Chrysalis had Opinions on intelligence, and just about all of them bordered on the religious. For example, she found the concept that anyone could be smarter than she to be absolute blasphemy and if she ever found the key to making her status as virtual goddess just a little more literal, one of her first divine acts would be to make sure it was also a sin.
She knew herself to be the most canny, quick-witted, astute sapient on the planet, because she knew a lot of things and whatever such a brilliant mind decided to tell itself was obviously going to be true. She clearly existed at the intellectual peak. This made part of her job into relentlessly kicking at those who seemed to be approaching the summit. Only one adult queen in a hive? That was among the oldest rules, channeled through t'fin'zi to create teaching lyrics within ancient songs. But it seemed to Chrysalis that if there was a summit, then there had to be one person occupying it. She acted accordingly.
No one else was on her creative level. Certainly nopony. It was just that... well, one of the ponies had said it. And far worse, rather than crafting a new kind of song around it as a sensible changeling would have done, allowing it to echo through the hive across a hundred generations -- they'd written it down.
(Chrysalis, who'd had to spend more time in pony society than anyone should have been made to deal with outside of a queen-assigned virtual death sentence, had effectively forced herself into literacy. It wasn't something she would casually wish on anyone, and therefore limited herself to wishing the inherent torment of the act upon those who'd invented it.)
And what were those recorded words? 'The central difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has limits.'
And this was the truth. It was possible for the moronic softbodies to stumble across a fundamental piece of gospel by accident, and Chrysalis had to recognize those scarce moments when they appeared -- although placing that particular tract into her eventual Guide To Worshiping Your Hardshelled Goddess songbook was right out. (She almost wished for the writer to have lived in her generation: if nothing else, it was clear that he would have made for an outstanding slave.) She could only think in Brilliance, casting out plans from the summit. Lowering herself into the truly bottomless depths of Idiocy was effectively impossible, and who knew what might bubble up from that swamp?
She was too smart to fully comprehend the stupidity of ponies. Incapable of anticipating the things they might think of, when they weren't truly thinking at all. That was why they kept beating her. She hadn't come up with a foolproof plan because fools were a lot like the ammsnogs which infested the lowest levels of poorly-maintained hives: endlessly blundering forward into defenses until they effectively pushed their way in.
But she kept trying. Genius had to triumph eventually, because what kind of world was it where the morons always won? And thanks to that last (in no way her fault) defeat, she had a new plan. Something which seemed guaranteed to work, just like all of the others. It was just that... due to the more exacting details of that most recent failure, she couldn't enact the first stage of her righteous vengeance personally.
Chrysalis was willing to live with that. After all, what good was being a queen if you couldn't order minions to do the work for you?
Proper delegation demonstrated intelligence.
...of course, it helped if you had a better selection of minions.
This throne room really shouldn't have been one. They'd set up a strictly-temporary hive in the Everfree, and there was a throne room because the queen had to issue orders from somewhere. But Chrysalis didn't like the current accommodations. The chamber was too small, there were rough spots on the floor, most of the liquid light trails which lined the upper rim were uneven, and the whole thing just came across as having been created by unskilled labor -- through a species with a biological caste system, where just about everyone present had been quite literally born to their jobs.
And that was because she'd been losing lackeys.
It (mostly) hadn't been from captures during previous brilliant plans. A changeling's dedication to hive and queen was absolute -- but those who were stupid enough to believe that they were effectively being ordered into suicide possessed what was supposed to be a seldom-used last resort option: to transfer their allegiance to a different hive. One which hadn't declared a fully sensible war on the whole of civilization. And because no one was as intelligent as Chrysalis, many of those who were too moronic to perceive her the inevitability of her ultimate victory had simply... left.
The result was a half-empty hive, almost fully devoid of the r'bin'dra and s'nar'ra castes. Just about no loremasters, almost entirely out of infiltrators, and a throne room which looked as if it had been secreted in a hurry by a construction team with a collective concussion.
...it didn't matter. All she needed was one conclusive victory and other hives would see their members transferring allegiance to hers. Besides, as far as Chrysalis was concerned, intelligence in a minion wasn't a particularly desirable trait. Those who could truly think might decide to start thinking about themselves. Instead of her. And then where would be the world be?
The changeling in front of her throne was on the small side. The edges of the chitin plates were rough, and there was something dim about the eyes. It was a changeling who seemed to be straddling the borders between castes: one of her last s'nar'ra -- one with no infiltration experience, but still a s'nar'ra -- but with some qualities of the lower-caste p'til'ni about them, which solidly included the near-universal lack of intellect.
That was fine. What she really needed was someone who was fairly good at disguises and even with the lack of practical experience in play, the teachers had suggested this was her best choice. (Or rather, the best one remaining. That would change once the well-earned transfers started coming in.) She came up with the plans. All she needed in the way of minion intellect was someone who could follow them.
She looked down from her throne at the s'nar'ra, who kept moving legs and wings in a pattern of minor nervousness. She understood. It could be hard for inferiority to exist in the direct presence of perfection.
"We all bask in the glory of your radiance --" her minion sang.
"Equestrian," she told him, not impolitely. "Everything in Equestrian from this point on. I'm sending you out. Let me hear their voice."
The changeling briefly glanced around the throne room. Uneven lines of light cast distorted shadows across biological armor, and then the dimmed gaze came to rest upon a traditional little curving shape which had been carved near the membrane-door. It was currently glowing a soft, balefire green: the hue of the queen's power and t'fin'zi alike.
"Should I be here?" the changeling said. It was a decent pony sound, if a little dulled.
"I summoned you," said what wasn't quite the last of Chrysalis' patience. She had truly infinite patience, which created certain mathematical questions as to how it could always be on the verge of running out.
She adjusted the hard bandage on her right flank. That section was starting to ache again.
"T'fin'zi says private conference. No one allowed in throne room without queen's consent. Radiance tells me -- "
"-- and I," Chrysalis interrupted before any more stupid got into the hive, "am the queen. I have already given you consent to enter my presence. Which would be both an implied and implicit part of having been summoned."
He thought about it or rather, sifted the sentence through his brain until most of the vocabulary fell out.
"How does the queen wish for Canthus to serve?"
Ah. A proper sentence.
"I'm going to give you a card," Chrysalis told him -- then spotted tiny facial plates shifting towards an expression of confusion. "A sheet of paper, folded in half."
"Paper..." Canthus almost valiantly tried.
She repressed the sigh. This one had never left the hive on a mission before, and changelings didn't make or use paper. Dried ink didn't have t'fin'zi and without that, who knew what the writer had truly meant? The chosen symbols merely served as standing channels. T'fin'zi was all.
The only true queen levitated her carefully-enchanted, fairly large sheet. A wiggle of magic made the halves flex along the fold line, and Canthus watched with something which might have almost been curiosity.
"Card," he finally said. "What will I do with it?"
"You will take it to each of the Bearers in turn," she proudly instructed. "Get them to sign it. And when you return to the hive, with all six signatures in your possession... I shall destroy the mares."
He thought about that.
"How?"
Well, she hardly minded explaining her own brilliance. That was what monologuing was for.
"As it turns out," Chrysalis said, "there is a law of magic known as the Doctrine Of Signatures. Something which has multiple applications. For example, if a plant has a leaf which resembles a wing, then it may have medical properties for treating wing ailments. But it also says that if you have something which belonged to somepony -- something a little personal, which they created -- then it can be potentially made into a magical channel. A way to reach them. I've already cast all of the necessary spells on this paper. And once it possesses all six of their personal, true signatures -- something which tells the magic who they really are at the core -- I can attack all of them at once, with almost nothing they can hope to do about it." With a minor, regal laugh, "It's not as if they can just change their names, now is it? So once I hit the group simultaneously -- they're beaten. And with that obstacle out of the way, we will be that much closer to true and final victory."
The microexpressions of the facial plates displayed a certain degree of honor at having been chosen for the responsibility. She decided to ignore the confusion, as there were more instructions coming. Unfortunately, the very worried question made it to poorly-ventilated hive air.
"Why not get them yourself?"
Her horn sparked. Disciplinary energy began to surge --
"-- so much better at disguise," Canthus respectfully declared. "Queen is better than anyone. Far better than Canthus, with all of that time --" chitin faintly rattled across the shudder "-- outside. So why not queen?"
...ah. That was... almost fair.
"I have unilaterally determined that your efforts are required," Chrysalis explained. And didn't watch his ears, thus missing the chance to see more syllables drop away.
Because I am not telling anyone about how I learned that the Doctrine exists.
...it's not my fault. There is no possible way for a genius to have seen a move that dumb coming. And once the farmer got the kick in...
In some ways, it was rather basic. She'd lost a portion of her chitin. Under the Doctrine, it was still considered to be part of her. And the librarian had -- done something. Used the shell fragment to find a key to Chrysalis.
...of course, it wasn't as bad as it could have been. The librarian was either too stupid to think of more offensive usage or was exactly dumb enough to believe in things like morals. So all she'd done was set up a defense. If Chrysalis came close to the Ponyville border, an alarm went off. Should she try to cross, then the air around her would begin to glow -- doing so at a radius which was too far out to conceal via disguise. It didn't matter how perfectly crafted her illusions were: anypony could identify her at a mere glance.
She'd been looking into ways to induce a molting stage in herself: the genius theory was that replacing her entire shell would mean the lost piece would no longer count as any part, while the actual attempts had mostly produced itching. Waiting for the wound to heal, while also considering whether it was possible to just get a changeling into the library's basement to claim the chitin back. But with almost no r'bin'dra left, there was no one who could properly scout magical defenses. And... that would be what the ponies were expecting from her. It was clearly much more intelligent to strike from an unexpected direction.
"Canthus does as queen commands," was exactly the right thing for any minion to say. She respected it.
"The paper is preset with the necessary spells," she told him. "Before approaching any given one of them, say their name. The paper will then display the lure required to gain that pony's signature." And it had taken so much brilliant thought to come up with something which each of the mares would have to sign. "When you change the paper to approach the next, the enchantment will fully conceal any signatures you already have. That way, none of them will know what's going on." Not that a lesser mind could even hope to guess. "They'll be signing in different places, so there won't be any overlap. There's also a sequence I want you to follow."
"...sequence," Canthus eventually said, which skipped over the three prior errors.
"Whom you approach first, second, and so on through the sixth," the resident intellect explained. "Follow the order and the paths. Here's a map." A different piece of paper floated up from behind the throne. "Memorize the color trails."
He looked at it for a while.
"...what's a 'map'...?"
She explained. Then she explained again. Then she looked at the dim eyes, gave up on explanation, ignited her horn, hypnotized a forever-willing subject, and embossed all of the little paths of Ponyville onto his brain. Which was fine. It wasn't as if those neurons were being used for anything else.
"Map," Canthus finally acknowledged with pride and satisfaction. "Get signatures. Vary disguises so that nopony knows the same pony is coming to all of them. Make sure to have all six. Then come back. And then queen attacks them, and we win."
She nodded. Good minion. Once the plan succeeded, she'd be sure to remember the changeling who'd provided a minor assist. Save the shell, perhaps...
"This is what you say to each," she told him.
He listened. She got him to repeat a percentage of it back. Hypnotism was invoked again, mostly in the name of adding a second digit. Besides, it effectively allowed her to think for him, and that was clearly best for everyone.
"Let me see your disguises. Primary first."
He concentrated, and her nausea instantly surged. It was the natural reaction to having a pony in her chambers.
Chrysalis spent a few minutes running the changeling through a full trial gallop. The illusion tapped directly into the senses of the observer -- but it wasn't always enough to just look like a pony. Even a p'til'ni could look like a pony, and -- that was it. They looked like a pony. Their voices wouldn't sound right. Touching them would produce the feel of chitin. Body temperature would be all the way off, and scent -- it was best not to think about scent. A skilled infiltrator had to be ready to fool any to all of the senses, at need and will.
She was satisfied when a touch produced the stomach-churning sensation of having just brushed against fur.
"Can't keep it up for long," the changeling admitted. "Touch is hard..."
She allocated a little sympathy. "And something no one should have to suffer through." Chrysalis had shared a bed with Shining Armor, and... well, at least being the little spoon had put her in a good position to break for the bathroom at any time. "Just do what you can to avoid contact." She glanced towards the corner where she kept the old stolen clock, permanently set to Surface Time. "Sun is going to be raised soon and it'll take you some time to get into town, even with spring under way and the snow gone. Go now. I want you back here before midnight. And follow the exact sequence I gave you. What to say, whom you speak with. The precise order, from my precise orders."
The queen almost giggled. But she was the only one who was capable of appreciating the jest, so kept it to herself.
"Yes, my queen," the changeling said, then turned to leave. One more nervous glance was directed at the radiating symbol. Chrysalis ignored it, settled back onto her throne, and bitterly thought about the aching wound. There was a truly special spell awaiting the arrival of the farmer's signature, and the earth pony had it coming.
The s'nar'ra paused. Glanced back.
"What's a signat --"
"-- it's when they sign the paper. Go!"
It wasn't a particularly short trip. Canthus had been outside before -- well, everyone in the hive had by this point, including the non-sapient worker ree'krigs. It was hard to evacuate a hive and try to find a new one while remaining completely underground at all times. But there had always been plenty of desperately-fleeing company, and having to do it all alone had his nerves on paranoid edge.
Getting his first glimpse of the town didn't exactly help. It was his first infiltrator mission. All he'd had to work with was some carefully-acquired photographs, and even those looked wrong. Everything was in the open. Exposed. And when he directly saw the nature of the unshelled who were casually moving about the visible-from-above streets as if doing so was normal...
He wanted to run. That was natural. The learning song had possessed an early chorus about how everyone wanted to run on their first time truly leaving the hive. How it was perfectly ordinary to feel that way, and a good s'nar'ra would resist.
Canthus wanted to be a good s'nar'ra. A skilled infiltrator. So he steeled himself, then checked on the current status of his disguise: a rather ordinary dull red undersized unicorn wearing basic saddlebags (real, because things fell out of illusions) and a hat. The hat was also real, because it helped to have something you could wrap an illusion around. Making a hat look like a different hat was an advanced maneuver. Creating a hat out of nothing was actually easier, but tended to produce problems when a stray hoofball went through the space where it was supposed to be.
Adult ponies greeted each other. Foals laughed. He did his best not to shudder.
But that was when the instructions which had been embossed into his head took over, and a glowing purple line appeared within his eyesight alone. Showing the path to the first.
Canthus, filled with both fear and pride at having the chance to help his queen conquer, trotted towards his hive's destiny.
The building was called a 'library'. Canthus decided it was as good a name as any. He was still trying to master Equestrian -- the fact that music was optional made every last word tricky -- and recognized that it had its little complexities. The same was true of his native tongue. A word could change drastically just from adding a quarter-note and singing it in a different key. So for the ponies, if you took the mostly-above-ground mass known as a 'tree' and hollowed it out, it became a 'library'. That was fine for now. Vocabulary adjustments could always be made after the locals had been conquered.
There was a lot of -- 'paper' in the library. Glued together, with harder pieces at the back, front, and left edge. Some of the front parts had very nice pictures.
Ponies were in the library. Some of them looked at the papers. Others seemed to be trying to choose a selection of paper from the shelves, or a rotating metal thing which held some of the ones which were soft all the way through. And Canthus...
...he was in the right place. He knew it. But where was his target? He'd entered, promptly dodged left because somepony was on the way out and creating a proper illusion for touch was hard -- and by the time he recovered, he'd found himself between shelves. A maze for which his queen had not provided a map, and that lack meant he'd done something wrong.
Canthus looked around. There was paper everywhere. Vertically-hanging fabric rustled in the very light breeze produced by clockwork fans on their lowest setting.
What was he supposed to do next? How could he find --
"Do you need some help?"
It was actually the breath which got his attention first: tinged with sulfur and stranger chemicals. The words carried the tones of a pony, but the odor was that which he'd been told to associate with dragons.
...he was okay. He'd been told that there might be a dragon at the first stop, or the second. His magic had already tapped into the reptile's mind and told it that there was a pony in the aisle. The dragon didn't know anything.
"Help," Canthus agreed. He was almost certain it was agreement. The tone felt right for that.
"Yeah!" the little dragon offered. "Because you're just sort of -- standing here. Like you're lost. Or can't find something. And I didn't recognize you, so you're probably new." He held out his right arm, balled up the handling claws and presented it knuckles-first. "I work here, so if you're looking for anything, I can probably help."
Canthus didn't press his hoof against the extended hand. Contact was hard.
"I need the librarian," he said. "Which way?"
The dragon didn't look offended by that. Or maybe he did. The vocal tones were the same, but Canthus hadn't been trained in reading dragon expressions. Ponies were weird enough.
"We're actually trying something new there," the dragon told him. "Because the library's gotten kind of complex over the last few years." He unballed the hand, raised that arm and pointed almost straight up: the actual target was somewhat ahead. "See those signs hanging from the ceiling? Those are directions for getting around the tree. It'll tell you where to go."
Canthus gratefully nodded. Then he trotted forward, stood directly under the sign, and waited.
Nothing happened.
...where was the radiance? The t'fin'zi should have been telling him where to go. Did he need to get closer? Normally, he would have had the option to fly right up to it -- but even if he was dealing with short-range projection, his current disguise didn't have wings. And the dragon was right there. Watching.
Watching... closely.
...maybe if Canthus just waited a little longer. Pony radiance might just be slow.
"...right," the dragon said. "I'll be back in a few seconds. Less than a minute, anyway."
He went through a space between bookcases. Canthus continued to wait it out. The lack of speed and/or range from the local signs was starting to get annoying.
The dragon was as good as his word. It wasn't even a full minute before he returned, now carrying a mug which was full of -- feathers. Shed ones. Canthus knew what feathers were, because he'd had to study pegasus anatomy. He'd also been given a few to carry in the saddlebags, just in case ponies didn't have any of their own. That felt like a very common problem.
"Just left this on a shelf," the dragon said. "Anyway, if you want to speak with the librarian, start walking that way. Same direction you're facing. I'll tell you when to turn."
Another grateful nod, and Canthus started moving. The dragon followed, got closer, was just about directly behind his forelegs --
"Oops!"
The first result of 'oops' was a rather odd, thankfully-brief sensation. The second was the sound of multiple small objects hitting the floor.
Canthus glanced down, then back.
The dragon had spilled the contents of the mug. Most of the shed feathers were behind his forelegs. The few which had slipped through the k'ly'sa holes were, quite naturally, in front. Fortunately, none of them had damaged the sense organs' delicate rims.
"Clumsy me," the dragon half-muttered. "That's what happens when you try to grab a hoof loop with hands. Nothing's sized right." He quickly gathered up the feathers, stuck them back in the mug. "Maybe it's easier if you just follow?"
He did, at least once the dragon had gotten in front of him. But the short legs had a remarkable talent for brief acceleration, and a sudden burst of speed had the reptile turn the very last corner before Canthus got the chance to glimpse around it.
The changeling needed a few seconds to catch up and when he did so, the dragon was -- either very much taller or standing on the bench which hosted the librarian. Whispering something directly into a furred ear.
Whispering made sense. The queen had warned Canthus to be quiet while in the 'library'. There was some kind of pony rule in play.
The librarian nodded. Bangs shifted, and Canthus tried not to feel ill at the sight of moving hair.
"And what might I do for you today, sir?" the mare politely inquired.
Hypnosis took over. Carefully-implanted words marched forth.
"Hello!" Canthus beamed. (He'd gotten full marks for beaming.) "I'm here representing a brand-new professional journal! All about magical research! Theories, conjecture, experiments, and what we're hoping will be a very lively letters column! One which welcomes debate!"
He briefly wondered what some of the spoken words meant.
"And of course," the hypnosis added, "like so many such journals, we feel it's important to become established in the intellectual sphere. Quickly. So we're offering a one-year introductory subscription to libraries."
"I do like having a complete collection for Periodicals," the mare thoughtfully considered. "But the near-majority of the ponies who regularly go through research journals around here -- is sitting right in front of you, sir. And the mayor told me that any periodical which is going to mostly be reviewed by me will be paid for the same way." Hopefully, "So if you happen to have brought a few sample articles? So I can see the quality?"
The hypnosis had anticipated this.
"It's free."
Dragon and mare gave him a long look. One where, outside of the species division, everything matched.
"...free," the mare carefully said.
"We thought it would be easier to get in the door that way," Canthus followed up. "During the introductory stage. And if you decide to renew, it'll be at the Premiere Subscriber Discount Rate." With a smile, "All you have to do is sign."
Slowly, she nodded. And just like that, his queen had won.
"May I see your subscription form?"
The paper was extracted from the saddlebags and carefully placed on her desk.
She looked it over. Carefully. The ink patterns, placed on the paper through Canthus having said her name at the edge of the forest, seemed to have her full attention.
Then her horn ignited.
A pinkish glow moved to the dragon's mug. Extracted a feather, dipped the pointed end into a bottle, and moved the results towards the page.
This kept going for a while. The moving feather was constantly surrounded by glow. That which coated the horn tended to shift around somewhat. It brightened, dimmed, became a little more angular here and round towards the base, then expanded out to briefly cover the paper itself. That last happened three times, and then the feather was placed back into the mug.
"Your subscription contract, sir," the mare formally told him as her glow carefully tucked the paper back into the left saddlebag. "I look forward to your first issue. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"
"No," the hypnosis smiled. "That'll be all. Goodbye, miss! Thank you for taking a chance on us!"
He glanced back just before he started on the path which led to the door. The dragon was now spreading a group of rolled-up papers across the desk, and the mare's corona was moving towards extra feathers. It was clearly a busy day.
Canthus left the 'library'. Found a convenient shadow, extracted the paper while standing within it, and switched his disguise while whispering the second name.
Success was guaranteed.
Of course it was. His queen had created the plan. And she'd been very direct about all of the previous failures having been someone else's fault.
He was her infiltrator. The triumph would be hers.
"A nominee," the white mare carefully said from her position next to the dress rack, "for what award?"
"Most Elegant Calligraphy," the hypnosis beamed. (Canthus, who was somewhere behind it at the back of his own brain, wondered what that last word meant.) "I know, miss... normally, you'd have to formally enter. But one of our judges was in your shop some time ago --" his tone was instructed to drop "-- and just happened to see your label."
Blue eyes widened.
"They did? Because I always worked so hard on establishing something unique!" A mare who didn't possess feathers was now coming very close to preening. "It's one thing to merely put down one's name, of course. But to make that rendition unique -- and elegant... so much so that it becomes noticed by a professional...!"
The sniff was rather abrupt.
"It would be rather nice to have the same thing happen for my designs," emerged on a verbal cross-current. One which was feeling exceptionally cross. "But we accept what praise might come, I suppose. So what do you need from me?"
"A fresh sample," the instructions told her. "As your label is printed. Just place a new, clean, elegant version on this card. And then we'll be in touch."
A little suspiciously, "There's no charge for entering this, is there? I have dealt with a certain pair of brothers --"
"-- none."
She smiled. "Then it will be my pleasure --"
-- vapor swirled into existence in front of her snout. Developed a glow, shedding light without heat as the mare placidly watched the process, energy turning itself into matter right in front of her while Canthus instinctively pulled back, ready to flee from unknown magic --
-- a rolled-up piece of 'paper' dropped to the floor.
"-- although it may have to wait," the mare sighed -- then saw Canthus' simulated face. "Oh, dear... please don't be afraid. I know it looks unusual, especially the first time. But this is just how I get some of my mail."
'Male'. Wasn't that another word for stallion? His Equestrian lessons were ongoing, and it was possible that he was just missing a quarter-note somewhere.
"I do hope this isn't a mission," she sadly told the changeling who was already on one. "A moment of privacy, please. This may be classified."
Her corona ignited, picked up the paper. She carried it to the other side of the clothing rack. Canthus, whose hypnosis hadn't covered this, waited.
The mare came back. Looked directly at him, and smiled.
"Not a mission!" she cheerfully announced. "Just a little correspondence. So. A fresh sample, you said? May I have the card?"
He passed it over. Soft blue glow collected it.
"Very well," her smile decided. "Now, I do hope you have at least a few minutes to wait for me! Because this is for a contest. I want to make sure it's perfect! In fact, I may use something -- special. To sign."
"I have quills," Canthus informed the local audience, as that was what the hypnosis wanted him to call the carried feathers. "If you need them."
"Oh, I have equipment of my own," she assured the changeling. "We always do better with our own goods, do we not? And I wish for this to be a solid effort. Exceptionally so!"
She trotted away.
There was a mechanical sort of sound for a while. It vaguely reminded Canthus of something fragile being stabbed with a tiny horn, only taking place over and over at exceptionally high speed. And it came with an odd, high-pitched sort of what a pony would have recognized as a mechanical whine. The changeling didn't.
The white mare came back, smiled again, and tucked the folded paper into his saddlebag.
Two down.
The baker was happy to help. In fact, based on the pictures Canthus had studied while trying to learn pony expressions, she would have been happy to do just about anything.
"I know!" the earth pony gushed. "It's just so intimidating, isn't it? When you've never done something before. Even if it looks basic, even when you can see the results in any really good store. Like Barnyard Bargains, because they have a section for ponies who don't have the time to make it personal. But when you want to do it yourself, and you're facing down having to do it yourself..."
"That's why I wanted to ask for help," the hypnosis politely told her. (The changeling, who'd gotten a good look and sniff for the contents of the bakery's loaded cases, was trying not to be ill again. "I've never designed a party invitation before. So I thought... if you could just show me a basic one? And sign it at the end. To make it look cheerful." The hypnosis got bashful. "I'm not asking you to host. I just don't know how to sign anything cheerfully."
"Can do!"
She took the card. Her teeth carefully set it down on the counter, and she looked at him.
"You're new," she said. "I'd remember."
The hypnosis had suggested this might be a problem.
"I'm only here for a couple of days," the instructions said. "Passing through on my way to the site. But I was going to mail off the local invitations locally. This is the first stop. And I saw the print shop, and then I remembered having forgotten to get cards..."
The nod was from the 'sympathetic' variant. "Weddings are just like that," the baker gently stated. "You always forget something. As long as it's not your special somepony, right? Stay right there? I'll just go draw something up for you. And sign it. Cheerfully!"
She used a squeeze tube. Canthus almost wondered if that was better than feathers.
He'd been told that the first of the pegasi would be the easiest, and his queen was not wrong.
"On the oversized collector's Wonderbolts rookie card, no less!" the cyan mare grinned. "I hardly ever see those! Not outside my own collection. Ooooh, and you've got the Blur #4 variant!" With a confidential posture, which wasn't easy to execute from mid-hover, "Blur #6 is the rarest. But #4 is way up there. It's like I told the captain: you try holding still during your first shoot!" Huffily, "And she said everypony else had. I think that just means nopony appreciated it as much as I did. You've got a quill? Because I'm still not at the point where I carry them in town. Most ponies aren't interested. Or have a card already." With faint anger, "Or keep telling me that they don't need any more of them and there's other Hearth's Warming and birthday gifts -- oh, cool! Quill! ...ink? Wow. You are prepped! Just give me a minute. Gotta pin this against a wall with one hoof, and then -- could you stick the quill in my mouth?"
Spitting ensued. Most of it came out black.
"...other end," the pegasus finally said. "Actually, I've got a better idea..."
She contributed her sixth-part to the group's destruction. And then she asked him if he wanted to take a picture with her. Proof that it was all authentic. Not that he would ever want to sell it, but some ponies felt everything was worth more with a picture! She could go home and get a camera, back in three minutes or less -- no, make that two, and she'd use one of the special one-shot-only film rolls, just give him that and he could get it developed whenever he wanted...
Canthus felt himself to know a lot about photography. The hive had its own darkroom, because you learned about what a proper illusion shell should look like from studying hard-won pictures.
And you also learned that an illusion which was projected directly into the mind of the observer didn't show up on film.
He declined. She offered to upgrade and put a foreleg across his shoulders during the shot.
Getting away from the prospect of touch took five minutes.
The fifth stop wasn't where it all went wrong. It just didn't go right in a way which the hypnosis had been expecting.
Canthus had his instructions for the much-loathed farmer. He was disguised as a barn inspector, because whatever a 'barn' was, the farmer created a lot of them. And then she had to make more after the older ones came down. This implied that something about the 'barns' was faulty. So he would look everything over, say a few implanted words about building codes, and then get her to provide a signature on the paper. Something which the hypnosis said meant she acknowledged that a government inspection had taken place. Being happy about it was both optional and highly unlikely.
The hypnosis had said to knock on the house door and if she wasn't inside, ask somepony which part of the farm she was on and then go find her.
She met him at the gate.
...the hypnosis never had a chance to say anything.
She was happy to see him! Well, it wasn't exactly often that she put in a request for temporary help on the Acres, was it? Just about never. Actually, now that she thought about it -- well, it didn't matter, did it? He was here and he could be some help for spring! Especially since some of the earliest crops were pretty much ready to drop. In her opinion, he looked like a pony who could be put to work...
And then he was dealing with trees.
Lots of trees.
Then he found out what happened when you kicked them.
His legs quickly became sore. The k'ly'sa didn't fare any better. And she followed him everywhere, providing instruction after direction after order. The orange mare was almost capable of issuing orders like a queen: the lack of t'fin'zi meant she substituted a lot of shouting.
Apples rained down from the trees, impacted his back. He was hitched into a cart and made to haul the results. A full trotting tour of the Acres was writ large in aches, which probably wouldn't have fit well on a 'map'. And her words pushed him onwards as Sun shifted across the sky, with Moon threatening to come in close behind it.
She kept him fed, and did so in more ways than she would have expected: her love for the land had a magnificent bouquet. Gave him water. But she didn't let him talk. It was hours of sheer labor, until his tattered wings wanted to fall off and they hadn't even done anything. Canthus, who didn't have instructions for this level of horror, had no idea how to respond. And he couldn't leave without what he'd been sent for...
Then she brought him back to what turned out to be a barn. (He, with no evidence to the contrary, decided it looked very barnlike.) Sorted through a few apples, wrinkled her snout at one, stomped on it, and asked for the paper.
...the what?
Well, he was a temporary, wasn't he? How did he expect to get paid through the booking office if she didn't sign off on his form?
A stunned changeling presented the paper. She turned away, faced the ruin of the fruit, and did what he'd sought the whole time.
And then there was one.
It was the last which was supposed to have been the most physically intensive, and he just barely had the strength to go into the little hollow where the waiting laden cart had been hidden by a hivemate: working in the dark meant he mostly found it on smell. Hitching it up felt like it took forever, and dragging it up to the cottage door mostly told him how little energy he still had left. The farmer had fed him and the strength of her devotion had been converted into the energy required for the last disguise, but... he ached. Everywhere.
The hypnosis, which didn't worry about that sort of thing, took over when he knocked.
"...a feed delivery," the yellow pegasus said as animals of all sorts teemed and mewed and barked behind her. "...I wasn't expecting one so late..."
"It took a while to get here," Canthus panted. (At least the panting was authentic.) "You're all the way out at the border..."
She frowned. "...I really thought everything was in for the day," the pegasus considered. "And... um... I don't have the bits on me. Can I just mail in the payment?"
The hypnosis had been ready for that much. "It's not a problem. You're a regular customer, aren't you? But I do need you to sign for the delivery. As proof of receipt."
"...of course," the mare shyly agreed. "May I see the form? ...oh, thank you. Can you give me a minute? I just need something to sign with."
"I have quills," stated the hypnosis as it entered the verge of absolute victory.
"...no, that's okay," she decided. "I think I see something suitable over there in the grass. It'll be more... personal."
She moved past him.
Then she took a deep breath and held it.
The minion flew back into the throne room, with legs dangling loosely under the black body.
Chrysalis, who hadn't wanted to risk sleeping through the announcement of her own triumph, immediately looked up.
The planned You're almost late was immediately replaced by "Where is it?"
Canthus landed. His legs almost buckled.
"Saddlebag --"
"Sing," she quickly told him. "You're home. It's over. Sing."
"The left saddlebag, my queen," emerged as a midrange tenor. "I bring triumph. I bring victory. Six. All six. I bring you the end of the six, and the beginning of your ultimate conquest..."
Her corona immediately went for the saddlebag. Green balefire glow got the lid open, extracted the paper, and she could feel the magic twisting, almost writhing as it waited to be unleashed --
-- there was something odd about the feel of it. But it was carrying six connections now. A half-dozen doctrines, just waiting to be unleashed.
She brought it in front of her eyes, dispelled the illusion which covered the signatures with a thought, and looked at the key to her ascendance.
They'd signed. They'd all signed. She'd won --
-- the hive's resident genius blinked.
...there was... rather more text than what should have been present for mere signatures. The lower right of the card was effectively hosting a short essay. And when she tried to read it...
A brain which had been forced to learn about literacy mostly against its will attempted to translate the cold, t'fin'zi-dead ink and when that failed, finally switched to rough internal pronouncement of phonetics.
Deer Chryssie,
Ewe dyd remembererered dat Eye'm Magick, roight?
Eye gnow. Eye usualyly wooldn't spells dis ways. (Hit's 'ctually kynd hof funnn!) Butt Eye felts duh spel ons duh papir. Eye gnew whut u wer tryng too doo. Andandand Eye fhought... wen wee sygn, wee putt ha peace hof ourselfies intoo duh papir. Hand dat's whi duh Doctorine werks.
Sew wut iff wee rote someponyonepony ELSES peace downs?
Eye'm goona tellz everyonepony two signs stuf dey wood nevr writ. Licke ha difference pearson.
Eye'm corruptings yer spel.
H'once hit gits two u? Hit gnows wen u reed hit. BOOM! Hand den wee comez hin.
Sees u soons!
Ur enememy,
Twifright Sparkill
Balefire-green eyes sent the twisted words deep into the brilliant mind. And then Chrysalis frantically began to look at the rest of the card.
The designer had simply recorded the following:
I choose to keep my signature to myself, FOR myself. Regardless of whom it might benefit. Forever.
And it hadn't been rendered in ink. She'd sewn the words through the card. Cheap threads where the colors clashed with each other, already fraying.
The baker, by contrast, had used stale dough and fading sprinkles.
You're never going to be invited to anything I host, I'll kick you out if you show up, and I hope it makes you miserable.
The scent which drifted up from the weather coordinator's corner suggested that she'd created her written trail of paper-straining dampness using stagnant puddle water.
slow
slower
slowest
stopped
The half-pulped, thin-spread rotting path of stain produced by writing with the mesocarp of a wrecked apple had only bothered to record four words.
This sentence is false.
And finally, rendered within the center right with exceptionally small, faint mouthwriting, in brown which had been placed using the far end of a long stick, where the smell directly stated what had been substituted for ink -- if not which of the cottage's species had provided it:
I'm not going to thank you for the free animal feed.
Because you probably stole it from somepony.
Meanie.
Meanie-meanie dunderhead.
And you're stupid too.
Chrysalis' corona winked out, because having to deal with so much idiocy concentrated in one place could do that and any resemblance to shock was strictly coincidence. The paper drifted to the hive's stone floor, and began to glow. Brighter. Hotter.
She frantically directed blast after blast of her energies at it. They all skidded off, with Canthus frantically trying to dodge the deflections. Tattered wings were buzzing --
-- him.
It had been a brilliant plan. Utter genius. Perfect. And that meant the failure, the disgrace and disaster and freshly detected, too-close sound of pony hooves pounding through her halls (with a faint accompanying scent of dragon breath) and the soon-to-come loss of her most recent hive were all someone else's fault.
"WHY DIDN'T YOU READ WHAT ANY OF THEM WROTE DOWN?" screamed the last great intellect which a depleted hive had to offer. "THE TEXT WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN HIDDEN UNTIL YOU SAID THE NEXT NAME! READING ANY OF IT MEANT YOU WOULD HAVE KNOWN --"
There was just enough time for a desperate, confused, still-flying Canthus to say it. The last seconds before the paper exploded, the entrance membrane tore, and stupidity stormed the gates to inflict unfairness unending on the only (almost goddess-like) entity in the world who could truly think.
"...what's reading?"
