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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He Who Speaks for the Sun

by Corah Il Cappo

Political Education