He Who Speaks for the Sun

"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.