He Who Speaks for the Sun

"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.