gave us explicit instructions to make sure you weren’t harmed.” Krieg smiled as warmly as an armed unicorn could. “We’re here to escort you and your friend to the Equestrian District.”

“Well, as you can see, she’s not here.” Blueblood shrugged and wiped his face with his sleeve. “She went out for something, I forget what. You can go back and tell Fairweather that I’ll be fine.”

Krieg reached into the pocket of his tunic and removed a pair of handcuffs. “Your majesty, we’re not asking. We have our orders. You can come back willingly, or in chains. Your choice.”

Blueblood stared at the cuffs, blinking slowly. “I’m sorry, I’ve had a lot to drink tonight, and I’m not quite sure I follow. What are you doing here?”

“We're setting things right." His conviction rang in every word. "We served with Fairweather from Mareocco to Zebrabwe.” Krieg stepped forward, his horn starting to shimmer. Blueblood noticed the faint glow forming around his blade. “We’ve seen what happens when rulers get too complacent. Sometimes, you need to move the world for harmony’s sake.”

Krieg paused and held out the cuffs towards Blueblood. “And the only way to change the world is through harmony. Sometimes, harmony just needs a little push.”

Blueblood glanced from one pony to the next, his glossy eyes seeming to weigh his odds. “Well, looks like I don’t have a choice.”

He sighed and slouched.

Krieg and the other ponies nodded to each other. The earthpony gestured to the door with his musket.

“But now you’ve got me thinking.” Blueblood shifted uncomfortably, shedding his jacket and stretching. “Is this,” He motioned vaguely towards the noise in the halls. “Is this harmony?”

“Prince Blueblood, we’re running on a very tight schedule.” Krieg was struggling to maintain his polite facade. “We really need to get you to—”

“Because I’ve heard a lot about how harmony can change the world.” Blueblood let his jacket hang in his hooves. “But see, I’m starting to think that’s not how it works.”

“Your majesty, I’m sure this is all very interesting, but—”

“Do you know what really changes the world?” Blueblood raised an eyebrow and grinned far too broadly. “C’mon, I’ll give you a hint! You ponies probably know it better than anypony in the world!”

Krieg screwed up his face and rubbed his temple with the tip of his hoof. “Fine. Tell us so we can move on with—”

Before he could finish, Blueblood threw his jacket toward the lieutenant and lit his horn. Twenty shards of meteoric platinum lanced from the fabric and nearly sliced Krieg to ribbons. His fellow soldier saved his life, managing to deflect most of the blade motes with a shimmering ward. Krieg staggered back, pressing against the wall in sudden terror as he looked down at the gash Blueblood had drawn across his chest.

The Prince’s blade coalesced around him, linking together into a single, tapering sword that flickered silver in the gloom. The carefully concocted image of a drunken noble burned away, leaving behind only the truth of who he was.

“There’s only one way to change the world.” Blueblood snarled hatefully. “Intentional, directed violence.”

In an instant, Krieg’s blade was out, burning a deep scarlet. “Applethorn, Cabernet, on me!”

The other unicorn, Applethorn, Blueblood supposed, flashed his sword and dashed into the fray. The Earthpony leveled his musket and began to stalk around the outskirts of the fight like a big game hunter tracking his prey. The two unicorns lunged and Blueblood danced backward, parrying their blows with well-practiced defenses.

“Think about what you’re doing, Blueblood!” Krieg shouted, shattering his blade and launching four shards downrange. “You’re betraying Celestia! You’re betraying Equestria herself!”

Blueblood swatted Krieg’s blade motes out of the air with the flat of his sword. All the politeness he had covered himself with for diplomatic purpose melted away, and for the first time in what felt like forever, his vitriol had a target.

“I’m not betraying Equestria,” Blueblood replied, ducking beneath a wide, arcing assault from Applethorn. “I’m betraying geldings like you.”

Blueblood’s eyes flickered to Cabernet, who had leveled his musket. Two fragments of Pride broke off and sliced across the carpet, lacerating the earthpony’s tendon. He screamed, fell to one side, and slapped the firing lever with a hoof that was already in motion. The bullet went wide, shattering a window with a crash.

“And I’ll tell you why.” Blueblood wove between Applethorns’ furious slashes before blocking an overhead blow from Krieg. Shattering the lieutenant’s snout with a headbutt, Blueblood pressed his advantage, harrying him with two swift thrusts that his comrade intercepted. “I’m doing it because I hate you.”

Cabernet had managed to slam another cartridge into his musket, clacked the barrel back together, and drew a bead on the prince. Blueblood whirled a shard in his direction, missed, and threw himself to the floor to avoid the follow-up shot. He waited for the sting of a bullet but felt none. Applethorn hammered him with a kick to the chest that sent him skittering. Shaking blood from his face, Krieg launched his blade motes in a deadly, glittering cloud. Blueblood reached with his magic and overturned the table to shield himself. The steel shards embedded themselves in the wood a heartbeat later. Applethorn vaulted the fallen table and pounced on Blueblood, who narrowly dodged the chop of his heavy sword.

“And I don’t just mean you personally.” Blueblood locked blades with Applethorn and rolled to his hooves. He was still fighting from a low crouch, and his foe was crushing him with their magical strength. “I hate everypony like you too.”

With a twist of his blade, Blueblood disengaged and let Applethorn’s momentum carry him forward. He staggered as he stepped into the prince’s guard, and Blueblood sprang to his hooves with a stroke of his blade. He felt it bite through cloth, then flesh, then tissue. Applethorn tried to scream, but it came out strangled. His eyes flickered downward to see Pride’s edge embedded in his gut.

“I hate you because I’m better than you.” Blueblood spat violently. “Petite bourgeois coming to Saddle Arabia to roleplay like you’re nobility!” He snorted with exertion as Applethorn gasped for air. “Pathetic!”

The prince left nothing to chance. He drew his blade deeper and tore it out in a spray of crimson. Applethorn lay disemboweled behind him as he scowled at the remaining two ponies.

Outrage at his comrade’s death overpowering his pain, Cabernet rose to his hooves with a roar, throwing himself at Blueblood and attempting to club him to death with his gun. Blueblood caught it on his blade, but the sheer strength behind the attack made his horn ring with feedback. Tearing his blade from the table, Krieg renewed his assault, swinging his sword like an axe. Blueblood twisted between them, whirling like he was on a dance floor in Canterlot, dodging, deflecting, and redirecting their fury.

“Play like princes all you want, but you’re nothing to me.” The prince split his blade in two as the soldiers struck from both sides. “You didn’t have a personal fencing tutor!”

Slapping aside a thrust from Krieg, Blueblood spun the twin halves of Pride around and thrust both behind him. Cabernet screamed in pain. Hot blood oozed onto Blueblood’s back. Rearing on his forelegs, he bucked the earthpony back and left him to bleed on the carpet.

Krieg aimed a thrust at Blueblood, who deftly parried it and closed the gap between them. He didn’t bother with his sword this time. He punched the lieutenant cleanly in the face, snapping his head back. Refusing to let his enemy recover, Blueblood pressed himself chest to chest with the unicorn, gripping him like they were partners in a waltz.

“You didn’t spend months learning every Canterlot dance by heart!” Krieg attempted to disengage, only for Blueblood to hip-check him and kick his hooves out from under him. Desperately, Krieg broke his blade and slung mote after mote at Blueblood, forcing him to retreat. The lieutenant forced himself to stand, scarlet dripping down his face as he recalled his shards and leveled his sword.

Blueblood breathed heavily, his lungs filled with the wet-penny scent of fresh blood. “You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as me.”

"Shut up." Krieg spat gore on the carpet.

The prince lunged, righteous fury surging with every prodding thrust and vicious slash. Meeting his aggression as best he could, Krieg blocked, dodged, and struck back with all the strength he could muster. It wasn’t enough. The soldier made a desperate thrust, but his aim was sloppy. Blueblood struck back before Krieg realized he had missed. Pride surged forth and caught the lieutenant under the chin. The point of the blade stabbed upwards, through the jaw, through the skull, until it had destroyed the unicorn’s subconscious.

Krieg’s body went slack, but his mind survived just long enough for Blueblood to whisper. “And you don’t deserve to rule.”

Retracting his blade, Blueblood let the body that had been Krieg fall to the floor. With a flourish, he cleaned the blood from his blade and exhaled slowly. There was no coming back from this. The Precocious Princeling’s Guide to Diplomatic Relations could not have been more explicit in its condemnation. Yet here he was, fighting against his own people for the sake of a foreign power. Blueblood reached up to touch his crown, reassuring himself that it hadn’t vanished the second he drew his blade. Celestia was sure to revoke his claim to the throne for this.

He was a prince no longer.

Leaving his titles scattered among the bodies on the floor, Blueblood took a deep breath and pushed forward. Trixie and Chicory were going right into the teeth of the enemy. He intended to give them a diversion. Blade at the ready, Blueblood sprinted through the hall towards the sound of gunshots.

Descending the steps from the Diplomatic wing, Blueblood was greeted by a scene of chaos. Injured and dead horses had been left where they fell, the ones still alive groaning and clutching their wounds. The 114th had already moved on, cutting a bloody swath through the palace. Blueblood trotted over black and white checkered floors, turning off at a fork to enter the section of the palace where Sandalwood had been sequestered.

The splintering of a door greeted him as soon as he clambered up the carpeted stairs. Two ponies, an earthpony and a pegasus, were already in the process of dragging one of the Caliph’s advisors out of her bedroom. She screamed as she was forced to her knees and the Earthpony leveled his musket at the back of her head.

Blueblood didn’t have time to think. Five shards of his blade sailed forth, one of them embedding itself in the muzzle of the gun. When the firing lever was slapped, it backfired, lacerating the earthpony’s shoulder as he frantically grasped the wound. The pegasus whirled on Blueblood, throwing the advisor to the side in a choking, sobbing heap as she flapped her wings and sped toward her assailant.

Two more shards attempted to clip the pegasus’ wings, but she had slammed into Blueblood before he had a chance to see if they connected. A punch flattened the former prince, snapping him back until he collided with the wall. Blueblood pirouetted to one side, narrowly avoiding a steel-edged wing that raked the drywall he’d leaned on.

“We need backup here!” The pegasus sounded the alarm. Another slashing wing caught Blueblood’s foreleg, cutting deep enough to draw both blood and a scream from him. He swung his blade, but his foe was quick. She dropped low and peppered him with body shots until his midsection was covered in bruises. Blueblood staggered back, gasping for air and trying to ready his sword, but the pegasus refused to let him breathe. She moved like a yellow blur, nearly severing his head with a sweep of her wing. Blueblood managed to backstep quickly enough to avoid it, the breeze of its passing like ice on his throat.

A brief glance down the hall showed that the earthpony was back on his hooves, and a unicorn had returned to assist them. Blueblood couldn’t let them overwhelm him. As the pegasus swung again, Blueblood weathered her punch and barrelled into her full force, wrapping both hooves around her midsection and tackling her to the floor. Blueblood locked his knees into her sides and pinned her in place, raining down hoof blows against her guard. The blade motes he had hurled returned to him, and Blueblood thrust all seven of them through his enemy’s chest. She retched and stiffened as he ripped them out again, rolling off of her just in time to put a marble pillar between himself and an incoming sweep of orange flame.

The advisor, a cream-colored horse with a braided black mane, put both her hooves over her head and cried prayers to the sun and moon. Blueblood caught his breath, hot air scalding his lungs and making him cough. He looked down at his foreleg. The cut wasn’t terrible. It stung horrifically, but he would live.

Throwing himself back into the fight, Blueblood was met with a punch from the injured earthpony that utterly flattened him. He hit the floor, gasping as the air was forced from his lungs. He rolled over the scarlet rug and slid on the blood-slick tile before finally skidding to a stop. Finding his balance, Blueblood looked up to see the earthpony already thundering toward him like a hurricane.

Two motes of Pride embedded themselves in the mat. Mustering all of his magical strength, Blueblood yanked the rug out from under the approaching pony, staggering him just enough for Blueblood to meet his charge with a sweep of his blade. He struck well. Blueblood heard the pony's heavy corpse hit the floor hard. His head followed seconds later.

No time to celebrate. Three bolts of bright green magical energy streaked through the hall, the unicorn at the other end content to approach at a leisurely walk as they wove spells with their shimmering horn. Their black jacket billowed around them as they swept their hoof and bathed the hall in rolling fire.

With twelve shards, Blueblood forged a staircase above the blaze, barely breaking his sprint as he vaulted over the incoming assault. He shattered the rest of his blade and showered the battlemage below with eight shards of meteoric platinum. The unicorn barely flinched as they threw out a ward to protect themselves, retaliating with a sweeping blast of invisible force that cut Blueblood down right as he landed. Blueblood was crushed against a stone pillar, the gash on his foreleg spurting blood. He reached for Pride with his magic, but the unicorn intercepted his spell. Their eyes looked utterly bored as they approached the former prince, lightning flickering at the tip of their horn.

“It really is a pity.” They said with a lazy, Appleoosan drawl. “Prince of Equestria throwin’ it all away like this.”

They leveled a hoof at his chest like a damning accusation. Enough electricity coursed through their limb that Blueblood could feel it in the air. It smelled horribly of burning hair. With his connection to his sword severed Blueblood had only one option. He slithered out of his necktie looped it around the unicorn’s throat before drawing it as tight he he could. Their spell broke as they choked and gasped for air. Strangulation was hardly an elegant way to break a spell, but Blueblood had to take what he could get.

Pride reformed on its way back to him, and Blueblood cut a wide crescent in front of him. The Unicorn slipped his grip, but not enough to avoid Blueblood’s real target: their horn. Blueblood managed to cleave a chunk out of the bony protrusion, and an outpouring of magic shoved him backward. The battlemage shrieked bloody murder, clutching their skull and retching with pain. Without their spells, Blueblood’s sword made quick work of them. The hallway was quiet aside from the murmurings of the advisor he had saved.

“Go,” Blueblood commanded, gesturing for the horse to leave the way he had come. “Hide somewhere in the diplomatic wing. They think it’s been secured.”

She nodded, too shaken for words, and tore off through the halls like a bullet.

Blueblood’s gashed foreleg hurt to put weight on. The bruises along his sides were throbbing in time with his heartbeat as he cleaned his blade once more and prepared to press on. He could already hear commotion deeper in the wing as the word spread. Someone was flanking them. Send backup.

Rounding the corner, Blueblood pressed himself into a dimly lit alcove beside a stairway, just in time for a platoon of ten soldiers of the 114th to jog past his hiding place.

"Damn it, they're dead!" Somepony yelled from the previous hall. "Shit! You told us he was just a prince!"

"Search these rooms! He couldn't have gone far!"

Blueblood ascended the staircase and found himself standing in a hall of Sarabian history. Grand tapestries hung from the walls, separated by gorgeous stained glass windows that cast the tile floors in a moonlit rainbow. The rise of Arfaj the prophet, the first and second Unification Wars, the Seige of Sutaf, and the surrender of the last jackal warlord lined his path. He breathed heavily as he tried to avoid putting weight on his injured hoof. Every time he stepped on it, a jolt of pain made him grunt and grit his teeth.

“Blueblood.” A coldly familiar voice echoed from the opposite end of the hall. Illuminated in the prismatic glow was Captain, standing there as rigid as inevitability. Her leaden coat was splotched with blood that was not her own. Her blade dripped with ichor, every drop echoing through the silent hall. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

“Captain.” Blueblood’s voice came out weaker than he would have liked. “Call this off. We don’t have the right—”

“We have every right.” She interrupted. “You had your chance. You rejected it.” Her blade glowed a burnt bronze color as she took a single, decisive step toward him. “Now leave. Go back to Equestria. Your presence is no longer required.”

“And if I refuse?”

You’ll return to Equestria in a body bag.” Captain said the words as if they were already fact. Her eyes landed on Blueblood’s blade. “What’s her name?”

“Pride.” Blueblood pointed with the tip of his sword.

“Fitting.” If it was meant to be derisive, her tone didn’t betray it. She spun her own blade in the dark, feeling its weight fondly. “Her name is Abnegation.”

Blueblood inhaled sharply. “May I ask why?”

“No.” Another step forward. Her hoofbeat seemed to echo forever. “I am not a mare of words.”

Blueblood shifted his weight off his bad leg and readied his blade. His promise not to die weighed heavy on his mind.

He had never been terribly good at keeping promises.

He Shall Learn Their Ways

"Is Celestia just?"

"Heavens, no! What would become of us if she were?"
—Overheard Conversation in the Canterlot Poetry Society

Chapter 14: He Shall Learn Their Ways

Blueblood wasn’t sure how long he had slept. He didn’t sleep well, that was for sure. As the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon and set the sand alight in a burning corona of red and gold, he rolled to his hooves and shook the dust and grit from his coat. He missed his bathtub. He missed his coat moisturizers and his lotions and his exfoliation brushes. Shafts of red sunlight glinted off the diadems in his crown, casting prismatic shadows at his hooves. Trixie was still snoring softly at his side, black and blue and yellow bruises blossoming on her coat.

He checked his battle wounds carefully. They had applied healing salves to his foreleg and the slash on his face, both of which seemed to be healing well enough. He could feel an ugly scab forming on his cheek, and his foreleg was still numb. He glanced beneath the bandages and regretted his decision. It was healing, but not nicely. It was an ugly sight, and he quickly snapped the bandages back. He still couldn’t put his weight on his bad hoof. Shocks of violent nausea racked his guts anytime he tried.

Chicory was already awake in the valley below. She looked like she hadn't slept a wink and she was tracing lines on an unfolded map with bloodshot eyes. As Blueblood approached, she glanced up briefly, quickly returning to her work.

Blueblood shuffled as he walked, every step uncertain. How was he supposed to talk to her now? They didn’t sell apology cards for threatening to kill someone’s son. He cleared his throat as he stood a little ways off, trying to force the conversation naturally. She didn’t acknowledge him.

He sat on the sand beside her, looking over her shoulder at the map. He pursed his lips and tried to think of what to say. He supposed there was only one thing he could start with.

“Chicory, I’m sorry.” He said quietly, as if speaking too harshly would breathe the silent shroud.

“I know you are.” Chicory’s voice was once again monotone and implacable. “That doesn’t change what you did.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” Blueblood pled, his hooves on the map.

“Didn’t you?” She arched an eyebrow. “Were there no other options? Was there no midpoint in all your potential contingencies between dying to mercenaries and taking my son hostage?”

“I didn’t have time to think of anything better!”

“So your first instinct was to put my child in danger?!”

“We couldn’t have fought our way through them. There was nothing else we could—”

“You didn’t let us try!” Chicory snapped, her eyes shimmering like the edgeshine of a knife. “We outnumbered them, yet the second you saw that we were up against Equestrian soldiers, you gave up!”

“They’re trained mercenaries, Chicory!” Blueblood’s voice rose in turn. “They’ve been to war in Zebrica once already! We didn’t stand a chance!”

“And how do you know? One volley was all it took for you to throw in the towel!”

“Because after one volley your army dissolved! They turned tail and ran!”

“And even after our losses, they were outnumbered!” Chicory growled.

“I couldn’t let you throw your lives away!”

“They’re not your lives to command!”

They both went silent, sitting beside each other as the sun crested over the dunes and bludgeoned them with heat. Blueblood glanced over to Cedar, who was sleeping soundly beneath one of the rocky outcrops, covered in a discarded robe he was using as a blanket.

“I’m sorry.” Chicory sighed, rubbing her sore eyes. “I don’t mean to take this all out on you.”

“I’m sorry too.” Blueblood fidgeted with his mane. “Last night I panicked. All I could see was us ending up shot to death by mercenaries, so I acted out of fear. Like I said, I didn’t have time to think. I just did the first thing that I thought had a chance of getting us out alive.”

“You had good intentions.” She folded the map and slipped it back into her pocket. “And we’re still alive, thanks to you.” She touched his hoof and pressed down hard enough to make him gasp. "But never threaten Cedar again. Understand?"

"Understood." Blueblood winced as she released his tender hoof.

The rest of the camp was starting to stir. Horses made ablutions to the rising sun while a few jackals set a small fire with a bit of kindling and whispered their own prayers. Trixie shambled down the dune a few moments later, her lips chapped and her throat parched. She drank a sip of water from a tin cup one of the jackals offered her, but no more.

“Well, good morning.” Trixie croaked as she sat beside Blueblood. “Did you decide yet? Stay or go?”

“We’re staying,” Blueblood said simply. “I can’t go back to Equestria yet. Not until my work here is done.”

She squeezed his hoof and smiled. "Our work."

“But,” Blueblood went on, glancing around the clearing. “We’re not equipped to fight Fairweather in the slightest.”

“We’re not even equipped to survive the night.” Chicory gave a bitter laugh. “We left the city in such a rush that no one had time to gather supplies. We’re low on water, low on food, and don’t have much more than the clothes on our backs.”

“Plus, we managed to get a headstart on Fairweather, but he’s bound to come after us sooner or later. The more distance we put between us and Sutaf the better.” Blueblood could still see the city on the horizon, its warded walls seeming to mock him. “Do you have a plan?”

Chicory fanned herself with the folded map. “I have a map, but it's about ten years out of date. Whether or not the oases listed on it are still there is anyone’s guess.”

“We need a guide.” Trixie mused. “Someone who knows the desert like the back of their hoof.”

“Do we have someone like that?” Blueblood glanced to Chicory, who shrugged.

“Let’s find out.” Chicory rose from her seat, brushed the dust from her legs, and took a deep breath. “Fall in!”

Horses and jackals and a single camel dropped what they were doing, assembling in a line at the base of the wadi. They stood at what Blueblood assumed was supposed to be attention, but it was hard to tell.

Chicory, however, looked every inch the general she fancied herself as. She walked with a crispness to her gait that would have made any drill instructor proud and carried herself with the sort of confidence that would make an Equestrian commander blush.

“Roll call,” Chicory cried out, her voice echoing up and down the valley as she paced in front of her troops. “State your name and your occupation.”

As they went down the line, Blueblood’s hopes dimmed. There were a few with useful skills of course, one jackal by the name of Seafoam was a part-time scribe, Crocus, of course, was a curist, and one of the horses, Salt, had been a gunsmith before Fairweather had cornered the market. But in between those were plenty that didn’t bring anything to the table. Factory workers, clerks, florists, and coach drivers were distinctly nonessential in the midst of the desert. That left the lone camel in their midst.

“I am Shoresh.” His voice was thickly accented. “I am a caravan merchant by trade.”

“Shoresh,” Blueblood turned the name over on his tongue. “Is that your true name?”

“No. It’s a Camish word. It means ‘roots’.”

“I’ll admit, I’m unfamiliar with Camel culture.” Blueblood furrowed his brow. “You said you’re a merchant, right?”

“For generations, Camel tribes have traveled the wastes and traded between the cities of Sarabia.” Shoresh slid out of the stiff attention he had held and into a much more casual pose. “Many of us still do. I was one of them before I settled down in Sutaf.”

“Can you lead us to your caravan?” Chicory asked.

“I can. They departed from Sutaf only two days ago. We can catch them, but we’ll need to make good time.” He smacked his large lips and spat into the sand. “Though they are not likely to assist us beyond hospitality. My tribe has little interest in the cities of Sarabia, aside from being allowed to trade with them. To involve themselves in a revolution would be…” He paused for a moment as if pondering the words. “They do not think it is worth their time.”

“Not worth their time?” Blueblood raised an eyebrow. “Elaborate.”

Shoresh stretched and yawned. “We make our home in the dunes. Those of us who live in the cities are…” He pursed his lips. “Somewhat frowned upon.” He arched his back until it popped and went on. "There's much bad blood between camels and the Caliph. We were forced into the union at gunpoint only two generations ago, and my people have long memories."

“Well, Camish hospitality sounds better than dying in the desert.” Trixie shrugged. “Even if they just give us a place to spend the night, that’s better than nothing.”

Chicory reached out with her magic, levitating a still-sleeping Cedar onto her back. “I agree. It’s not much to go on, but it's something.”

“We’ll have to travel all day.” Shoresh gathered up his meager supplies and slung them across his hump. “Possibly through the night as well. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“We’ll make do.” Blueblood accepted a small sip of water from Crocus, who stopped to change his bandages and apply another round of tranqwort and sangthistle paste. “Let’s move.”

As they began their winding trek across the desert, Blueblood increased his speed and tried to match Shoresh’s pace. The camel cast a sidelong glance at the pony. “Do you need something?”

“Camish shares some similarities with Sarabic, doesn’t it?” Blueblood questioned.

“Some. Not many.”

“While we walk, can you teach me?”

The camel made a sickening noise in his throat that Blueblood was forced to assume was stifled laughter. “You want to learn Camish in a single day?”

“I’m a fast learner.”

*****

Trixie felt like she was wilting. She had thought she had gotten accustomed to the heat of Saddle Arabia, but as it turned out, she had gotten accustomed to that heat with air conditioning. Her mane was withering, her back was slick with sweat, and her lips were parched. As they crested another dune and gazed out on a veritable ocean of sand stretching ahead, Trixie felt the crushing weight of her choice to stay.

The air ahead of her shimmered with ambient warmth. Her tongue felt like shag carpet. Her eyelids fluttered and her steps staggered from side to side. She had to lean against one of the jackals for support, and they seemed barely able to hold her. The only one who seemed to be thriving in this new, bleak environment, aside from Shoresh, was Cedar.

The little colt galloped up ahead of the group, standing atop a rocky outcrop and staring ahead like a lookout. Satisfied that there was nothing of interest aside from more sand, he ran back down and bounced around Chicory for a few moments before dashing off to pester Trixie.

“Miss Briar!” He skidded to a stop, kicking up clouds of dust. “Did you hear we’re going to meet a bunch of camels?”

“I did.” Trixie panted, squinting as salty perspiration dripped into her eyes.

“Did you know that camels don't actually store water in their humps?” He cocked his head.

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, they actually store food in them!” Cedar beamed proudly as he danced around her. “Do you think we’re gonna stop for lunch soon? Or is everyone just gonna keep walking all day? There’s not much food out here, so I hope everyone packed a lunch. Whenever I would go to school, they would send me with a thermos of soup, but since we left and didn’t have time to pack, I couldn’t grab my thermos. Plus hot soup probably wouldn’t be very fun to eat out here when it's so hot. But maybe you could have cold soup? I heard in Equestria there are some soups that ponies eat cold. I always thought that sounded yucky, but maybe on a really hot day it would be pretty good…”

The emir continued to talk her ear off as she withered under the boiling sun. None of their tiny army seemed to be taking the heat particularly well. The horses were slumping along and dragging their jezails in the dust. The Jackals were panting with their tongues out, trying and failing to keep cool. Blueblood himself looked like he was on the brink of collapse. Under the heat, Trixie was able to see quite clearly that he had been wearing makeup, which was now running off of him in thickly clotted rivulets.

“Now, I’m curious,” Blueblood said, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of his hoof. “So you’ve mentioned that verbs are conjugated based on prefixes and suffixes attached to the root, correct?” Despite the sweltering sun, his special talent was shining through. “But now I’m noticing that a number of the prefixes alter the base form and can change the pronunciation. Is this a case of dropping weak consonants? Or are we dealing with an all-out replacement of them?”

“I’m not sure.” Shoresh looked overwhelmed. “We’re getting beyond learning the basics, and—”

Blueblood cut him off with a dense, sloping phrase that Trixie couldn’t understand. Whatever it was, it caught Shoresh’s attention.

“I didn’t teach you that.”

“You’ve been calling me that under your breath for hours now,” Blueblood replied with a self-satisfied grin. “Thank you for confirming that it's an insult.”

The camel muttered again, closing his eyes and rubbing his temple.

The day stretched on in an unbroken arc of trudging through the sand and sun. The landscape was occasionally broken by clusters of dry, twiggy dunegrass that the horses and ponies plucked and nibbled on. Trixie managed a few forced bites, before deciding it was better to go hungry. It tasted like tree bark and dissolved into an unpleasant grit on her tongue. They stopped only once, at a pool of stagnant water concealed behind a screen of thorny scrub brushes.

Everyone rushed to drink, even though the water tasted bitterly vile. Blueblood sipped on it, retching at the rusty, metallic tinge. The only one unphased by the sickening alkaline flavor was Shoresh, who drained gallons in under a minute. When they had choked down their fill, they were back on the road.

They skipped lunch, which managed to dampen even Cedar’s mood. Shoresh made it clear that they didn’t have time to spare. Salt passed out tiny squares of unleavened bread along the marching line, the only rations they’d managed to pack in the mad dash to leave. Trixie frowned when she found that the portion they were all allotted was about the size of a cracker. She swallowed it in a single chomp, but her stomach still grumbled and groaned demanding more.

Sometime after noon, a blistering wind whipped up, scouring them with stinging sand. Only Shoresh could see through the blinding whirl, so everyone gripped the tail in front of them and marched single file with their eyes closed. Trixie held a mouthful of Chicory’s tail and pressed on through the sandstorm, silently praying that it would pass soon.

Instead, they marched blindly for most of the day. By the time the wind died down, the sun had already set and the moon had risen. The air was cooler and less stifling, but it hardly helped. The party was so exhausted from the day's march that they were practically dragging themselves along. The jackals were reduced to crawling on all fours, the horses slouched so deeply their bellies nearly dragged in the dirt, and even Shoresh looked exhausted. His hump was deflating more and more with every step. Cedar had given up on walking and had decided to ride across his mom’s back, snoring softly as his mouth hung open. Blueblood had finally given up on wheedling more Camish lessons out of Shoresh and slid back in the marching order to stand beside Trixie.

“So,” She brushed her damp mane out of her eyes. “How’s your Camish?”

“Passable.” Blueblood huffed. “I’m still iffy on some of the more complicated aspects, and I’m certainly not fluent, but it's enough.” He still struggled to put weight on his injured foreleg. The makeshift splint had started to slip, and the tranqwort was making his stomach churn. “Are you regretting your decision to stay yet?”

“I’ll get used to it.” Trixie panted, managing a weak grin.

Blueblood chuckled softly. “And after you assured me you’d never get used to Saddle Arabia.”

“Don’t think I haven’t seen you struggling.” She pushed him, regretting it when she saw him catch himself on his bad leg and hiss. “Sorry! Sorry!”

“I’m fine.” He said through clenched teeth. “Crocus says it’ll heal, but I’m going to be limping for a long time.”

“Not forever, right?”

He shrugged. “We don’t know yet.”

As they wound their way through a desiccated valley between a pair of red rock cliff faces, all sound seemed to fade. Trixie could feel the air tingling around her. A presence was watching her and letting her know it was there. The sound of rushing water trickled past her on a faint breeze that no one around her felt. She shivered knowing what it meant. Swallowing hard, Trixie could tell that her supernatural stalker didn’t want to talk. It merely wanted her to know it was nearby.

The earth beneath their feet sloped upward, and they clambered up and out of the canyon. Where the ground leveled out into a rocky waste, Shoresh stopped short. The horses that flanked him froze. Chicory stood beside them, mouth agape. When Blueblood and Trixie at last scrambled up the pebbly slope, they realized why everyone had stopped their march.

Ahead of them stretched a veritable city of shaggy tents. Small fires burned in shallow, sandy pits, and the tempting scent of firesmoke and roasting vegetables whirled in the cool night air. Camels young and old stared at them with bland, incurious expressions, as though a ragtag armed militia stumbled into their camp every other week. Whispers that sounded less like shock and more like bored frustration rippled through the assembly.

One thing that was immediately clear to Blueblood was that these were hardly destitute wanderers. Their clothes were finely tailored, and embroidered in shimmering gold, silver, and violet. Silk was commonplace, as were velvet and sheer chiffon. Nearly every camel carried an ornate dagger tucked into a sash that bound their hump. Among these Blueblood spied hilts bejeweled with banded sardonyx and glittering ruby, delicate ivory handles carved into leering leopards or regal lions, and sheathes of fine leather inlaid with golden leaves. From the open flaps of tents fluttered the scents of cinnamon and cardamom and turmeric and sumac. Lumps of fragrant ambergris were concealed beneath burlap tarps and casks labeled with wedge-shaped Camish script that carried wine, beer, and brandy.

The camel who strode towards their group was dressed in a black vest that sparkled with shards of obsidian. She towered over the rest of her people despite her hunched posture. Tiny silver bells that ringed her golden anklets jingled as she approached. She spat orders to the rest of her tribe, and they swiftly set about preparing a late meal for their guests. Her eyes never left Shoresh, who seemed unable to meet her gaze.

They exchanged some terse words in Camish. Blueblood managed to catch some of it and picked out a few choice words.

“Abandoned.”

“Serpent.”

“Brother.”

“Return.”

“Unwelcome.”

Blueblood sighed. He was glad to see things would already be off to a difficult start.

“My name is Zaruah.” Turning from her brother, the camel addressed her guests in accented Sarabic. “On behalf of the Baluta tribe, I welcome you.”

Blueblood sank to his knees in the dust. When he replied, it was in the most polite Camish he could muster. “And I am Indigo of Equestria. We accept your welcome with honor.”

Zaruah paused, her long lashes blinking as she noisily chewed her cud. She mushed the Camish word for Equestria under her breath, repeating it as if she had never used the term. Swallowing, she proceeded with the ritualistic greeting.

“In accordance with the tradition of my people,” She recited from the same script she had read for decades. “You will lay down your weapons.”

There was a clatter as jezails were unceremoniously dumped in the sand. Chicory threw down the kitchen knife she still had tucked in her robe. It stuck blade first in the packed sand. Blueblood laid down Pride as gently as a father with a newborn.

“You will be inspected for plague.” Zaruah gestured to another camel, one smaller and rheumy with age. They briefly inspected each member of the army, paying particular attention to Blueblood’s bandaged foreleg. They clucked their tongue as they examined the wound, shaking their head. He rasped something to his chieftain. Blueblood understood the root word for “clean” in his statement.

Taking a step closer to her guest, Zaruah’s snout wrinkled. Trixie could see her nostrils narrow as she quickly backstepped. “And you will be bathed.”

Trixie cringed. Blueblood bit his lip. He assumed that was a rare divergence from tradition.

“After that, we will have a meal and a tent prepared for you.” Switching to Camish, she gave a command to a group of youths, who dropped the ball they had been playing with and sprang ahead of their guests to prepare a bath.

“Was it really necessary to tell us we stink?” Trixie crossed her hooves and snorted.

“I wasn't going to say anything,” Blueblood replied, working his mouth.

Trixie harrumphed, tossing her sandy mane. “Oh, as if you smell any better!”

“Both of you smell like sweat and gunpowder.” Chicory interrupted, standing between them to temper their bickering. “Now go! Bathe quickly! We're all starving!”

Blueblood tried to protest. “I was planning to—”

“Indigo, you frequently take over an hour to wash each morning.” Chicory rolled her eyes.

“Because I had a very in-depth coat care routine that I had to follow!”

“Starving!” Chicory pressed the importance on him as they approached a sealed-off tent marked with streaks of blue and white paint.

One of the young camels handed Blueblood a towel and a bar of soap. Huffing indignantly, he threw the towel over his shoulder and shoved his way into the bathing tent. It was hardly ideal, but at least he could finally scrub the dirt and blood from his coat.

*****

Properly washed, dressed in loose shifts, and warmed beside crackling fires, Blueblood and Trixie finally shared a meal. They were presented with pots of liberally spiced rice mixed with fragrant desert blossoms. It had been boiled until tender, plated up, and served hot. Silverware wasn’t provided, but they were so hungry they could hardly care. Both dug in with their bare hooves, shoveling rice into their mouths and inhaling it. The rest of their army did much the same, stuffing their faces as quickly as they could and guzzling water by the gallon. Their hosts were gracious, hovering around them as they reclined on thick, shaggy rugs in the tent they had been given.

Trixie downed an entire pitcher of water, letting it dribble down her cheeks and spill into her mane. When it was finally empty, she slammed it down on the sand with a metallic clunk. Panting, she laid flat and luxuriated. “Oh, thank Celestia. I thought the water was going to be the same stuff we drank at the pool.”

“It could have been for all I cared.” Blueblood wiped his mouth with his shift. “I don’t think I tasted anything they served us. I ate too fast to care."

“So, since your persnickety standards have lowered, I take it we can have our first real date at The Grease Pit?” Trixie smirked.

“In your dreams.”

Chicory approached them, leaving Cedar to play with a few young camels who were up past their bedtime. “I hate to be the sandstorm at the celebration, but we’re only granted one night here. We need a plan for tomorrow.”

“Trust me, we’re aware.” Trixie laid on her back, glancing at Chicory upside down. “Indigo would be fretting about it if he weren’t starving.”

“But now I’m full,” Blueblood sighed. “And now I’m free to fret as much as I like.”

“Oh, goodie. I bet now you’re going to tell us we’re in for a long night.”

“I didn’t want to say it.”

“I’m hoping it won’t be too late.” Chicory sank onto the carpet. “I assume it's not far-fetched for me to suggest that we need Zaruah and her camels. Ten doesn’t make an army, but hundreds of camels?”

“It would be a start.” Blueblood stroked his chin. “I’d rather tens of thousands, but hundreds is good.”

“Getting them on our side is… Tricky.” Chicory worked her mouth. “There aren’t a lot of camels in Sutaf, Damarescus, Sorrowdeep, or the other cities. Plus, their history with the Caliphate in the past isn't exactly rosy."

"That's not even mentioning the money." Blueblood’s eyes followed though he gnawed the inside of his cheek nervously. “War is very costly. Not just in gold, but in lives too. I’ve never conducted a war, but I’ve seen the sheer amount of the treasury that Luna is willing to shift around to the armed forces. I could have a fully staffed embassy in every corner of the globe for a quarter of it.”

“I mean, if anyone in the desert has the money to do it, it would be Zaruah.” Trixie said, gesturing to the splendid dagger tied around the hump of a nearby attendant.

“If the two of you are done eating,” Chicory looked over the plates they had cleaned off. “I’d like to have a chat with Zaruah right away. It’s better we do this tonight rather than in the morning when they’re expecting to be rid of us.”

Rising solemnly, Blueblood extended a hoof to help Trixie up. She took it, grunting as she shifted to her hooves and yawned. Blueblood reached out to fix her mane as best he could, and she swatted his hooves away.

*****

Zaruah’s tent was situated at the zenith of the campsite, crowning a small, stony knoll that overlooked the flat terrain and the craggy canyon beyond. Perfumed braziers lined the path, sending up liquid plumes of silvery smoke and scenting the night with the fragrance of myrrh. The earth was soft and springy beneath their hooves, and Trixie glanced down to see their path paved with overlapping palm leaves. As they drew nearer, the tent itself seemed to glimmer in the moonlight. The white fabric shimmered prismatically as the light shifted, capping the hill with an ethereal rainbow.

Four camels eyed them as they approached the tent flap, their strange two-toed hooves resting on their daggers.

“We would like to speak with Zaruah.” Blueblood intoned in stilted Camish.

“Would Zaruah like to speak with you?” One of the guards replied.

“Why don’t we ask her?”

“She is sleeping.”

“Wake her.”

“You are a guest, little horse,” The camel’s throat grumbled and he spat in the dirt. He drew his blade with a steely hiss. “Do not tax our hospitality.”

Trixie gulped as she saw her face reflected in the mirror sheen of the knife.

“Stand down, T’septa.” Zaruah’s voice rumbled from within the tent. A faint light shone through the thin fabric. “Let them in. I’ve been expecting them.”

T’septa took a breath, sheathed his dagger, and pulled aside the curtain to admit the three visitors.

Entering the tent was like stepping into an unknown room of the Caliph’s palace. Plush carpets dampened their hoofbeats, pillars of cedar carved into the fantastical shapes of dragons, manticores, and sphinxes upheld the fabric ceiling, and a set of magically enchanted crystal growths chilled the air. Zaruah herself was seated beside a low table surrounded by sumptuous velvet cushions. With a silent wave, she beckoned for her guests to be seated. They did so without question. For what felt like hours, they sat across from each other without speaking. Blueblood had given them a trimmed-down version of the trimmed-down version of Camish culture that Shoresh had given him. The one thing he had stressed above all was that Camels were patient and traditional. Discussions between caravan leaders always began with tea. To breach business before the cups were poured was an insult of the highest caliber, especially if you were a guest. Zaruah was testing them.

The scream of a kettle broke the silence. A pair of camels entered and laid out four porcelain cups painted with deep green floral patterns. They poured a finger of steaming tea into each, bowed, and walked out backward. Zaruah’s lips twitched in what Trixie hoped was a smile. She lifted her glass and inclined her head to her guests.

“May our meeting be blessed.” She toasted in accented Equine.

Her guests lifted their own cups and inclined their heads in turn. Blueblood could smell the sharp, peppery aroma of the beverage as he held it.

“May the blessing be upon our host,” Blueblood replied, his first language leaden on his tongue.

All four drank. One test under their belt, countless more to go.

They shared introductions and exchanged names. The camel repeated each name, feeling the words with her lips.

“Why are you here?” Zaruah was straight and to the point. “You’re city dwellers, deeply unused to our desert. You travel with Shoresh, my brother who abandoned our ways. You arrive armed and without supplies. My only assumption is that you’re suicides.” She tapped her hooves against the table idly. “Are you suicides?”

“No.” It was Chicory who spoke up first. “We’re refugees from Sutaf.”

“Refugees.” The camel turned the word over on her tongue. “We were in Sutaf only three days ago to trade. We saw no war.”

“There was a coup.” Blueblood took another sip of the strong, piquant tea. “The Caliph died, and a group of Equestrian nationals stormed the palace.”

Zaruah’s eyes narrowed as she swept her gaze across the two ponies.

“Equestrian nationals who we were very strongly opposed to!” Trixie interjected.

“I’m sure.”

“They speak truth.” Chicory defended them, hoof over her heart. “They risked themselves to save myself and my son.”

Zaruah ground her teeth. “So you fled the capitol and sought refuge with my caravan. I presume you seek to join us, but it’s not so simple. This one,” She gestured at Blueblood. “May speak our language, but our culture is—”

“We don’t seek to join your caravan.” Chicory interrupted gently.

Zaruah’s teeth were still. “Then what?”

“The ponies who took the capitol do not intend to stop with Sutaf.” Blueblood leaned forward in his seat. “Their leader, a pegasus named Fairweather, wishes to install himself as the power behind the Caliph and integrate Saddle Arabia as a new arm of Equestria.”

“He wants to be a dictator,” Trixie added.

Chicory took a deep breath. Trixie squeezed her hoof under the table.

“We don’t intend to let him take our home without a fight.” She sharpened her voice to a daggerpoint. “My son is the legitimate heir to the Caliphate. I want to undo the wrongs that Caliph Sandalwood and his predecessors wrought. Abolish slavery, retake the industry that foreigners have stolen, and build a more equal society for all of us. Not just horses.” Chicory’s tone softened. “The camels have not been treated justly. In the past, the Caliphs have been cruel towards—”

“Yes, we know.” Zaruah snorted and waved a hoof. “Where do we come in?”

“We can’t stand against Fairweather alone.” Chicory hardened herself. “We need an army.”

“Out of the question,” Zaruah replied without a second of hesitation.

Trixie interjected. “But why?”

“My people are not your army.” She narrowed her eyes to slits.

“But you’re a part of Saddle Arabia.” Chicory’s hooves trembled under the table. Whether it was anger or nerves that made them shake, Trixie couldn’t tell. “I know that there’s still lingering tension between our people but—”

“Our elders remember the Second Unification War. We remember that our tribes were not brought into the fold for friendship and equality.” Zaruah’s nostrils flared. “Your Caliphs saw our wealth, the wealth we gained by the sweat of our brows and the death of our loved ones, and demanded we share with them. When we refused, they shot us, burned our camps, enslaved our leaders…” She trailed off into an uncomfortable silence. The air within the tent buzzed with condemnation as the shadows danced across their faces. When Zaruah spoke again, it was in Old Equine.

“Acta, non verba.” Her eyes landed on Blueblood. “Your friend here knows what that means.”

“Deeds, not words.” Blueblood translated plainly.

“It’s all well and good to tell us that when you sit on the throne, you will treat us with the respect we deserve. But we have heard the same promise from the lips of countless Caliphs before Sandalwood. And yet, here we remain. The same as it ever was.”

“We don’t have the power to change anything as it stands.” Blueblood laid his hooves on the table. “We don't have an army, we don’t have food, water, or arms. We’re only surviving on your hospitality—”

“A hospitality that has been excellent, might I add!” Trixie grinned widely, her words dripping with honey. “And we’re definitely going to remember how much you helped us when we—”

“Enough flattery.”

Trixie bit her tongue and huffed petulantly.

“If you won’t fight with us,” Chicory recovered and tried another track. “Would you be willing to fund us? We’ll need to purchase food, supplies, and arms in the future. I can only give you my word, but—”

“So we are to act as your bank with only your word?” The camel snorted a laugh. “No. We will supply you with some basics when you depart in the morning, but will not fund your war, little horse.”

This was going poorly. Blueblood had known they would be fighting an uphill battle, but this battle was up a sheer cliff face. They needed to find some way to turn this around. He prepared a series of worst-case scenarios that could force Zaruah’s hoof somehow. Yet just as he opened his mouth to offer an ultimatum, Chicory took action.

She rose from her seat at the table and slowly lowered herself to her knees. Bowing, she pressed her head to the packed earthen floor of the tent and kissed the ground. It was debasement of the highest sort. A declaration of unworthiness in another’s presence. A gesture Blueblood instinctively knew that no Caliph before had ever dared to make.

“Tell me,” Chicory spoke not with the authority of one seeking a throne, but the desperation of a mother trying to save her child. “What must we do? How can I prove to you that I mean what I say?”

Blueblood nodded to Trixie, and the two ponies mimicked Chicory’s gesture. They heard Zaruah rap a steady rhythm on the wooden table with her toes.

She ground her teeth and swallowed a lump. “Rise.”

They lifted their heads, dust staining their cheeks.

“In the days before Caliphs, before the Unification Wars, before the first bricks of Sutaf and Damarescus were baked, there was only one way that our tribes made their word matter.” She unbuckled the dagger from her hump and laid it across the table. “In blood.”

The thick, curved khanjar slid from its beautiful sheath silently. The odor of blade oil wafted from it.

“We will not offer our sons and daughters for your war. We will not fund you with our coin. But we can give you something almost as valuable.” Zaruah produced a crackling, folded parchment from her vest, and laid it across the table. “Our knowledge.”

Trixie unfolded the paper carefully. It was a detailed map of the Sarabian Desert, with notes from six generations of Baluta tribal chieftains. Oases were clearly labeled, caravan routes were drawn in detail, and cities and outposts were marked, with intricate lists of their trade goods. Political connections in local government were laid out: minor merchants who were dependent on their goods, governors whose pockets were gilden with Baluta graft, captains and generals bribed to look the other way at military checkpoints. It wasn’t the army they had been hoping for, and it wouldn’t fund their fight, but this kind of information was worth its weight in gold.

Chicory’s eyes shifted to Blueblood, eyebrow arched in a subtle question. Is this worth it?

Blueblood had to weigh their options. It was clear they weren’t walking away from the negotiations with an army. They weren’t even walking away with the bits to hire one. He was used to negotiating with the weight of Equestria behind him. But now, what did they have to offer other than their word?

He gave a nod. Information was better than nothing.

“And what would you want in return?” Blueblood dreaded the reply.

Zaruah folded her hooves over her chest. “You say you want to make Saddle Arabia more equal? Then I want you to prove that when you take power.” Sweeping the map off the table, she gripped her khanjar. “A blood oath. One only broken on the pain of death. Swear to me you will remember the hospitality I showed you this night, and you will appoint me as one of your advisors.”

Blueblood recalled the parade of ineffective advisors that Sandalwood had surrounded himself with. All of them, except Fairweather, had been horses. So had all the minor nobles, local barons, and wealthy heiresses vying for positions in his orbit. It had been so for generations.

“Some traditions are made to be broken.” Chicory took the dagger with her magic and flicked its blade across her foreleg. She extended her hoof as a scarlet rivulet laced across her silver coat. “I swear you’ll have a position in my council.”

Zaruah’s lips curled into a smile. She snipped her own foreleg and gripped Chicory’s hoof. “We will hold you to it.” Sheathing her dagger, she passed it across the table. “Keep it. Consider it a token of goodwill.”

Chicory clasped the belt around her waist and drew it tight.

“But remember,” The camel dipped a toe in the mingled droplets of blood on the table. “A blood oath is taken under the pain of death. If you retake Sutaf and refuse to honor our agreement…”

She let the threat hang in the air. Chicory swallowed hard. Her predecessor had been poisoned in front of her, assassination was very much still an expedient way of settling scores in Sarabian politics. And given the vast wealth and connections the Baluta tribe already had, it was clear they had the reach to make good on their promise.

“We won’t let you down.” Chicory’s hoof lay on the handle of the knife. “I promise.”

“Pray that you don’t.”

Oppressive silence hung over the meeting. Trixie glanced over to Blueblood with a worried expression. They hadn’t gotten what they wanted. Their cause was already floundering at the first hurdle. Blueblood looked back with a knitted brow. This was a victory, but it was a pathetic one to start on.

Zaruah clapped her hooves, and a pair of attendants entered to clean the blood and teacups from the table. They laid out fresh dishes, each piled high with small balls of fried dough dusted with sugar. “Now, dessert.”

A third camel entered and metered out four glasses of sweet, milky palm wine. Zaruah lifted her glass. The shallow wound on her foreleg still bubbled red.

“To the future Caliph.”

“To the future Caliph.” Blueblood and Trixie echoed as the four glasses struck together.

Even the sweets couldn’t lift the sour mood that lingered over them. Blueblood had to remind himself again and again that wars were not won in a day. This would have to do.

*****

In the morning, they prepared to depart. The camels had been generous with their parting gifts, even if all they had given were the basics. Shoresh had hitched himself to an open-topped wooden cart that carried the heaviest of their new gear. They had two tents that could house their ten with room to spare, cots and blankets to keep them off the sand and safe from the nightly chill, rations of water and unleavened bread, a compass, tinderboxes, and pots for cooking. Chicory lashed the last of their supplies into the wagon and hopped down, bidding a fond farewell to Zaruah.

Blueblood had already chartered their course on the newly acquired map of the desert. No longer were they wandering aimlessly. They had a path that would lead them to fresh water and wild grasses. Pride was back on his hip and his newly acquired beaded bag bounced against his flank. He had managed to talk Zaruah into gifting him some fresh parchment, ink, quills, and a few bottles of dragonfire.

The march began in the dimness before the dawn. Zaruah’s notes indicated that the best times to travel were the early morning and mid-afternoon, resting during the sweltering hours of noon to beat the heat.

Cedar was content to ride alone with the supplies in the cart, dangling his hooves over the edge as they trundled through the desert on barely discernable tracks of packed sand. Chicory walked with a scowl on her face, avoiding conversation. Last night hadn’t gone according to plan. She had expected to leave the negotiations with a banner held high, streaming at the forefront of a legion of Camish soldiers and backed by the gold of a powerful merchant tribe. Instead, all they had to show for their efforts was a map and some provisions they should have started their journey with.

“We’re not going to convince anyone, are we?” Chicory said to Blueblood as he hovered over his compass.

Blueblood’s ears perked up. “Not happy about last night?”

“No.” She mused bitterly. “We’re fighting for what’s right, to give everyone a better Saddle Arabia, but that doesn't matter. No one wants to fight for a cause. They want something to gain.”

“Sadly, that’s politics.” Blueblood shrugged his shoulders. “Unless there’s something in it for them, they don’t want to put themselves on the line.”

“So how do we convince anyone to fight with us? We have no money, no connections, and no power.”

Blueblood traced the tip of his hoof across the map. It landed on a triangle only half a day's travel from their destination. The Asil Oilfields. Beside it on the map was scrawled a list of crossed-out former owners, the most recent addition to the list was Appleoosan Oil CEO Razor Russet.

“People love a good cause, but they’re loathe to throw themselves into it without insurance.” Blueblood gestured for Shoresh to turn the cart as they approached a sharp bend in the road. “Everyone roots for the underdog, but they don’t bet on them. We need to show everyone we’re worth betting on.”

“And how do the Asil Oilfields factor into that?” Chicory quirked her eyebrow.

Blueblood smiled grimly. “We need to start racking up victories somewhere, don’t we?”

He Will Sacrifice His Name

Blueblood had never experienced true, swallowing silence until nightfall on the dunes. The rest of his cohort had all filed off to sleep shortly after dinner, exhausted from the long journey to the oasis. In truth, Blueblood was just as tired as they were; Canterlot aerobics hadn’t prepared him for long treks under the Saddle Arabian sun. Yet despite the sleep gnawing at his bones, he sat awake beside the dying embers of their cookfire, watching the sparks rise to meet the stars. A half-moon illuminated the dunes with streams of silver. Unshackled from civilization's light pollution, the stars burned brighter than Blueblood had ever seen them.

Beyond the circle of his fire, something stirred in shadow. Blueblood touched Pride with his magic and narrowed his gaze.

“Cousin,” Princess Luna intoned softly as she solidified in the firelight. Her eyes flicked to his blade. “I would not advise you to draw.”

Blueblood’s magic faded away as he released his sword. Luna stood at the border of his vision, where the light and shadow comingled. In the guttering embers, her expression was as stern as stone.

“I expect you know why I have come.” Her voice was quiet and effortlessly authoritative.

“I don’t suppose you’re here to help me?” Blueblood’s tone was sharp and clipped. “Or to tell me that Celestia has dispatched her lapdog to assist me?”

“Neither.” She stepped fully into the light, her vantablack feathers seeming to roil with shadow as she spread her wings. “This isn’t something I want to do, mind you.”

“It’s something Auntie asked you to do, isn’t it?” Blueblood laughed acidly. “She can’t spare the time to do it herself.”

“No,” Luna spoke and the embers burned to cold, silent ash. “She was…” The princess worked her tongue behind her teeth, fishing for words. Exhaling slowly, she found nothing eloquent to complete her thought. “She was devastated by your letter. Devastated by what it would mean. What she would have to do.”

“So she pushed it onto you.”

“Blueblood, I had to raise the sun for her this morning.” Luna took a step closer to him, bowing her neck to stand at eye level with him. “Do you know how long it’s been since I took control of her sun?”

Blueblood swallowed hard.

“She couldn’t do this herself.” Luna shook her head, the stars in her mane blinking mournfully. “And she has asked me to relay that she hopes this will only be a temporary measure, but—”

“She thinks I’ve failed.” Blueblood interrupted, hoping to prolong the inevitable. “That she made a mistake sending me.”

“Cousin…”

“She entrusted this to me and I ruined everything.” Blueblood could feel pinpricks of fresh salt welling in the corners of his eyes. “That’s why she’s so upset. Because she finally realized she was right about me all along. I am exactly what she always said I was when she thought I wasn’t listening.” He brushed his burning face with the back of his hoof, his throat constricting and cracking as he tried to go on. “Weak! Powerless! Outmoded the second that a half-decent wizard dropped into her lap!” Blueblood’s spine was throbbing, wings that would never be pressing like needles into muscle and sinew. “This was my last chance to show I’m worth a damn, and look where it got me!”

Luna’s jaw twitched. “You know that’s not true. She loves you more than—”

“Why?” Blueblood’s hooves trembled furiously.

“Why?”

“Why does she love me?” His breath came in shallow, ragged puffs. Tears streaked down his cheeks, despite how hard he tried to repress them. “She has her successor.” The words hurt his teeth. “You and Celestia both know that I’m no Twilight Sparkle. I don’t— I can’t be her. I’ll never be her.”

“Can Celestia not love you both?”

“No.” Blueblood dug his hoof into the sand. “No, she could never love me. Not when she has somepony better in every way at her side.” He dragged in a breath and sniffled. “She doesn’t need me anymore.”

Luna’s wings embraced Blueblood as his last defenses were broken. He couldn’t stop himself. Words failed him as he dropped to the sand and cried. He screamed into the sand, his voice muffled as he soaked the earth with tears. Luna knelt beside him, shielding him with her wing.

“Oh, Blueblood,” Luna whispered, her voice scented with the dust of far-off worlds. Her hoof rested on the small of his back and he recoiled at the touch. She sighed softly. “You remind me of another pony I once knew, thousands of years ago, who also thought love and necessity were one and the same.”

“Who?” Blueblood’s voice was small and meek.

“Me.” Luna touched him again, and this time he didn’t flinch. “I wanted to be loved for a thankless task. I wanted somepony to see the hard work I did and acknowledge me for it. When nopony did, I assumed…” A flicker of sorrow danced across her features. “I assumed I was unloved. Loving somepony and needing somepony are two very different things.”

Her eyes drifted from him and towards the camp behind them.

“Cousin, would you say that you need Trixie?”

Blueblood blinked away the shock as he lifted his face from the sand. “I— Do I need her?”

“Yes.” Luna was calm and collected in the face of his clear embarrassment. “Could you not replace her with a Canterlot-trained battlemage and get better results? I’m sure somepony with more training would teleport you where you needed on the first try, rather than the seventh.”

“I suppose.” He sniffed, his cheeks burning bright red.

“But you don’t.” Her lip curved in a crescent smile. “You seek her out constantly, despite not needing her. Despite having a thousand other ponies more qualified to do her job.”

Blueblood could tell what she was getting at. He couldn’t meet Luna’s eyes, so he fixated on the damp spot in the sand where his tears had fallen.

“Celestia loves you. I love you.” Luna’s hoof gently rubbed his shoulder. “You’re the best cousin I’ve ever had.”

“We’re not really cousins.”

“I know.”

“I’m also your only ‘cousin’.”

“I know that too.” She chuckled, her laughter like a tolling bell.

A moment passed between them. Blueblood couldn’t find words to express himself, so he didn’t bother trying. He placed his hoof on top of hers, hoping that his meager display of affection was enough. It was. Luna's wing brushed his cheek, his tears sparkling on her feathers like starry dew.

“Of course,” Luna’s voice regained its regal register. “There’s still unfinished business.”

Blueblood cursed inwardly. The princess rose from her seat and spread her wings, smiting the stars in their shade.

“Your power and authority were invested upon you by Celestia and myself. In light of your recent actions, we have chosen to divest you of those powers.”

It was the moment he was dreading from the moment Luna arrived. Knowing it was coming didn’t make it hurt any less.

“You are no longer a Prince of Equestria. To represent yourself as such is to go against the will of Celestia. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“You are furthermore stripped of your status as Minister of Foreign Affairs. You are not to meddle in Equestria’s foreign policy from this point forward. Do you understand?”

Blueblood bit his lip. He tasted blood. “I understand.”

“Lastly, you are hereby discharged as Equestrian Ambassador to Saddle Arabia.” At this, Luna met his eyes. Something within them sparkled faintly, a hint at some deeper meaning. “Any actions you commit from this moment forth are not under the ordainment of Equestria. You do not represent Celestia, Luna, or any other member of the royal lineage. Celestia wanted it made clear that your actions henceforth are your own to choose.”

A long pause. Luna let her words and their implications sink in.

“Do you understand?”

Blueblood turned it over in his mind. Your actions are your own to choose. That was what Celestia wanted to stress above all else.

She was removing his claim to the throne, yes, but she was also unbinding him. If he didn’t represent Equestria, then he was just a pony acting of his own volition. Celestia couldn’t be held liable for anything he did, and he didn’t have to act under Equestrian law. Not that he intended to let the law stop him in the first place, but this was a tacit endorsement. That, he hadn’t expected.

“I understand.” Blueblood nodded solemnly.

Luna’s magic reached out and plucked the crown from his forehead. She held it in front of her snout and turned it over. “It would be cruel to take this from you when it's nearly all you have to remember home.”

“I’d like to keep it if you’ll allow me.” He said softly, pleading with his eyes. “I’d give you my blade, but I have a feeling I’ll need it.”

“Keep it.” Luna tossed it back to him and he caught it in his hooves. “Remember, you’re loved. Wherever you are.”

“I will.”

“And whatever you do.” She faded into the shadows of the desert, leaving only her ghostly smile behind. “Make us proud.”

She vanished on a desert breeze, with only shimmering hoofprints to mark her passing.

That was when Blueblood awoke with a start. He sat beside a shallow pit of embers spitting sparks into a starry sky. His heart was racing, like he had just been shaken from a nightmare. Clutching his chest, Blueblood took a few shaky breaths and steadied himself. His crown had fallen onto the sand beside him, and he raised it with his magic.

Celestia’s sunburst sigil was no more. Sapphires and diamonds formed the handles and blades of two crossed swords, backed by a ruby flame.

Blueblood smiled faintly as he crowned himself. The band felt heavier than usual upon his brow.

*****

“What do you mean you don’t have a plan?” Chicory said as she stared across the horizon.

The Asil Oilfields loomed in front of them, studded with jet-black derricks that pumped in stiff, metronome unison. The sand itself was so dense with the stuff that it was liberally splotched with onyx stains. It looked like somepony had started writing a letter with a dull quill and overturned their inkwell. Even at this distance, they could smell the heavy chemical stink of fresh crude. With sleek pipelines and gleaming metal storage tanks painted with the sunny yellow apple of the Appleoosan Oil company, it looked like a city of tomorrow sprung from the desert sand. Yet in the shadow of every derrick stood hundreds of ramshackle structures for the workers. Shacks of sheet metal and cloth hastily erected at nearly no cost. Blueblood couldn’t help but contrast them with the very modern-looking guard towers that surrounded the property.

“I didn’t say I don’t have a plan.” Blueblood picked at his breakfast. “I said I don’t have a good plan. Very different thing.”

“So, what’s the bad plan?”

Well, the way I see it,” He gestured vaguely to the shantytown that stretched between the pipelines. “The workers outnumber their guards roughly five to one. What they don’t have are arms.”

“Indigo, we don’t have weapons to spare.” Chicory clutched her jezail protectively. “Not to mention the ammunition we would need.”

“Like I said, it wasn’t a good plan.”

“It’s not even a plan! It’s the vague suggestion of a plan!”

“I feel like you’re being really critical when I’m still in the planning stage.” Blueblood pouted. “Just let me think it over.”

“Indigo…” Chicory huffed, rubbing her temples. “You brought us here because you said we needed to start earning victories.”

“And we will! I just need a minute to—” He trailed off into thought. His eyes drifted to Trixie, who was seated on the sand munching on a slice of toasted bread with some of the preserves the camels had given them. “Are you going to help, or just eat?”

Trixie swallowed her mouthful and wiped her lips. “You were the one who insisted on discussing this over breakfast.”

“You can plan and eat at the same time.”

“You always complain about me talking with my mouth full!”

Blueblood exhaled sharply through his nose. “Do you have any ideas to add, or not?”

“Well, there’s already one flaw in your conceptual plan.” Trixie took another bite of her toast, mushing her words through the preserves out of spite. “Even if you arm the workers, the guards are gonna be all over them in seconds.”

“And you still don’t have a way to arm them,” Chicory added impatiently.

“I’m working on it.” Blueblood swatted their complaints away with a swish of his tail. “And we can’t take their guards in a fair fight…” His eyes scanned the oilfields again. The bulk of the structures were situated in a dip between a pair of dunes, which concealed the approach from both sides. “But what if we split their force?”

Chicory followed his eyes. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“We distract them on one dune, attack from the other. Easier to face half their guards than all of them, right?”

“And where do we get a dist—” Before Chicory had even finished speaking, her gaze drifted to Trixie’s jam-smeared face.

“Leave that to me.” She tipped her hat with a smirk. “I can be very distracting.”

“That just leaves the problem of finding arms.” Chicory was pacing back and forth, a nervous tic she had seemingly inherited from Blueblood. “Cause unless we can count on a worker uprising backing us, it's suicidal to attack their guards, even with a diversion.”

Blueblood clapped his hooves with a crack. “The armory!”

“What?”

“Look at all those guard towers.” Blueblood pointed to the slick, stainless steel structures that surrounded the property. “If they’re employing that many soldiers, they need weapons, ammunition, and repairs, right?”

“I follow.” Chicory nodded.

“So they have to have an armory. It's just a matter of figuring out where it is and how to get into it.” He paced back and forth on the crest of the dune, munching on a piece of toasted bread with a tart lemony jam. “And if we can get into it, we can arm the workforce. Then it's simple, overpower the guards, give some motivational speeches, swell our numbers, strip the place for supplies, and move on to the next target.”

“That’s still barely a plan.”

“But it's more than we had a minute ago.” Trixie butted in, holding up a hoof.

“And what if they don’t let you into the armory?” Chicory raised an eyebrow. “What if instead they just shoot you dead?”

Blueblood’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Not if I have a hostage.”

“And how do you intend to get a hostage?” Chicory snorted. “You’re not just going to walk up to the gates and get an audience with Razor Russet himself!”

*****

The entry gate opened as Blueblood gave a grateful bow to the guards. “Just to confirm, I follow this path straight, take a left at the fork, and that will bring me to Mr. Russet?”

“You’ll know his office when you see it. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.” The guard leaned lazily against a chain link fence, gesturing with his musket. Blueblood noted the manufacturer's stamp. Fairweather Firearms of course. “We’ll send a message ahead letting him know to expect you. We don’t often get visits from royalty out here!”

“So it would seem.” Blueblood snorted haughtily. “Canterlot this is not.”

Lifting his snout, Blueblood strode confidently into the compound, unharassed by the guards that buzzed about like flies. The news of what had transpired in Sutaf was still trickling out in waves. Snatches of conversation revealed that they knew there had been a coup, though who had come out on top was still in the weeds. Thankfully, nopony seemed to have Blueblood’s name on their lips. His role in the proceedings was still entirely unknown.

As he walked, Blueblood paid close attention to the workers he passed by. Tried, haggard, and overworked, horses and jackals trudged from one task to the next. They were drilling here, extracting there, checking purity levels in between, and repairing tools everywhere they could. He saw how they glared at the guards with obvious animosity, how they whispered and narrowed their eyes as he passed them by. They hurled stinging insults is Sarabic under their breath as soldiers marched past them in crisp, clean uniforms. Blueblood could feel the tension bubbling like kerosene beneath the surface. All it needed was a spark to set it off.

He made a left at the fork and realized quickly that they weren’t kidding about Russet's office being obvious. Surrounded on all sides by stark poverty was a manor that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the more posh suburbs of Canterlot. It was a split-level, plantation-style home transplanted into the middle of the desert, surrounded by a lush lawn of sweet-smelling grass. Blueblood could only imagine the cost to maintain the sod. He wondered if the grass made more money than the workers here.

Russet himself stood on the porch beaming with pride. A lavender-coated, golden-maned earthpony dressed in a black leather vest and a wide-brimmed stetson leapt from the porch and galloped towards Blueblood, all too eager to please visiting royalty.

“Well, I’ll be an orangutan’s nephew!” His hoof clapped Blueblood’s with a resounding slap. “Prince Blueblood in the flesh! What brings a feller like you down to the Asil?”

Blueblood shook hooves vigorously and plastered his brightest smile on his lips. “Well, I imagine the same thing that drew you this far from Equestria! Profit!”

“Speakin’ my language right away! That’s what I like to hear!” Russet tipped his hat and motioned for Blueblood to follow. “Let's getcha outta the heat! Absolutely ghastly place to be without air conditioning, lemme tell ya!”

They entered the manor and immediately Blueblood was met with a wall of cool air. After two days in the desert, he shivered at the sensation. As he glanced around the entryway, all Blueblood could think about was the cost. Dark oak floorboards imported from Equestria squeaked beneath his hooves. Portraits of Russet and his associates lined the walls, each of which had been painstakingly hoof-painted. A chandelier at the top of a nearby staircase tinkled softly, the sound of real crystal resonant in the quietude. As he was ushered into the sitting room and offered a glass of lemonade, he wondered how hard it was to get real sugar this far from home. Razor Russet was wealthy, almost indescribably so. As he sank into an easy chair by the window and observed his empire at work, Blueblood wondered just how far that wealth could reach.

A taciturn unicorn stood in the corner of the living room, sword at his hip. He regarded Blueblood with a cold nod.

“Just one minute,” Russet waved his guest towards a comfortable, plush chair by the window. The unicorn silently handed over a hoof-sized metal box to his superior, who held it to his mouth and depressed a button on its side. When he went on, his voice echoed through the streets outside, amplified and repeated at every intersection of his factory. “Alright, ya’ll. Lunch break is over! Back to your scheduled positions!”

Sliding the device into his vest pocket, Razor Russet beamed with pride. “Ever seen one’a these? Picked it up in the Gryphon Kingdoms. They call ‘em Squalk Boxes. They got some real geniuses up there!”

“Must’ve been expensive.” Blueblood smiled faintly, resting his hooves on the chair.

“Celestia’s mane, what happened to your hoof there?” Russet pointed to the still-healing wound on Blueblood’s foreleg. “Looks like ya either got stabbed, shot, or bit by a rattler!”

“Hm? Oh, this?” Blueblood lifted his foreleg and tried to be nonchalant about it. “Got it the other day while I was fleeing the capitol.”

“Ah, yeah. I heard somethin’ was goin’ down there. Didn’t they kill the Caliph or somethin’?” Russet sipped his lemonade and shook his head. “Always somethin' goin’ on. Probably jackal-related. Them dogs just never content, I tell ya. Give ‘em a good payin’ job, roof over their heads, put food on their table, and what? All for nothin’. They’ll find somethin’ to grouse about sure as the sky is blue. Horses too. There just ain't the kinda work ethic you get in Equestria, I'll say.”

“Honestly I’m still not sure.” Blueblood shrugged. “Everything happened so quickly that it was hard to tell what it was all about. I’m just glad to have gotten out with my life.”

“Hoo-boy, you know things are gettin’ bad when a Prince of Equestria ain’t safe!” Russet clucked his tongue, chiding the world. “So, y’said you were interested in learnin’ about the business, eh? Lookin’ to invest?”

“It’s a sector of the Equestrian economy that I’ve never given much thought. I’ve always been aware of the oil industry, but never really seen it up close.” Blueblood propped a hoof beneath his chin in thought. “For the life of me, I can’t understand where the demand comes from. Airships run on natural gas, ocean-bound vessels burn coal, and carriages.. well, they’re quite literally run by ponies! So why then, do I constantly get requests crossing my desk to secure drilling rights in Buffalo lands? Surely there’s not that large of a market, is there?”

“True, there ain’t much demand in Equestria just yet.” Russet chuckled softly, polishing off his glass of lemonade. He plucked out one of the ice cubes and loudly crunched it between his teeth. “I reckon that’ll change soon though. For now, we do a lotta business up north with the Gryphon kingdoms. Kleinkrieg, Schadenfreude, and Glucksfeder are all pretty darn huge customers of ours. You ever seen them big machines they use for harvestin’ their fields? Big ol’ threshin’ machines that roar like a stampede and stink like the devil!” He wrinkled his snout at the recollection.

“I believe I saw one when during my last visit to Kleinkrieg. Thankfully I wasn’t close enough to smell it.” Blueblood smiled faintly.

“All of ‘em run on oil! Same with the airships up there, plus they got some new-fangled contraption they’re callin’ the ‘auto-carriage’. They say it's a horse-drawn carriage with no horse!” He slapped his knee. “Imagine that! Course, they got their own oilfields up north, but we undercut the price by oh… ten percent or so. Saves a lotta money in the long term.”

“I guess that would explain all the requests for more drilling rights then.”

“Oh, since I gotcha here, and we’re talkin' about drilling rights! I meant to ask,” Russet leaned forward in his chair. “I just got a survey team back from Yakyakistan, and they were sayin’ there’s a huge untapped reserve down under the Bos Plateau. Could be a billion bit payout! Now, I know you’re hurtin’ after Saddle Arabia kickin’ you out in a coup, but maybe, since you’re all over that foreign affairs hoo-ha, you could send somepony to the Yaks who might talk em into openin’ up? See, we talked with some of the locals there and they didn’t take none to kindly to our first offer. But I figure you’re all about that smooth talkin’ wheelin’ and dealin’ mumbo jumbo, so—”

Russet’s voice faded into the background as Blueblood retreated into his comfort zone of nodding politely and smiling. As long as he feigned interest, Russet seemed perfectly content to regale him with tales of profit to be gained, black gold to be extracted, and new markets to tap. All Blueblood needed to do was let him ramble until it was time to make his move.

He just hoped he didn’t need to wait too long.

*****

“What do you mean you’ve never heard of me?” Trixie stomped a hoof in the sand as she stood outside the gate, demanding entry. “I have a contract to perform here in—” She craned her neck to spy the time clock in the guard booth nearby. “Just under an hour!”

“Nopony has a magic show on the schedule for the day.” The guard, a sunny-coated pegasus with pronounced bags beneath her eyes, reiterated for what felt like the hundredth time. “If Mr. Russet orders entertainment, it's on the docket months ahead of schedule. This is the first I’m hearing about this supposed, ‘All-Employee Magical Extravaganza’ as you put it.”

“Well check again!” Trixie folded her hooves over her chest.

The guard ran a hoof down her face and sighed, pulling the calendar from within her tiny office. She tapped a hoof on the date, which was empty. “Like I said. Nothing on the schedule.”

Trixie harumped and tossed her mane. “Now see here, miss…”

“Citrus Tang.”

“Miss Tang.” Trixie leveled her gaze from beneath the brim of her hat. “I’d like to speak with your manager.”

“Sure, lemme grab her.” Citrus flashed a chipper smile and stepped into the guardhouse. There was the sound of papers shuffling, a few muffled expletives, and a glug from a bottle. Citrus emerged from the guardhouse a few seconds later, the faint odor of gin on her breath. “Okay, my manager is here.”

“Is she…” Trixie’s eyes darted from side to side, her voice dropping to a hush. “Invisible?”

“No, she’s me.”

“But I wanted to speak with—”

“The joke is that I’m the manager.” Citrus’ wings chafed with frustration.

Trixie’s cheeks burned as she swiftly averted her gaze. “Well, that’s not a very funny joke.”

“I’m a soldier, not a comedian.”

“Evidently, you’re not a scheduler either.”

“No, that’s up to Russet, who very clearly did not schedule you.”

Swallowing hard, Trixie cast a quick glance to the ridge to the east, waiting for gunshots that never came. Already a small crowd of guards had gathered to watch her pathetic display, nudging one another and sharing repressed snickers. She needed more. She needed to draw as much attention as possible. For that, she needed to speed things along. She had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but she was left with no choice. Steeling herself, Trixie took a deep breath and prepared the next act of her show.

“Please, please, please just let me in!” Trixie flopped down in the sand and stared up at Citrus through tear-clouded eyes. “I haven’t had a gig in months! I’m nearly at my wits end trying to pay the bills and I thought if anypony would take mercy on a poor, traveling magician it would be the magnanimous, philanthropic, generous soul of Razor Russet!”

“Uh,” Citrus threw a glance back to the gathering throng of bored guards observing the scene and shrugged in confusion. “I have no idea why you thought he’d be interested in a magic show. I mean, usually, the entertainment is more along the lines of fancy cocktails or—”

“But alas, the rumors are true!” Trixie lay flat on her back in the sand, gasping with sobs as she gazed into a cloudless sky. “Gone are the days when the wealthy of Equestria patronized the arts with their limitless bits!” She arched her back and inched across the dirt like a worm, flailing her hooves like a petulant little filly. “Now poor, brilliant artistes like myself must suffer and scrape just to put crumbs on the table!”

Trixie rolled onto her stomach and sighed as dramatically as she possibly could, enough that the dust scattered on her breath. “What a fool I was! What a poor, deluded fool I was to think there was any kindness and decency left in Equinity!”

“What’s she goin’ on about?” A unicorn with haphazardly trimmed stubble shouted from behind the fence.

Citrus rolled her eyes and rubbed her temple. “Something about the cruelty of the world or some guff like that.”

“Is life even worth living? Would it be nobler to walk into the desert sands and die of thirst rather than beg for the scraps at the gate?” Trixie clutched her throat and retched, extending a frail, trembling hoof towards the guards.

“If you had asked for water I’d have brought you some!” Citrus groaned and ducked into the guardhouse, rummaging through her belongings. She reappeared holding a paper cup full of water, which she extended to Trixie.

“You think now you can placate me with pitiful charity?” Trixie swatted the cup away, spilling it on the sand. “Ha! No! I shall die with dignity and—”

A report of gunfire suddenly shattered her scene. Trixie’s eyes whipped to the eastern dune, where Chicory and her rag-tag rebellion were reloading their jezails. It was hard to make out any details at this distance, but Trixie could already hear the clamor of hooves as guards on the eastern side of the oilfield raced to grab their weapons and mount an offensive.

Citrus and her squadron immediately forgot about Trixie’s theatrics, scrambling to mobilize and join their comrades. That was precisely what Trixie sought to prevent. With all eyes off her, she ignited her horn beneath her starry hat and set off a flurry of prepared spells.

Noisy explosions rocked the ridge to the west, shots screaming and exploding in clouds of white, sulfurous smoke. The peak of the dune was shrouded in misty gunsmoke as Citrus threw herself to the ground and clapped her hooves over her head. After checking herself for injuries, she leapt to her hooves and flared her wings.

“It’s a pincer maneuver!” She yelled over the sound of a second volley exploding from the ridge. “They must’ve positioned artillery on the bluffs! They’re gonna shell us from behind if we don’t take it out!”

“But what about—” An earthpony gestured to the opposing dune, where Chicory’s team fired a second volley and began to retreat. Citrus silenced him with a wave of her hoof.

“If we don’t take out those cannons, we’re as good as dead! Let the 38th handle the east! We’re gonna take the west!” The iron in her wings shimmered in the desert sun. “17th, on me!”

Five pegasi joined her as she took off, followed on the ground by columns of unicorns and earthponies marching at a brisk trot. Trixie couldn’t help but grin as she watched them speed off towards an empty target. With another flicker of magic, she set off yet another rolling barrage of magical fireworks to give the impression of incoming fire. Brushing the sand from her coat, she strode off through the slightly ajar gate with a smug grin.

All according to plan so far.

*****

“Basically if we can get the rights to extract at the Boddho Reservoir, we’d be in a position to make upwards of six billion bits a week in pure profit!” Russet slapped a hoof against the arm of his chair. “You’ve gotta be insane to skip out on investin’!” He stroked his chin thoughtfully as he continued, kicking his hooves up on a velvet ottoman. “So I’m thinkin’ maybe a twenty-eighty profit split if you can talk Chancellor Yunus into the deal. After all, it’ll still be my equipment and my employees doin’ all the hard work! That sounds about fair to me, don’t it?”

Blueblood opened his mouth for a noncommital reply, only for a round of echoing gunfire to interrupt him. He breathed a sigh of relief knowing he didn’t need to listen to another round of business proposals. “What in Celestia’s name was that?”

Russet swallowed hard, shifting in his seat and trying to make himself more comfortable. “Probably just the guards doin’ a lil’ target practice.”

When another, much louder roll of explosions rocked the room, Russet’s expression shifted. He rose from his seat and glanced out the window. Workers had abandoned their posts to stare off at the line of smoke wisping thickly on the dunes. The reality that his oilfield was under attack was slowly sinking in as his hooves worried the fabric of his suit.

“Seems like whatever trouble is goin’ down in the capitol has followed you here.” He gave Blueblood a faint, nervous smile. “Don’t worry, we’ve got some of Equestria’s finest guardin’ our facility here.”

Blueblood slid from his chair and finished off his glass of lemonade. “Unfortunately, the trouble is me.”

The unicorn in the corner didn’t waste a second. In a flash, his blade was out and traveling in a deadly arc toward Blueblood’s muzzle. Pride intercepted the attack and Blueblood quickly closed the distance between himself and his attacker. Russet turned to run, only for the prince to kick an ottoman into his path and send him sprawling.

The bodyguard disengaged, shattered his blade, and fired three shards toward their guest. With practiced efficiency, Blueblood deflected them with the flat of his sword, pirouetted around a fourth, and delivered a devastating slash to the unicorn’s throat. Retching, he fell, clutching his neck as his life gushed between his hooves.

Flecked with gore, Blueblood callously kicked the downed CEO, turning him over onto his back. Blinking stars from his vision, Russet stared up into Blueblood’s gunmetal eyes. The tip of Pride hovered a hair away from his nose.

Too stunned for eloquence, Razor Russet only managed a strangled, “Why?”

“Your armory.” Blueblood imbued his voice with all the royal authority he could muster. “Turn over your arms, or die.”

“You—” Russet scrabbled backward, his hooves clattering on the polished boards. “You traitor! Celestia ought to disown you!”

“She already has.” Blueblood kept his blade at the earthpony’s Adam's apple. His glare flicked to the CEO’s bulging shirt pocket. “Stand up. If you follow my orders to the letter, I might let you live.”

*****

As Trixie walked through the streets of the refinery, her nostrils flared at the thick, omnipresent odor of crude. She was getting a headache after being here only a few minutes, the thought of working and living in this miasmatic cloud was unbearable. There were workers everywhere, horses and jackals alike dressed in limp, ragged sarongs that showed off their lean and hungry forms. Some were still toiling away at their jobs, tuning out the din of combat. Most however had abandoned their posts, leaving tools and instruments haphazardly as they congregated on the facility outskirts, pressing against the fence to watch the battle.

That was until a loud squeal of static feedback made everyone wince.

“All hooves to the eastern rally point!” The voice of Razor Russet echoed from every intersection. “This is not a drill! All hooves to the eastern rally point!”

Trixie rubbed her ears and shook her head. She hoped that meant that Blueblood had accomplished his task. Confused voices whispered in Sarabic as the employees swarmed together into a single, teeming river of equinity. Trixie slipped into the waters and followed their flow, sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of drab brown, black, and beige.

As they circled a massive, unpainted storage tank seemed to boil in the heat, Trixie could see the guards scrabbling to the top of the dune and unloading an uncoordinated volley. She swallowed hard, knowing that those bullets were aimed at her friends. Lighting her horn, she set off another round of firecrackers, hoping that the sound was convincing enough to keep the other half of the soldiers occupied.

The eastern rally point was situated between a pair of buildings, one was identical to the small, plywood and sheet metal guardhouse Trixie had argued at earlier, but the other was unfamiliar. It looked less like an industrial building and more like a bunker lifted from a far-flung battlefield. It was dense, heavy, carved from sunburned and pitted concrete, and reinforced with rusty rebar that poked through in tangles. This had to be the place.

The whispers and murmurs peaked as Razor Russet appeared, trotting at sword-point with Blueblood close behind. Silence fell over the workers like a shroud and Trixie breathed a sigh of relief.

Trembling, the CEO lifted a key from his keychain and inserted it into the lock. He turned it with a thunk that seemed to echo through the crowd like a clap of thunder. Everyone gathered seemed to realize what this meant. They barely breathed as Blueblood entered the armory, leaving Russet standing by the door twisting his jacket in his hooves. When Blueblood emerged from within, carrying a musket slung over his shoulder, Trixie could feel the inhalations of hundreds of workers.

Language barrier aside, Trixie knew excitement when she heard it.

The air was electric as Blueblood raised the gun over his head. The diamonds of his crown cast dapples of prismatic light across his coat. He tossed the musket to a jackal at the forefront of the crowd, who caught it and clutched it with a look of awe etched across his mein. Blueblood flourished Pride thrusting it skyward as he bellowed with the Royal Canterlot voice.

The words were lost on Trixie, but the soon-to-be-liberated workforce heard him loud and clear.

“Cast off your chains and free yourselves! Rise!”

*****

One good thing about jezails was they had excellent range. They shot further than muskets or rifles and were damn accurate. Chicory had always preferred them for that reason alone.

The downside was they were hard to carry at a run, and the long barrel made them awkward and frustrating to reload at best. Suddenly, she was incredibly jealous of those muskets she had always turned up her snout at, with their stubby barrels and shorter ranges. As it turned out, less range meant very little when your enemies had double your numbers.

Another volley cracked behind her, and Chicory threw herself to the sand. Bullets whizzed around her, pockmarking the earth like a disease. She rolled to her belly, whipped around, and fired off a round in return, She had no idea if she hit anything. Scrambling to her hooves, she tried to stuff another cartridge down the barrel as she sprinted but gave up on it within seconds.

“Keep moving!” Chicory screamed, watching as her ragtag legion sprung from the dirt and raced after her, gasping raggedly for breath. Crocus reached the crest of a dune, turned, and drew a bead on a pegasus descending on their position. Slapping the firing lever, Crocus blasted them out of the sky in a spray of red feathers.

Another coordinated volley raked their line. Many of the bullets lodged themselves in the thick sand of the dune, but at least one struck home. blasting Shoresh in the leg and sending him sprawling. Under fire, Crocus and Chicory grabbed him and dragged him behind the dune as he snarled pain between clenched teeth.

This was the part of their limited strategy Chicory had been dreading. As a squadron of earthponies and unicorns ascended the steep, crumbling dune, Chicory held her breath. Her eyes flicked to a rocky plateau in the middle distance. Something familiar stirred there, and she prayed that it had the good sense not to attract attention.

Cedar stared out at the battle raging in the distance, narrowing his eyes and trying to focus. His metal armband glowed a burnt red as he held out his hoof and breathed slowly. He tried to remember what Miss Briar had taught him. The memories rolled through him; an exciting escape from the palace under cover of darkness, reuniting with a mother who existed only in fragments before, and a friend from another country who had risked everything to protect him. Emotion welled up in his chest until there was nothing he could do but release it.

Fire swept across the sand in a crooked line. Flames sprang up as if written by a divine quill, scorching the desert and reducing the earth to molten glass. The ponies' advance halted as the fire separated them from their quarry. Chaos erupted in their battle line. Ponies threw themselves away from the bubbling, steaming slag, bags of powder were hurled away as the blaze caught them, and a few terrified recruits began beating a hasty retreat.

The confusion gave Chicory enough time to rally her troops. Jezails were reloaded, a line was formed, and their guns were cocked.

“Aim!” Chicory screamed as her loyal revolutionaries sighted their weapons. She held her breath as she pinned a panicked unicorn in her eyes. “Fire!”

Eleven jezails belched fire in rapid succession. At this range, their guns couldn’t miss. Ponies dropped like flies under the devastating barrage, sowing chaos in their already panicked line. The attempt to reform ranks and return fire came too late. A second volley slammed into their division, the jezail bullets descending on them like leaden hailstones.

The tide had turned, however briefly, but Chicory knew it couldn’t last. As she struggled to cram another cartridge into her jezail, she realized it was her last round. Crocus looked at her with a worried frown as she did the same. If they ran out, it was all for nothing.

“C’mon, Indigo.” She whispered under her breath. “Don’t let us down.”

The ponies below were rallying. Their unicorns were gathering together, counteracting Cedar’s flames with thick blasts of frost magic. Ranks were reforming and stragglers were dragged back into line. Chicory’s hooves trembled on the firing lever. Time was running out.

Something shifted. The sand under Chicory’s hooves trembled. A sound like oncoming thunder joined the ambient crackle of the flames. Blueblood appeared at the zenith of a dune to the rear of the Equestrian troops, whirling his blade in the setting sunlight. Trixie appeared at his side, far less dramatically as she came out of a teleport with her cape wrapped around her legs and fell flat on her face in the dirt.

“Lay down your arms or be annihilated!” Blueblood’s Royal Canterlot Voice boomed as he aimed his sword at the soldiers arrayed below.

As the rumbling of his voice faded away, a melange of workers arrayed themselves alongside him. Jackals and horses standing shoulder to shoulder, armed with pilfered muskets and stolen sabers. Hundreds stood behind him, fanned out in wide wings that enveloped their former overseers.

Blueblood waited for a response and prayed. The armory hadn’t been nearly as well stocked as they had hoped. He had only been able to properly arm less than a third of the workforce, with the rest having to make do with whatever they could scavenge. Many of them carried only planks of wood, bits of corroded rebar, or their tools of the trade. While Blueblood didn’t doubt that a sledgehammer could be devastating in a fight, an untrained mob was nothing compared to trained professionals. They had to buy his bluff that his numbers were enough.

“Lay down your arms!” He repeated, hoping that the desperation in his voice wasn’t too obvious. “I won’t ask you again!”

One musket hit the sand.

Then another.

Blueblood and Chicory both breathed a sigh of relief. The flames sputtered out as the ponies lifted their hooves in surrender. The captain of the 38th Battalion, an impressively sized earthpony with an equally impressive mustache, dropped his gun and approached Blueblood with his hooves raised.

“If you intend to kill me, then you had better—”

“I have no intention of killing you, captain.” Blueblood sheathed his blade. “After all, I'm not in charge here.”

Chicory scooped up a fallen firearm and tossed it to an unarmed jackal. "I, however, accept your surrender on behalf of the Caliph."

*****

By the time the 17th Battalion realized the ruse, it was too late. They returned to the oilfield to find it under the control of its former employees, many of whom were now armed and none too happy to see them. Under orders from Razor Russet himself, they too disarmed and surrendered. Chicory gave the order to provision them for three days travel through the desert, and used their Camish maps to chart them a course for the nearest train depot. There, they could hitch a ride back to Equestria.

The mood in the oilfield was one of celebration. Food stores were raided and stripped for supplies, the armory was picked clean of weapons and ammunition, and a few enterprising employees had broken the lock off one of the liquor cabinets in Russet’s quarters and had set up a bar on his front porch for all their comrades to drink. Trixie, naturally, was helping herself to a sweet white wine straight from the bottle, just the way she liked it.

The only one who wasn’t celebrating was Blueblood. He had holed himself up in Russet’s office and was dredging the company records for all they were worth.

Taking the oilfield was a military victory, yes. They had managed to outsmart their foes, swell their ranks, and fill their train with plundered supplies. All of that was a step in the right direction, but it wasn’t enough.

Someone knocked at the door and jolted Blueblood from his thoughts.

“Come in.” His voice was a raspy whisper. Using the Royal Canterlot voice that much in a single day was absolutely hellish on his throat. He felt like he had been gargling broken glass.

Chicory pushed open the door, Cedar bounding beside her with a massive grin on his face.

“Mr. Indigo, my mom wanted me to give you this!” He set down a steaming saucer of hot tea with lemon and honey. “She said it’ll help your sore throat!”

“Thank you, my Caliph,” Blueblood said with a bow of his head. “You’re very kind.”

Chicory pulled a wooden chair alongside him, resting her chin in her hoof. “You should celebrate at least a little. This was your plan, after all.”

“My plan, but your execution.” He sipped at the tea and hummed.

“Regardless, we have a win under our saddles.” Chicory pursed her lips as she perused the scattered papers on Russet’s desk. “But I take it you’re already preparing for the next step?”

“More an extension of this one.” Blueblood levitated a ledger of exports and passed it to Chicory. “Appleoosan Oil was mainly exporting to Kleinkrieg. Are you familiar with it?”

“Gryphon Kingdom, no?”

He nodded slowly. “The Asif ceasing production is a big deal. According to that ledger, it accounted for around ten percent of Kleinkrieg’s oil imports. That’s not something you just shrug off idly.”

“Retaliation?” Chicory bit her lip.

Blueblood smiled. “Cooperation.”

A flurry of emotions passed across Chicory’s mein as she processed the single word. At last, her expression settled on slight confusion. “But why?”

“The Asif is far from Kleinkrieg, much further than Equestria is anyway. Harder to maintain control in a foreign land than it is to cut a deal with the rulers.” Blueblood’s eyes turned to Cedar, who was rocking back and forth in a seat nearby.

Chicory’s eyes flickered with recognition. “And the legitimate ruler is right here.”

“Well, Caliph?” Blueblood raised an eyebrow at Cedar with a wry smirk. “Are you excited to meet some gryphons?”

*****

From the desk of Razor Russet, CEO of Appleoosan Oil Inc.

To whom it may concern,

The Asif Oilfield will be suspending production due to upheaval in the Saddle Arabia region. I understand this will cut into your supply rather drastically, but this can be a temporary measure. I am writing this letter to request a conference with the relevant authorities as soon as possible. The meeting location is attached at the bottom of this letter.

I anticipate your swift reply,
Vladimir Blueblood