//------------------------------//
// Chapter 50 - Don't Shoot the Messenger 
// Story: Bad Mondays 
// by Handyman 
//------------------------------//

“–So I says to him that I’ve travelled too long and too far to put up with his nonsense. I paid him his money. He should just let me pass; he knew how it works. Can you believe he tried to extort more money out of me?”
 
“Mmm,” Handy mumbled noncommittally, resting his head on his fist and contemplating the nearly opaque, heavy brown bottle before him.
 
“You alright, mon ami?”
 
“Mm.”
 
“Handy.”
 
“What?”
 
“Are you alright? You’ve been distracted since we got across the border.”
 
“Sorry just… haven’t gotten much sleep is all.” He sat back and rubbed his eyes, the train rumbling along underneath them. “Have you got any more?”
 
“Non, that was my only bottle.” Jacques studied Handy’s face. He seemed tired, more so than he had been that was, which was saying something. “Maybe you shouldn’t be drinking.”
 
“It's fine. I was just… just wondering.” Handy slid the bottle closer to the window. He let out a colossal yawn.
 
“Perhaps you should lie down. We’ll be arriving in a few hours.”
 
“No, I’m fine,” Handy insisted, though his voice betrayed his exhaustion. The compartment was pleasantly warm, despite winter’s fury only being a panel of glass away. They had made it across the border safely and with their treasure intact, which was now safely stowed away in three crates secured to a wooden wagon they had procured. Handy was far away from Chrysalis and her machinations, the Greenwoods and its horrors, the Mistress and her schemes, and every second brought him closer to a soft bed and a warm meal, and the company of, if not friends, then at least friendly acquaintances. He was in Griffonia. He was safe, despite everything.
 
‘Despite streets of broken glass.’
 
Jacques considered pressing further but shrugged it off. “Well, if you are so stubborn, I’ll be getting some shut eye myself.” The swordspony shifted his sword belt so that the sheathed blade would lie across his stomach as he lay back on his side of the compartment to sleep. Ordinarily, Handy would be annoyed at how a pony could possibly find such a position comfortable enough to sleep on, but he had other things on his mind. The hours droned by. He heard both ponies snore their way into happy oblivion, leaving only him awake, leaning on the table of the compartment, wondering.

Sleep really did sound like an inviting concept. The compartment was warm, the seats were comfortable, the rocking of the train and rhythmic sound of the wheels on the track working their magic to make anyone feel drowsy. Indeed, the little red terror of a mage he was bringing back home was fast asleep. Having been sitting on her haunches when she dozed off, her head had inadvertently fallen to rest against his arm. Handy, being the gentle, understanding sort he is famous for, promptly shifted his arm and nudged Crimson’s sleepy head until she was lying back against the seat, snoring away. Alas, it was momentary, and her head inevitably fell back into place with the movement of the train. He had sighed and left her there, barely tolerating her soft breathing.

He couldn’t bring himself to give in and sleep, however. He had trouble sleeping normally, but now he had a new addition to the bugbears haunting his mind in the wee hours of the morning, one he could do with forgetting. He kept telling himself that it was probably a lie, a rhetorical turn to see how he would react. Yes, he kept telling himself that, and tried to drink until he could make himself believe it.
 
Resting in his bag was another burden he had to discharge, one last obstacle before he could honestly return to Skymount and finally put an end to an odious journey. He had to face it, if only to say he tried his best to put to bed the consequences of one wet autumn morn in Firthengart’s fields. The longer he sat there, the less he seemed to care about it. Whatever fire had possessed him to drive him this far was slowly petering out, and he wondered if he should push himself to go even this far.
 
A particularly loud snore drew his attention to the sleeping mare beside him. He couldn’t help but smile when he saw her kick her front hooves as she slept. The sight of her did bring a thought to his mind, however. Would she even be here, sleeping happily like this if life had been less cruel in its circumstances? He tapped one of his fangs curiously and considered just how that night would have gone down had he not sprouted the wonderful new addition to the lumps of bone sprouting out of his maxilla.
 
He certainly wouldn’t have escaped with the griffons. Would Crimson have managed to snag him from the ponies and brought him to the Mistress? Then she’d have gone right back to some dust-covered corner somewhere until that psychopath grew bored of her. He certainly would never be going home had that come to pass.
 
'Maybe they’ve done some good after all. In a roundabout way.’ He considered his predicament a moment longer before resolving to push on. No sense giving up now, right on the cusp of victory, no matter how many regrets lay behind him.
 

--=--

 
“Papers please.”
 
“Are you fucking serious?” Handy couldn’t see the point in trying to be polite. The uniformed griffon in the wooden toll box was unfazed, still staring straight ahead with dull grey eyes and a bored expression as if Handy wasn’t a tall bastard right in front of him, blocking out the light of day. Of all the things he had expected to encounter in the city of Ironcrest, obstructive bureaucracy was honestly bottom of the list.
 
Honestly, when you thought about it, that meant he was asking for it.
 
“I need to confirm your identities, sir.” Handy just glared at him then looked around, seeing the steadily growing queue of increasingly nervous-looking passengers looking to leave the platform. They gave a healthy amount of space to Handy and his friends, because they, unlike this clown, knew who he was despite all allusions to his being dead. Handy tsk’d, took off his helmet, and glared at the unfortunate griffon.
 
Who proceeded to calmly blink and still stare straight forward.
 
“This confirmation enough?”
 
“No. Papers please.”
 
“We don’t have any papers.”
 
“You need papers to leave the station.” No matter where they went, even in different worlds, no one wanted the Irish in their country.
 
“Do you think he means our tickets?” Jacques offered.
 
“Okay, thanks for covering my shif—” Another griffon had entered the booth behind the obstinate official currently giving Handy stellar service. The griffon looked over the shoulder of his fellow and froze. “What… erm, are you doing here?”
 
“Trying to leave the train station.” Handy turned his attention to the newcomer, before continuing sotto voce, “Apparently I need to confirm that I am, in fact, who I say I am. That is to say, Baron Handy of Gethrenia, and the only human in all of Griffonia.”
 
“I, uh, I’m aware of who you are, s-sir.” The newcomer’s eyes nervously jumped to the nearby guards who were warily eyeing the exchange. “It's just... It is very unusual to have Gethrenian nobles crossing the northern border. What with things being the way they are.”
 
“Good thing this train came from the south then, didn’t it?” Handy replied testily. “Now, if you’ll be so kind as to get rid of this farce and let me be on my way, I have business in the capital. You’re holding up the queue with this nonsense.”
 
“I’m sorry, sir, but I require papers—”


“That’s enough, Ewald!” the new griffon cut off his rather stoney-faced colleague. He turned and gave the newcomer an expressionless look. “Thanks for standing in place, but seriously, that's enough. Just punch the tickets and let them through!”

Ewald did just that, and Handy and the others were allowed past, keenly watched by very surprised and agitated guards and the gathering throngs of local griffons. Handy noticed the griffon known as Ewald was quickly shuffled out of the toll booth and, immediately upon meeting a guard, blinked at him and asked for his papers. Handy shook his head. Any other day and he might have given enough of a shit to question that, but right now he was in no mood.
 
“Uhm, mon ami, we’re gathering rather a lot of attention,” Jacques pointed out as he and Crimson helped pull along their small wagon. Moving the disorganized mess of treasure into chests and then moving said chests to a smaller, less conspicuous wagon made life easier somewhat. It still did nothing about the weight, and two ponies made the job so much easier than it would be if they took turns.
 
“Good,” Handy replied simply.
 
“Are you sure, Master?” Crimson asked hesitantly, taking note of the increasing level of attention. Jacques gave her a curious look as she spoke while Handy sighed lightly under his breath.
 
“I want to be seen.” And seen they were. When Handy had boarded the train, he had looked like a simple griffon. He walked out of it looking like a nightmare. To say that a lot of the passengers were somewhat… taken aback was an understatement. “Sooner or later, someone is going to stop us, and the king will have to be informed. That's what I want.”
 
“Why!?” Jacques hissed, clearly not excited about that idea. No surprise there, seeing as the last time Handy revealed himself, suddenly Celestia. “I thought we were trying to get to Gethrenia without raising any heckles!?”
 
Handy looked back at the stallion. “We were, but there is one last thing I need to do.”
 

--=--

 
If Firthengart had been a hard but beautiful land to be seen from the air, as Handy could recall, it was stunning when viewed unobstructed from the ground. The vast, low lying hills and plains were broken up by sparse rocky outcroppings and creeks, and the rivers looked pristine and virgin amidst the grasp of winter. Snow banks covered the land as far as the eye can see, shining in the sunlight and pale and misty in the cold of night, looking for all the world like a blanket of blue velvet when the moon was just so. The villages and towns nestled along the bowers provided by the sparse woodlands on the crossings, and junctions of rivers dotted the landscape with light. They were all the more stark for peeking out under caps of white and juxtaposed by skeletons of black belonging to deciduous trees, now stripped and naked of their autumnal glory.
 
Ironcrest, however, was another story. This was clearly a place that had been built for war and had seen more than its fair share in whatever long history hid behind its walls. Commanding the countryside from atop a low, sloping mountain, the city radiated downwards from the keep of Castle Greyvault in tiers. Each tier was surrounded by a set of curtain walls, each row of houses set higher than the last. Its walls, coloured tan, seemed to give it an earthen, almost birch-like appearance in comparison to its wintry surroundings, as if it were not a city built by hand at all, but had simply grown there, as natural and as ancient as any forest.
 
Castle Greyvault was a soaring, gothic construction with spires and buttressed towers that caught the eye immediately. It loomed upwards and dominated what was already an imposing city. Handy knew that was where his objective lay. He was surprised by one thing, however, as he was walking through the clutches of houses that had sprung up around the very outer walls. There was a strange black shape he couldn’t make out against the night sky. Partially hidden by the castle above, it didn’t look like it was a part of it.
 
Their first hurdle manifested itself when they had reached the western gate of the city. It was an impressive construction by any stretch, completely lacking the gothic ornamentations he had spied on the castle from afar and which adorned the innermost walls. Seemed the Firthengarians spared their architectural finery where it could be easier to show it off and not worry about replacing it, should an irritable neighbour take objection to you in the form of trebuchets and cannons.
 
The trio were finally stopped by an impressive amount of armed personnel. Handy had to suppress a smile when he saw the griffon at the head of the contingent. The griffon stood aloft on his two rear legs, wings partially splayed to help him maintain balance while gripping a rather mean-looking halberd in one claw, the other appearing armoured with bladed claws. Handy assumed it was meant to be somewhat intimidating, or perhaps he was trying to show Handy some measure of cautious respect by attempting to see him eye to eye.
 
“Sir Lightning,” Handy greeted warmly, purposefully keeping his arms outside of his cloak where they could be seen. “I see the griffons at the station did their job and got word to the castle. It's been a bit of a while.”
 
“We don’t know each other, Sir Handy,” Lightning replied. Handy’s smile remained. He knew it would not be seen through his helm, but he was genuinely glad Lightning had survived the dragon attack. He only met him twice, once in Canterlot as Goldtooth’s personal guardian and then in the festival, where he had been Handy’s arresting officer after the… altercation when he first met the dragon. After what he had learned from Celestia of the… unintended collateral at Manehatten, Handy suddenly found himself concerned about similar having occurred at the festival, and wondering exactly who might have ended up counting as collateral.

“No, I suppose not.” Handy conceded the point, casually glancing at the number of guards. “Still, it is nice to see you nonetheless.

“You died,” Lightning said as a matter of fact.

“I did a lot of things, and if you would be so kind, I am here in peace. I mean no harm.”

“That doesn’t mean you won’t bring harm.” Well, that wasn’t something Handy could argue against, though Lightning did not need to know that. “We heard what happened in Equestria. Nogriffon knew what to think. Now I see you back from the dead and waltzing right up to the city gates. What am I supposed to think?”

“Personally, I would demand our weapons, search of our goods, and demand our purpose of being here myself.” Handy smiled wryly. “However, I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“And why not?”

“Largely because it is bad form to rummage through an emissary’s things as if he were a suspected bandit or smuggler.” Except he himself was certainly involved in smuggling. Jacques held an admirable poker face.

“Emissary?”

“On behalf of Gethrenia as Sword of the King. I have come to treat with your king over… the disagreeableness that has resulted in the wake of the Autumn-Fall Festival. Forgive me, I forget it's referred to as Fall by most griffons.”

“There is already a Gethrenian diplomatic party in the castle.” Lightning’s eyes narrowed, and several of the guards shifted in their armour. Now THAT was news to Handy, and his mind suddenly raced with possibilities. To his credit, he didn’t miss a beat.

“Then at least I am not too late and your king has yet to throw them out.” Lightning scowled at his airy tone. “Of course, I had to convince the Equestrians to demilitarize their border first, hence my tardiness.”

If Lightning was taken aback by that, he did not show it.

“I bear a signed agreement by no less than Princess Celestia herself that she is forcing her nobles to unilaterally do so. Your king can send scouts himself to verify. No need to take my word or hers if you don’t wish to. Oh.” Handy looked back to the cart behind him, tilting his head as if he were considering something. “And a gift as well.”

“A gift?” Lightning asked carefully.

“More of an apology, rather. Less so on part of my king and more on my part. It was, after all, me that the dragon and his warlock accomplice had sought to attack, and by doing so endangered so many.” The ponies behind him briefly shared a look. “Now, don’t pretend you’re not going to bring me to see the king,” Handy continued, lifting the hammer from his belt loop and holding it out to Lightning. “Shall we?”

Lightning’s gaze never left the human, but he reached out with the bladed gauntlet and grasped the hammer, glancing down at the ponies individually before jerking his head.

“Follow me. Do not tarry.”


--=--



For all the tension that was in the air and the doubtless stir his own presence created, Handy found himself quite surprised at his reception in Castle Ironcrest. The ominous, tough exterior was a testament to its purely militant purpose in foundation, the statuesque ornamentation that adorned its exterior, with grim gargoyles and buttressed steeples added over the years, like trophies to its ongoing war against time and entropy. Yet once he had passed by the guards at the front gates, having been led through the gardens to the main doors, he found the interior the complete opposite.
 
Warm air washed over them as they passed through the heavy oaken doors, and the interior was clean with tiled floors almost mirroring the hall perfectly. Tall granite columns were dressed in the finery of tapestries and rich cloth, the walls decorated with mosaics and the ceiling lined with white plaster. Ironcrest might have been built for war once upon a time, but it was still the home of Firthengart’s royal family and the heart of its greatest city. It seemed that the Firthengarians chose to have this reflected in its design, and built the interior just as magnificent as the exterior, if not as dour.
 
“If my lord wishes…” Handy glanced down at the simply-dressed griffon servant before him as it gestured with a claw towards a set of stairs to the side. He wore a delightfully neutral expression. Handy merely nodded and followed him up. He ordered Crimson to stay with Jacques and the treasure. He didn’t expect anything to happen, but it helped keep the two of them far away for now. It made life just a tad less complicated as he already stormed over potential scenarios and words he was going to have to inevitably say when the time came to it. He was not looking forward to meeting King Goldtooth, no matter how damning his evidence was.
 
‘I would give up my entire share of the gold to just avoid this entire thing and go home in peace,’ Handy thought bitterly to himself as he found himself wheezing slightly by the time he got to the top of the steps. That was not a good sign. He pulled himself together quickly enough before the servant caught his pause and looked back at him. He was led past a number of rooms and the occasional guard. Handy had honestly expected more hostility than this considering everything but put the thought from his mind as he was led to a particular drawing room. Whoever was in there had the fireplace lit. Handy grimaced.
 
“Sir, you have a guest,” the servant announced as he opened the door to the room and stood aside to allow Handy in.
 
“Oh? I could have sworn his Majesty said, and I quote: ‘I would not so much as give you a dog’s bed linens to rest were I not king and duty bound to indulge guests.’” It was a very familiar voice from behind the high-backed chair that faced the fire. “So, who is it? I doubt it's anygriffon willing to take me seriously.”
 
At that the servant griffon glanced aside at Handy as if in thought. “A dignitary from Gethrenia.” Handy smirked.
 
“Oh goody, now I get to share the pain. That will be all.”
 
“Of course, sir.” The servant bowed out of the room and closed the door, leaving Handy in the delightful warmth of the drawing room. Not quite sure what to make of this, having been expected to be grilled by Firthengarians and not by his own adoptive countryman, he opted to keep silent for the first few moments.
 
“So, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to be delivering whatever bad news King Johan has for me?” One claw waved a glass of red wine. Someone had decided to hit the cups hard given the half-empty bottle on the side table.
 
“Pretty sure I’m enough of a complication myself. No need to bring more bad news from Skymount,” Handy quipped. Ivorybeak leaned over the armrest of his chair with a bored expression, before sitting back.
 
“Ah, Handy. Unexpected. I was ho—” He tossed the glass aside and whirled in his seat, gripping the chair’s back as he stared at Handy with wide eyes. His beak slowly opened in disbelief, letting out a strange, quiet, strangled noise instead of proper words.
 
“It’s good to see you too, Heinrich.” Handy’s tone was genial. “How’ve you been?”
 
“What!?” Ivorybeak managed, wings splayed and claws in the air, gesticulating wildly. The normally erudite, if somewhat officious, griffon had completely lost all composure. He gestured in Handy’s direction of the room, trying to come up with a sane string of words to properly convey his utter confusion. He failed. “What!?”
 
“So, I see Joachim didn’t tell you I was still walking around.”
 
“He knew!?” Ivorybeak slipped out of his chair and padded over to Handy and, much to Handy’s surprise, began to poke him. Handy was just surprised and bemused enough to tolerate this for all of three seconds before he forcibly put a stop to it.
 
“Yes, yes. Now stop poking me.” Handy pushed off the griffon’s claws, smiling despite himself at the disbelief still evident on the count’s face. “And if it makes you feel any better, I did tell the king to not inform you. Or anyone.”
 
“Why!?”
 
“...Operational security,” Handy decided to say.
 
“What in Tartarus does that mean!?”


“It means because reasons.” Handy smiled as the look of frustration took over the disbelief on his face. He had honestly missed the obsequious bastard.

“Oh, just take off that helmet for once when you’re talking to me!” Handy hesitated at that, then acquiesced, removing his helm. Ivorybeak’s expression softened a touch, backing up a step as he studied Handy’s face.
 
“What happened to you?” he asked, genuinely concerned.
 
“It wasn’t easy getting back here.” Handy decided to forego an explanation.
 
“…And the eyes?”
 
“Don’t worry about it.”
 
“You look sick.”
 
“I am sick, but that’s besides the matter.” He waved off the griffon. “You can worry about the full story when we don’t have more pressing matters to attend to. Now, if I understand things correctly, apparently Johan went ahead and started a damn war after I died.”
 
“What? Oh. No, not exactly.”
 
“Oh good, then I guess I must have been imagining all that international tension and the fact every lord from here to Equestria has their troops raised, larders stocked, and walls refortified.” Handy tilted his head slightly, a wry smile on his face. Ivorybeak was unamused.
 
“Fine, tension has been brewing, but it’s mostly Goldtooth’s fault.”
 
“I’m sure.” Ivorybeak was ever Johan’s loyal retainer.
 
“Oh shut up, Handy, and listen to me.” Ivorybeak returned to his wine, overlooking a glass and drinking straight from the bottle. Handy raised a brow but then took note of the griffon’s harried appearance.
 
“I take it talks have not gone well? I was surprised to see you here.”
 
“I have been here a week now.” Ivorybeak flopped back down onto his chair. He waved a claw at a seat next to him. Handy took a look at it and then judged its distance from the fireplace, warring with himself about whether or not to take the offer. “First time in months we could get the old bastard to respond to our entreaties to talk. Johan, for all his faults, can be reasoned with once you calm him down.”

“Why was he upset? What really started this?” Handy took his time to meander closer to the chair.
 
“You have to ask? How long have you known him?”
 
“Less than a year.”
 
“And you and he are fast friends. You helped him get his throne back and right the kingdom. When he and Goldtooth fell into disagreement over how to handle the crisis caused by the dragon, Joachim became more than a little upset at the deaths caused in the ensuing chaos. Not least of which was yours.”
 
Handy stopped at the mention of yet more deaths, his hand on the back of the offered chair. He was distracted from his near total fixation on the fire for a moment, his gaze distant.
 
“Hmm,” he finally responded noncommittally. He took a deep breath, looked away from the fireplace, and sat down, focusing on anything other than the flames as he continued to speak. “So, because of a few deaths, he ruffled Goldtooth’s feathers?”
 
“Goldtooth took exception to how Johan was telling him how to manage the crisis. Johan took exception to Goldtooth’s flippancy at the devastation caused. They traded insults back and forth for a while.” Ivorybeak took a drink. “Everything since then is down to raw stubbornness on both parts, not to mention uneasy nobles and national grudges coming to the fore and largely going unchecked. Johan came around but Goldtooth did not, and on and on it's been going. Did you know this is the first time anygriffon down here has been willing to even entertain the possibility of talking this out?”
 
“Seriously?”
 
“And it's all because his daughter went behind his back and invited us. We were already on our way here before he found out.”


“Sounds like at least she has a head on her shoulders.” Handy eyed a small mechanical clock upon the mantle piece. “In any case, I am afraid I have much to discuss with you. I am glad you’re here.”

“I’ll say!” Ivorybeak exclaimed, gesturing at Handy with his drink and spilling a few drops, “Where in the devils have you been?”

“Later. We have more important things to discuss.”

“Like what?”

“Like Equestria agreeing to back off from the borders, courtesy of yours truly.”

“...What?”
 
“Catch.” He tossed the sealed letter to the bird, who fumbled with his free claw to grasp it. “And there’s more besides. I have a rather lot of correspondence here. Damning stuff.”
 
“What correspondence? Who is it from?” Ivorybeak opened the letter to read, reaching across the short table beside him for a pair of reading spectacles.
 
“From the queen. This kingdom’s queen, and someone across the border in Equestria she was apparently very good friends with before this whole mess started.” Ivorybeak gave Handy an incredulous look.
 
“Really, Handy, reading another griffon’s correspondence? I had thought better of you.” Handy paused at that.
 
“Really?”
 
“Well, more or less. Johan trusts you, and you keep to yourself. I figured you’d be good at respecting the privacy of others.” Ivorybeak frowned in disapproval.
 
“I’m afraid this goes a bit beyond that. Keep reading the princess’ letter, then have a look over the correspondence.”
 
“Oh, I really don’t see the need.”
 
“Trust me. Do it.”
 
The griffon pushed himself off the chair and padded over to a table, laying out the various letters from the small satchel Handy had given him. He read over Celestia’s letter in full. Frowning, he read over parts of it again. Handy caught his mouth moving as he mumbled the words to himself. He froze before slowly going through each of the letters of Brazen’s half of the correspondence, sorting them in order of date. Handy quietly got up and walked over to him.
 
“Oh…” Ivorybeak muttered, a shaking claw reaching up to remove his glasses. “Oh dear.”
 
Handy slapped him on the shoulder. “You see, now you know why I am so, so, so very glad you’re here, Heinrich.” Handy walked off and filled a glass from Ivorybeak’s nearly empty bottle of red wine. “Had neither you nor anyone else from Gethrenia been here, I’d have to face Goldtooth with all of that by myself.”
 
“Tomorrow is going to be awful…” Ivorybeak slumped over the table, hiding his face beneath his claws. Handy put the glass of wine beside him. “How am I even going to BEGIN sorting this out? He’ll think we’re just slandering his wife!”
 
“Yeah, I was aware of that problem,” Handy said, thinking. “You said the princess had gone behind his back? I assume in sending a message off to Johan to send you here?”
 
“Yes, why?” Ivorybeak asked, reaching over and gripping the glass of wine. Handy laid a hand on the back of the chair and tapped it in thought.
 
“Would you be able to have a word with her?”
 

--=--

 
Handy had been standing outside the quarters that Ivorybeak resided in for the better part of three hours.
 
Three hours. The only thing he could do was stand there stoically, staring the Firthengarian knight and guards across from him the whole time. It was a gesture, you see. The princess had been asked to come in confidence. He did not recognise the knight across from him, and it was hard to make out details in the dark corridor when the moonlight was obscured as it was by the snowstorm outside. Whoever it was, he was prudent enough that if the princess, who was apparently his charge, insisted on going in there, all the Gethrenians with weapons were going to stay outside right where he could see them.
 
Handy couldn’t fault the man, but the tension in the corridor was palpable. For the others that was—Handy felt just fine. After months of stress and near death and horror, the simple fact that he was now back among relatively known elements who wouldn’t try anything put him at ease. As such, even in the shadowy corridor, he appeared visibly relaxed. For some reason this did not seem to lighten the tension the others felt, but that was their problem to deal with.
 
The door opened, and all heads unanimously turned to look as Ivorybeak saw the princess out. They spoke in whispers, and for some reason Ivorybeak didn’t look relieved at all. Handy grimaced. Princess Katherine walked past the entire group of warriors with what looked like a placid expression on her face. The knight gave one last look at Handy before he and the guards fell in behind their princess without a word.
 
“...Friendly bunch,” Handy said once they were out of earshot. The two Gethrenian guards, one whose face he vaguely recognised and one who he didn’t, were standing nervously. He clapped one on the shoulder.
 
“Oh relax, you two look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He smiled as he went into the room, closing the door behind him. He turned to Ivorybeak, who was busy wringing his claws together. “I take it she did not want to co-operate?”
 
“...Wh-What? Oh. Oh, no. No, she was actually enthusiastic.”
 
“...Really?” Handy surprise was evident. Ivorybeak waved his claws.
 
“Details are not important right now but… suffice it to say, she already had seen her mother’s correspondence before… and with our set to complete the conversation.”
 
“She rummaged through her mother’s personal letters?”
 
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume their relationship is… strained somewhat,” Ivorybeak said, still looking really worried.
 
“...Okay, spill it. What did the princess want from you in order to get her to help us?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” Ivorybeak said quickly, which frankly did nothing to reassure Handy.

“I’m going to need more than that.” The human crossed his arms.

“It's something I need to bring up with the king.”

“Well, as far as I know, I’m still the Sword, so—”

“No, please, don’t worry about it, at least not for now.” Ivorybeak rubbed the feathers on his head. Handy glanced back at the door, took off his helmet, and looked Ivorybeak dead in the eye.

“Heinrich. What did she want? You can tell me.” Handy held the worried count’s gaze for a moment longer. He opened his mouth to say something but caught himself, looking confused before he relented.

“She… wishes to represent Firthengarian interests back home... to pressure for the king’s claw.”

“Johan? Why?” Handy asked, deliberately looking away and allowing a confused Ivorybeak to willingly commit himself to continue exposing the secret he just confided in Handy. Handy meanwhile poured himself a glass of wine.

“It's all politics.” Ivorybeak waved a claw as Handy took a slow drink of wine, savoring the most expensive drink he had tasted in months. “Goldtooth had taken Johan’s presence here during the festival to, uh, introduce the princess to him. Get her first in line, as it were.”

“Ah.” Handy suddenly made the connection. Young, unmarried kings made potentially powerful political allies. “And Johan’s opinion?”

“I couldn’t tell you.” Handy raised an eyebrow. “Honest! He was currently keeping it all at leg’s length until he got a good overview of his options, to make the best choice for the kingdom.”

“You do know he is a free griffon, right? Couldn’t he marry someone, you know, he actually likes?”

“He’s a king. Unless he wants to be irresponsible he doesn’t have that luxury.” Ivorybeak shrugged. “Besides, it's one’s duty to love the one you marry, not necessarily to marry the one you love.”

“What's the difference?”

“Well, one way you have to learn to live with them at the very least. It can only really go up from there, assuming you make that first step. The other, well... all fires tend to burn out, as the saying goes.”

“So I take it as meaning this Princess Karina—”

“Katherine.”

“Katherine,” Handy corrected himself, rolling his eyes. He never understood what the hell was with griffons seven times out of ten having seemingly ordinary first names, but absurd surnames. “At the very least, she has a stake in helping us?”

“It seems that way.”

“So you may have a shot at convincing Goldtooth about his wife making everything so much worse?”

“Yes.” Ivorybeak grimaced. “Yes, I believe so.

“Excellent, then I’ll leave you to it. Now, if you don’t mind, I am, quite frankly, exhausted. If you’d point me in the direction of something vaguely resembling a mattress, I’d be grateful.”

Ivorybeak whirled around at that. “What? Oh no no no, you have to help me.” 

“No. No I don’t. I thought I made it abundantly clear how glad I was to see you here. Specifically so you could be the one to deal with this instead of me.”

“No, no, I need you there!” Ivorybeak stated, rushing over to the desk full of letters. Handy’s shaking hand grabbed the back of the chair next to him to steady himself. “The letter from Celestia? It specifically mentions you.”

“Well yes, bu—”

“How do you expect me to reasonably explain how you were able to get her to agree to this all by myself? He’ll demand your own words!”

“I understand that, it's ju—” With the constant interruptions, Handy was rapidly losing the warm regard he had at seeing Ivorybeak again.

“—And where the hell I got the letters, and how you just strolled right up to the castle, escorted through the city by his own knights, and the fact you were the only one on the ground at the entire debacle at the festival. I’m sorry, Handy, but you really have to be there.”

“I…” Handy slowly gripped the chair harder, tapping his glass. He struggled to smile. “Sure. Sure, why not?”

“Excellent. Now, we need to get our story straight. I need to get your take on things, starting with—”

Handy downed the glass of wine as Ivorybeak blathered on, and resigned himself to, yet again, being under a ruler’s crosshairs and having to talk his way out of it. He had the means, certainly, and he had definitely made his way to sort out the affair with the Firthengarians purposefully. It was just that when he had learned there was a proper diplomat present, whose job it was to sort out political fuckery, and that it was Ivorybeak in particular, he had been hoping against hope he could toss this job onto someone else, just this once.

Nope.

He poured himself another glass.


--=--


‘Everything considered, he took that surprisingly well,’ Handy thought to himself, busy pushing Ivorybeak below the table until he was sure it was safe to let him sit back up straight and not get murdered by a thrown knife. For example, like the one that was now sticking out the back of Heinrich’s seat.
 
King Goldtooth of Firthengart stood fuming, his claws on the table and wings splayed wide with a murderous expression on his face. It had started out pleasantly enough, which should have been enough of a warning to Handy. They had been summoned early the next morning, and after Ivorybeak made with the pleasantries, protocol demanded Goldtooth went right ahead and ignored him in favour of interrogating Handy directly.
 
Ivorybeak managed to salvage the situation before Handy had to talk too much though, eventually prying the king’s attention away from the human and back to the diplomat. It was just in time for Ivorybeak to let slip that this was all his wife’s fault.
 
Handy suddenly wondered whether leaving Ivorybeak to do the talking was actually a good idea.
 
“Would you care. To repeat that. If you would,” the king asked with a very strained voice. Handy dragged the somewhat terrified griffon back up in his seat and stepped back off to stand beside the chair. He briefly considered removing the knife currently embedded in the chair but thought that it would be bad form, you know, having a drawn knife in the presence of a foreign king. Whether said king threw it in the first place was entirely insubstantial to the matter.
 
“Ah, ahem, my apologies, your Highness, perhaps I misspoke.”
 
“Oh, I don’t think you did, Chancellor,” Goldtooth icily said. The older griffon was formidably large for his species, nothing like the ungodly size the High King was but still towards the bigger side of the spectrum that Handy had seen. “Please, tell me how my wife was conspiring to instigate a war between our two kingdoms.”
 
“Now, your Majesty!” Ivorybeak said quickly. “That is not what I said—”
 
“No!? Then what was it, hmm!?”
 
“I beg thy patience, lordship,” Handy intervened with a slight bow of his head from his shoulders, reverting to his old airs. “I believe I might be better able to articulate this particular juncture.”
 
“Oh, and the revenant speaks!” Goldtooth exclaimed, gesturing to Handy with a claw before sitting back on the ornately carved chair. It was still early morning, and the cold daylight illuminated the richly appointed room from half-drawn curtains. Despite its ornamentation, this room had the lived-in, used feel of a room that had seen its fair share of kingdom-defining decrees and negotiations take place. “I was wondering whether or not I was seeing things, or whether Gethrenia had managed to piece together a golem in the vague shape of the instigator of this entire mess. But no, go ahead, speak. I am glad I was mistaken and I can actually get the blacksmith’s char on the matter.”
 
“If thou wouldst forgive me.” Handy tried to chew through the gryphonic idiom in his head to process its meaning. “My disappearance from thy fair kingdom—”
 
“Spare the flattery,” Goldtooth spat. Handy powered through the interruption.
 
“—Was in due to sorcery, but not gryphonic magics.”
 
“What then!?” Goldtooth demanded.
 
“The dragon who went rogue and attacked thy festival was hired, Majesty.”
 
“By whom!?”
 
“By a rogue warlock who was targeting certain persons at the festival. One of which was me.”
 
“So this is your fault!” Goldtooth accused, pointing a talon at Handy.
 
“Majesty, if you would remain calm—”
 
“Calm!? Equestria marshals along my borders to the south while I have my wife accused of treachery and conspiracy by Johan’s lackeys!”
 
“But Celestia has assured us they’ll be standing down! We’ve already negotiated with the Equestrians on this matter!” Ivorybeak spoke up, trying to salvage the matter.
 
“So you say,” Goldtooth growled. “And what assurances do I have of that other than this thing’s word on the matter?” Ah, good old Goldtooth, making sure his place on Handy’s shit list remained unchanged.
 
“We have something a bit more substantial, your Highness.” Ivorybeak gestured, and Handy came forward with the letter bearing Celestia’s seal. Goldtooth didn’t bother to wait for the young page beside him to take it and instead reached across the table and all but snatched it from Handy’s hands. Goldtooth read over the letter in silence for a few tense minutes. He gestured for the page, whispered something into his ear, and sent him off out of the room. Goldtooth then glowered at them both before speaking. At least his voice was calmer this time around.
 
“What smuggling ring?” he asked, challenge evident in his voice. Ivorybeak cleared his throat.
 
“Well, your Majesty, that is where your wife comes into the matter,” Ivorybeak said carefully, pausing as the king’s intense gaze focused on him. When it seemed Goldtooth wasn’t going to bite off his head, figuratively or otherwise, he continued, “There was a countess on the Equestrian border agitating for war with Firthengart, possibly even all of the High Kingdom.
 
“Said countess,” Ivorybeak continued, “did not actually want a war, however. Evidence suggests that she merely wanted to create the conditions necessary to best exploit the crisis for profit.” He looked to Handy for confirmation, and the human bent down to pick up the satchel of documents and letters. Ivorybeak gestured to it, “This, Majesty, is how Sir Handy was able to convince Princess Celestia to pressure her nobility to stand down. It—”
 
“We’ll see about that,” Goldtooth interrupted. Handy tried not to grimace. He held his claw up for silence, and for a few minutes longer, they waited in tense silence as the page came hurrying back into the room, carrying a number of documents with broken seals. Some of them looked positively ancient, which gave Handy cause to raise an eyebrow. The king looked through a number of them, studying their seals, putting broken pieces together and comparing them to the letter they had given him, then looked at the quillmanship. He harrumphed and waved the page away, the harried young lad hurrying out of the room without another word.
 
“Well,” Goldtooth continued, “it seems this is legitimate. Or a very, very good forgery.”
 
“I assure you, Majesty, we couldn’t even begin to fabricate Celestia’s seal even if we wanted to. W-Why, the thaumatic imprint is so distinct, any capable—”
 
“I was in the very same room as she wrote it, Highness.” Handy stepped in to save the stammering Ivorybeak. “I can give you my word it is legitimate.”
 
“Mm, and what is your word worth, human?” Goldtooth said icily. Handy’s crossed hands tightened their grip.
 
“More than my life, Goldtooth,” Handy said, rising to the challenge. Ivorybeak blanched at the challenge. The king, for his part, merely raised his brows, the ghost of a smile tugging at his beak. Although, seeing that minute an expression was harder to tell with an avian than equines, it could easily have been contempt if viewed in a different light. “Do not take our word if it pleases thee. Then, when you receive reports that the Equestrians really are doing just as we said they are doing, thou wilst be left doubting thine own judgement. Then thou wouldst hath spurned all our honest overtures and disregarded my own sacrifices of life and wealth to see to it the one who threatened thy kingdom was brought to justice and a foreign incursion averted. My word will still be intact, good king. What then, will be the value of thine?”
 
Had Handy been talking like that to, say, a reasonable man, it would merely have resulted in room-wide consternation, tense moments of silence, before someone more level-headed smoothed things over. Goldtooth was not known for being reasonable, therefore the fact he did not react immediately to such disrespect was cause for some concern among those in the room familiar with him. Certainly Ivorybeak looked to be utterly at a loss, and the guards and servants in the room, including one clerk whose scratching quill came to a dead stop, were eyeing their liege lord warily.
 
Goldtooth watched Handy for a long, silent moment before placing his claws on the table and pushing himself up, looking him dead in the face.
 
“Take off that helmet,” he ordered, his voice a whisper. Handy paused for a moment before complying. His eyes projected a soft, almost golden glow, the minute movements causing blurred light trails just a hair’s breadth above their surface. Goldtooth did not flinch, waiting for Handy to blink first. He almost didn’t want to, but the burning, almost volcanic activity that was Goldtooth’s emotions, and the panicked, turbulent ball of worry and fear that was Ivorybeak beside him, he reconsidered.
 
He tightened his jaw, and his gauntlet clicked audibly as he squeezed the ridge of his helm hard enough to cut bare flesh. He knew he should blink. For the sake of diplomacy, it’d just be a simple show of respect, a simple gesture for offence given.
 
But Goldtooth was not his king, and even had Handy not been as proud as he was, he was a royal knight of Gethrenia and the Sword of the King. He did not blink.
 
Goldtooth relented a moment later, nodding as if satisfied by something. Ivorybeak spared a glance up at his friend, but Handy didn’t bother to reciprocate, placing the helm back on. Goldtooth seemed to breathe deeply for a minute but did not speak. He eyed the satchel Handy still held and then pierced Ivorybeak with a stare.
 
“And how, does this involve my wife?” Ivorybeak was about to respond when the door opened, and everyone turned to look. Princess Katherine strode into the room as if she had every right to be there. Given this was the king’s own drawing room, perhaps she did, but Goldtooth seemed to bristle lightly. Ivorybeak coughed lightly as she took up position, standing beside her father.
 
“Yes, well. As stated, Countess Brazen Hearthfire had created further agitation for personal gain.”
 
“Rather short-sighted of her.”
 
“I couldn’t possibly speculate, Lord,” Ivorybeak powered on, gesturing for Handy to come forward. He lightly placed the satchel on the desk between them. “However, as her own correspondence reveals, we… we uhm—”
 
“Mother was aiding her, father.” Goldtooth whirled on his daughter, wide-eyed. The princess didn’t as much as flinch, “It’s true.”
 
“Now see here…” Goldtooth said dangerously, slowly turning back to level a claw to Ivorybeak. “Accusation is one thing, but subverting my own daughter—”
 
“I am saying this of my own free will, Father.”
 
“Be quiet!”
 
“No,” she said defiantly. Goldtooth turned and looked at her. “Mother has been stirring your anger at King Johan this entire time, and the Equestrians. All the while—”
 
“Be silent.” Katherine opened her beak to speak but thought better of it. She harrumphed and spread a wing, another bag hanging within it. “What is that?”
 
“Mother’s half of the correspondence.” Goldtooth looked at her in shock.
 
“Get out.” Katherine looked at him for a moment before taking a deep breath and moving. His claw stopped her. “Not you.”
 
He turned and looked pointedly at the two foreigners in the room. Ivorybeak blustered for a moment before getting up from his seat and removing himself from the room. Handy briefly glanced between them before following after him.
 
Surprisingly, not a few moments after they had left the drawing room, the servants, the clerk, and the guards followed after them. The beleaguered page who had been sent off to put the scrolls and letters away came back and looked rather confused at the gathering of everyone but the king outside his drawing room, but thought better than to ask.
 
Handy stood beside Ivorybeak by a window overlooking a courtyard where a gardener was tending to a row of hedges. Ivorybeak looked contemplative. A few more tense minutes passed before Handy spoke.
 
“So what do you think?”
 
“I don’t know.” Ivorybeak looked at the closed doors of the drawing room with some concern. “Goldtooth is a loud griffon at the best of times. I do not know what it means when he demands everything to be done quietly.”
 
Handy followed his gaze to the closed doors, wondering just what it meant to Goldtooth to not only implicate his wife in something despicable, but also dangerous to his nation, and later to have this confirmed by his own daughter.
 
“How much does Goldtooth rely on his wife when ruling his kingdom?” Handy asked, suddenly curious.
 
“He rules through his own right. The queen is of lower birth.”
 
“I meant in terms of skill.”
 
“He was just as blustering before his wedding as he was after.”
 
“How do you know?”
 
“I’m old enough to remember him as a prince.” Handy’s eyebrows rose at that.
 
“You don’t look that old for a griffon.” Ivorybeak smiled wryly at that.
 
“I’ll take that as a compliment. No, Goldtooth was as good a king as he was ever going to be before and after he married.”
 
“Then… say this all goes as we hope, how badly will this affect the kingdom?” Handy asked. Ivorybeak didn’t answer. The door remained shut for a very long time.
 

--=--


It was a full three hours of waiting before the doors opened again. Princess Katherine, who looked none the worse for wear, walked out of the room confidently, but didn’t so much as spare a glance at anyone else. The page hurried into the room after she left. Not even the guards had dared to move until they were sure it was entirely safe to enter, so Ivorybeak and Handy did likewise.
 
The page came back out and waved Ivorybeak over, so he and Handy entered the room. The page left and closed the doors. Goldtooth sat at the table, the various letters of the correspondence littered the floor around the table. The king himself seemed… defeated somehow, smaller.
 
Ivorybeak cautiously took his seat again, looking around himself and wondering when or if the servants would be allowed to re-enter. Goldtooth was resting back in his chair, foreleg laying upon the armrest and holding his head up, his free claw tapping away on the other armrest.
 
“What does Gethrenia gain by implicating my wife in treason?” he asked suddenly.
 
“Nothing!” Ivorybeak answered. “We gain nothing, Milord. This does not affect our current… unfortunate relations.” He looked up pointedly to the human. Handy coughed.
 
“It was at the request of Princess Celestia, Highness.” Goldtooth’s attention turned to him, and he suddenly became aware of the rings under the king’s eyes, not immediately noticeable because of the perpetual colourful shadows that always surrounded griffon eyes, but there to be seen if one cared to look. “Her letter specifically made mention of it. It is in Gethrenia’s interests for you to understand that it is through my actions that Equestria recalls its troops as a show of good faith. Therefore, I could not, even if I wished to, withhold from thee the truth of… her Majesty’s involvement.” Handy took in a breath. “In fact, if it were possible, I would have left knowledge of her Majesty’s involvement completely out of these affairs for the sake of good will. Celestia made that impossible.”
 
Goldtooth said nothing as he sat there, continuing to tap his claw and looking contemplative. He looked out the window at the sky beyond. The skies were unusually clear today, despite the snowstorm the other night. He let out a long, tired sigh. Handy had no idea what had passed between him and the princess while they had been locked outside, but this was a quieter, calmer Goldtooth they were now dealing with. He wasn’t sure that was entirely a good thing.
 
“So, Baron Handy?”
 
“Majesty?”
 
“Tell me,” the king spoke, leaning forward, “so we can get this under the bridge, if nothing else. What really happened at the festival all those months ago?”
 
Ivorybeak seemed to let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, and Handy allowed himself a small smile of relief. Whatever the princess had done, he would now listen to them. Frankly, that was enough.
 

--=--


 
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOUR AIRSHIP!?”
 
“Jacques.”
 
“YOU HAD THIS THE ENTIRE TIME?!”
 
“I am sure I already mentioned this at least once, bu—”
 
“YOU COULDN’T HAVE, OH I DON’T KNOW, SENT A LETTER OR SOMETHING!? HAVE SOMEPONY FLY IT TO COLLECT US!?”
 
“The borders were locked down; any airship would have been stopped, especially one bearing my—”
 
“AND I HAD TO CARRY ALL THIS CRAP UP THE ENTIRE CASTLE JUST TO PUT IT ON THE DECK OF SOMETHING THAT COULD JUST AS EASILY HAVE TAKEN ALL OF FIVE MINUTES TO LOWER NEAR THE GROUND TO—”
 
Handy tuned out Jacques incoherent ranting, the exhausted swordspony looking like he was in desperate need of a shower after carrying all the gold practically up the castle by himself. Handy had promptly disappeared to do ‘official business’ after telling Jacques to carry them up, and Crimson, being quite aware of just how hard a journey that was going to be, had promptly disappeared. She just so coincidently reappeared in the upper courtyard after all was said and done while Jacques was busy giving Handy hell.
 
“Everything going well, Master?” she asked, cautiously eyeing everyone around her. He smiled but didn’t look as he continued to allow Jacques to vent.
 
“It is,” he answered. “Just waiting.”
 
“On what? Jacques?” Handy nodded in reply. 

The oblivious swordspony was in a rare state of having completely lost his temper, and was busy swearing up a storm in French, much to the amusement of the guards around the courtyard. Handy rarely got to see the stallion so worked up, and the last time he had done so was when they were being captured by deer. He decided to enjoy the stallion’s impotent rage for as long as it would last. He was an asshole like that. Then he frowned.
 
“...As well as some other unexpected things.” He watched Ivorybeak emerge at last from the castle interior with his small entourage: two guards and one robed clerk Handy had not seen before. He narrowed his eyes as he spotted the hooded scribe who, for his part, didn’t look up at the tall human as the group passed them by. Ivorybeak waved at them. Handy merely gave him a nod but kept his eye on the hooded scribe.
 
He did not like that griffon. It was far too calm.
 
“—ARE YOU LISTENING!?”
 
“No,” Handy confessed, turning and giving Jacques a beatific smile. “Were you saying something?”
 
“ARGH!”
 
“If it makes you feel any better…” Handy held up a placating hand, his overall good mood at things being more or less resolved allowing him to indulge his companion. “I’ll buy the first round when we get back. I think a celebratory drink is well in order.” Jacques eyed him suspiciously.
 
“Oh? And how do I know you won’t leave me with the bill?”
 
“Because I own the tavern we’ll be drinking at. And the one across the street. You’ll be fine. No poison, I promise.”
 
“Oh ha,” Jacques groused before moving past Handy with a bit of a shove. Handy overlooked it with a smile for once.
 
“The offer extends to you as well, if you’d like.” Crimson blinked.
 
“What?”
 
“Misery loves company. I’d rather not suffer Jacques alone… especially not if some other people I know show up.”
 
“Oh… N-No thank you, Master. I don’t drink.” She looked down. Handy frowned at that, but decided not to question it.
 
“Well, suit yourself.” Handy glanced around. The nearest guard was out of earshot, and the rest of them had already boarded the ship. He then leaned down close to Crimson, whispering urgently. “Until I say otherwise, keep near the treasure when you get aboard. Tell Jacques to keep his sword ready.”
 
Crimson looked slightly worried before adopting a more stern expression. She nodded once before walking off and onto the ship. Handy sighed at the sight of the dirigible. He had spotted it earlier when he was entering the city, although at the time it had been on the far side of the castle, and all he could make out was a part of the bulky envelope silhouetted against the cloudy sky through the snowfall.
 
He had been… slightly miffed, one could say, to learn that it had been used to ferry Ivorybeak with all due haste to Firthengart as a part of his mission. The king rightfully not trusting an overland route to get him there in a timely fashion. He vaguely recalled Joachim saying he’d use it himself one of these days, but Handy had not thought he’d do it so soon. Giving the timescales involved, he had to have sent this well after knowing Handy was alive and well. Handy grimaced. He’d take it up with him when they got back.
 
...Got back. Huh, it actually hit him. He was actually finally going back to Skymount. No changelings, no old magic warlocks, no dragons, no horrific forests and conspiracies. No more stalking streets and ditch diving. Just a safe, warm bed to look forward to. It was strange to think about. His reverie was interrupted when Ivorybeak came back down across the boarding plank. Handy idly glanced over the courtyard wall at the, quite frankly, epic drop all the way down to the city below. It made sense that griffons thought nothing of such heights, but Handy was going to have to try very hard not to think about the potential drop when it came his turn to cross the plank.
 
“So where is she?” Handy asked, letting his displeasure be known. Ivorybeak gave him a reassuring smile.
 
“She’ll be along shortly. You can’t rush a lady.” Handy thought differently, seeing as it was his ship.
 
“I disagree rather strongly.” Handy folded his arms. “I don’t like it.”
 
“Come now, she has no power up north.” Ivorybeak patted him on the arm.
 
“I am not worried about Joachim. He’s probably more aware of the intricacies of the marriage game than I could ever be.”
 
“Then what are you worried about?”
 
“That her leaving Firthengart would undo everything we’ve just accomplished.” Ivorybeak hummed.
 
“I see where you’re coming from, but really, what of it?”
 
That stopped Handy. It wasn’t like Ivorybeak to act so relatively… unworried. “What?”
 
“What if the queen returned from her trip, is challenged by Goldtooth, and the queen somehow reassures him that this is all an elaborate Gethrenian conspiracy?”
 
“Well then, we’d have their daughter, and sole heir, up north. There’d be wa—” Ivorybeak held up a paw to stop him.
 
“Nothing.”
 
“…Pardon?”
 
“The same sole heir that had sided against her mother? She’d have to somehow convince Goldtooth that their own daughter is a conspirator! A conspirator whom, might I add, is trying her very best to complete the plan that was ruined by the calamity at the festival to begin with.

“And any activity to reignite the tensions and somehow get back their daughter, whom they cannot trust anyway if this somehow comes to pass, would simply look utterly foolish and illegitimate in front of everygriffon.”
 
“This debacle already looks foolish and illegitimate in front of everyone,” Handy pointed out.
 
“Yes, but to do so again so soon, after Gethrenia and Equestria stands down? Firthengart will be all on its own. Goldtooth won’t do it. At least before it was two kings looking stupid. He can blow the entire debacle off in a few years and some other scandal somewhere else draws everygriffon’s chattering mouths. Now? It’d be just him.”
 
“Hm,” Handy responded, clearly unconvinced, “In any case, I still don’t like strangers on my ship.” Ivorybeak just chuckled. “So where is the queen anyway?”
 
“Visiting her mother, I believe.”
 
“She’s in for a rude shock when she returns.”
 
“Indeed.”
 
No sooner had the finished speaking than the doors to the courtyard opened. If Handy had been frowning before, what he saw brought a veritable scowl to his face. Indeed, the princess herself was coming, and for her part, she was wearing nothing more elaborate than a simple sun dress and large hat. That did not bring Handy’s ire to the fore. What did was the train following her.
 
There were at least three ladies in waiting, or so Handy guessed when he spotted the gaggle of chatting griffons directly behind her, what looked to be another two… three… five personal servants carrying baggage, at least as many guards and, to Handy’s surprise, one of the Firthengarian knights in their distinctive plate armour. He knew it to be lighter yet stronger than that worn by soldiers in Gethrenia and, in keeping with true Firthengarian metalcrafting tradition, was ridiculously detailed, but no less effective for it.

Seemed when your nation was known for its steel production and smithcraft, you could afford the ridiculous flourishes to make your elite troops look impressive without limiting their ability.
 
Handy immediately hated him for how it reminded him of his own armour in its glory days, and how ratty he must now look. The knight, which he guessed was the same bird he had had the displeasure of meeting the other night when Ivorybeak had met the princess, looked upon Handy with undisguised suspicion and disdain.
 
Handy regarded him with the same—it was only courteous. The white-headed griffon harrumphed before making his way to the head of the train to be beside his princess. Katherine strode up to Ivorybeak and greeted him warmly.
 
“Count Heinrich, thank you ever so much for indulging me.”
 
“My pleasure princess but ah,” he glanced at Handy, “I am afraid this is in actual fact Baron Handy’s airship.”
 
“Indeed?” she asked, giving the human the briefest of glances. “Well, my thanks for your patience nonetheless. I am ever so glad you managed to talk sense into my father.”
 
“Of course,” Ivorybeak said, nodding. Handy kept quiet. Outside of himself, Ivorybeak, the princess, the king, and his immediate servants in that room, no one really knew an inkling about the scandal surrounding the queen. Handy hadn’t even told his traveling companions. The only loose link would be Celestia herself and, frankly, that was not Handy’s concern. He nodded his head respectfully to her as she passed by and continued exchanging pleasantries with Ivorybeak on the way back over to the ship. The knight lingered back and gave Handy a stern glare before following the servants onto the ship.
 
Handy allowed himself a snort of derision when the knight’s back was turned, before following across the plank and trying to think VERY HARD about anything other than the sheer drop below him. Who did this guy think he was trying to intimidate?
 
When he came aboard, having to stop himself and press against the creaking floorboards of his airship’s interior to remind himself that, yes, he truly was on his way home and this was not some trick of the forest. He began to make his way to the bridge of the ship, or whatever it was called on a dirigible—it was a ship, so Handy called it a bridge.
 
His smile grew wider at the thought of how he’d be received when he pushed open the door. Sure enough, there was Silvertalon, preparing the ship for take-off… or weighing anchor… Handy didn’t know shit about airships. He’d endeavour to rectify that.
 
“You can tell that insufferable count the ship will be ready when I say it’s ready,” Silvertalon grumbled, waving a claw but not bothering to look behind him. Handy paused, smiling. He didn’t remember the old bird being this confrontational.
 
“I’ll be sure to relay that to him.” He leaned against the doorway, amused.
 
“Yeah I bet you will… Wait, you don’t sound like one of the gu—hyurk!” Silvertalon went wide-eyed when he saw Handy, and reached back to the wheel to regain his balance.
 
“What’s the matter, Silvertalon? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he teased, smiling. “Also, I am not sure I like your new tone.”
 
“M-M-M-M-Milord! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any disrespect!” Silvertalon stuttered, trying to recover his dignity. Handy looked concerned.
 
“I’m not angry. I just thought you’d be glad to see me.”
 
“I am, Milord. It’s just, you… you uh, you were dead.” Silvertalon looked anywhere but his eyes. It then dawned on Handy that his newfound in-built nightlights behind each eyeball might be more than a little intimidating for the rather, erm, elderly griffon before him. He waved his hand dismissively and put his helmet back on for the sake of his comfort.
 
“Pass no remarks, merely something I picked up on my travels. Nothing that should trouble you,” he lied airily, before turning and walking out of the room, saying as he left, “No need to worry about stories for now. As you were.”
 
He didn’t look back to see if Silvertalon was reassured or not. He was too busy trying to get the griffon’s horrified expression out of his mind’s eye and ignore the spike of disturbed emotions he could feel on the bridge where once there was calm.
 
He made his way back down the centre of the airship, stopping halfway and noting for the first time just how many people were aboard the ship. He spotted Ivorybeak coming out of one room and stopped him on his way to the bridge.
 
“There’s a lot of griffons up here. Where is the princess storing her things?”
 
“Below deck of course.” Handy nodded then took note of how many of the rooms there were… and how all of them had griffons.
 
“And my companions?”
 
“They’re currently also below deck. I believe they said they needed to check on their things.” Again Handy nodded. Now, the real question he wanted to ask.
 
“So, while her Majesty stays amidship, with all her attendants, with you here as well, where am I sleeping?”
 
Ivorybeak smiled sheepishly.
 

--=--

 
“So...”
 
“Not a word, Jacques,” Handy grumpily said, placing down another card in a strange game called Hangstallion’s gambit. “Just… don’t mention it.”
 
“Mention what?” Jacques asked with a smile that made Handy want to punch him. “That the shipmaster can’t get a room on his own ship?” Handy just tensed up a moment before sighing. He put down his cards and got up.
 
“I’m going for a walk.” He went off into the darkness of the storage. Jacques chuckled to himself as he reshuffled the deck in the light of a small lantern. Crimson seemed to be staring at the cards in front of her with an intense expression.
 
“You need some help there, mon ami?” Crimson shook her head before finally looking up and asking quietly.
 
“...What does the little diamond symbol mean?”
 
Handy paid no attention to the pair of them as he continued on into the darkness. In actual fact, his appeared huff was most fortuitous, because it coincided with the movements of a certain person on board the ship.
 
He had been reaching out, trying to pinpoint where everyone was on the ship. He still couldn’t distinguish one person from another with his auspex, but he could narrow it down considerably. The person on the bridge? Silvertalon. The clump of people in the cabins nearest to the bridge? The Gethrenians, and across from them the princess herself, as well as her knight standing annoyingly in the hallway outside her room. Handy was convinced he hadn’t moved all night. The rest of them, however, stayed in the other cabins, except for the occasional visit to the lavatory. Night hours made hunting his target much easier, and Handy knew out of which room he was currently hiding in.
 
Every few hours or so, someone left the room that Ivorybeak and his guards were staying in, went to the lavatory, and then, like clockwork, made his way down to the storage area and went to a particular place near the engines. That was suspicious on its own, but thankfully he never ventured too far to the engines, and Handy made sure to check that the door was still locked.
 
Right now that same person was currently in the lavatory, and would soon be making his way down to this side of the storage area, on the far side of the ship from where Handy and his companions were spending the night.
 
And far away from any light source.
 
Sure enough, the person came down the short flight of stairs as quietly as he could. Too quiet—Handy almost didn’t hear him, and certainly would have missed him had he not had other senses to work with. He padded over to a crate.
 
The next thing the poor bastard knew, he was being slammed bodily against the wall, with the shaft of a war hammer pressing down on his throat to keep him pinned, and a bright light shining in his face, blinding him.
 
“Don’t. Move,” Handy hissed dangerously. The blinking, confused griffon did not look familiar; young, grey-feathered with a hint of green, and blue-eyed. Handy wasted no time. He had something sharp held in the same hand as the expensive brick he was now shining in the griffon’s face. He hurriedly ran the blade across the flesh of the griffon’s foreleg just beyond his claw.
 
He let out a hiss of pain, but a snarl from Handy made him keep his quiet. Strangely, he wasn’t whimpering in fear right now, which only made Handy sure he was right to be worried. He waited for a moment, letting the blood flow from the light cut he made on the griffon’s foreleg. He took a deep breath and then shone the light in his face again.
 
“Not a changeling at least. Who are you? Who sent you?” The spy did not relent, and Handy pressed the blade closer to his neck. “Five seconds, and don’t think I can’t see your claw reaching behind your back.” The spy froze. He looked as if he was considering something before swallowing once.
 
“Night becomes us.” Handy raised a brow before letting the bird drop. The griffon quickly massaged his neck after he was released and glared up at the human.
 
“Sunderclaw sent a spy?” he asked, having recognised the phrase from one of his… talks with the spymaster. “Why?”
 
“Not a spy,” the young griffon protested, “I was to guard against any threat to the chancellor’s life.”
 
“Could’ve used you when we were with the king,” Handy muttered. “I was unaware the chancellor’s life was under threat.”
 
“It isn’t… yet.” Handy looked at the griffon hard for a moment. Spy networks were not what most people thought of. In reality, the vast majority of the ones doing the actual ‘spying’ were ordinary folk. They were the guardsmen who took a little extra on the side to overlook this or that petty gang’s actions, or let slip there’d be a lapse in security at this or that place. They were also the petty criminals themselves, finding out things they shouldn’t know, causing chaos at useful times and places, and pawning off what they got.
 
They were the maids who cleaned your room and took a look-see at your writing desk, telling things they should not know to people who should not hear them. They were the resentful minister, scorned by his betters and drowning his sorrows at the tavern and telling his woes to whatever lout would care to listen. Almost all of them did not know they were being used as spies. Half of espionage was finding these ‘useful idiots’ and either utilising them, or making them no longer useful, one way or another.
 
When things called for something more skilled, well, that was when you actually got the sort of people popular imagination thought of when you mention the word ‘spy’. Highly trained agents sent to do very specific tasks. This particular agent had just been caught. Handy did not approve of this lapse in Gethrenian security and would make it known to the spymaster when he could.
 
“Do you know what you did wrong?” The agent didn’t answer. “You were too calm. You’re supposed to be a clerk in a foreign country attached to a dignitary on a mission to prevent a war. Be snooty, be snivelling, be anything but calm. And above all else, never reveal yourself, even if you’re caught. Never confirm anything even if in this case I happen to be friendly.”
 
“That’s not the reason I did that,” the agent said, finally getting his breath back. Handy frowned. He was about to suggest he should have persisted no matter what, and that would be exactly what Sunderclaw would have wanted him to do. That the agent had an ulterior motive besides saving his skin intrigued Handy and made him a touch wary.
 
The agent fiddled with something at his neck, and a little bauble lit up a light-orange colour, barely illuminating his face. He waved Handy over and went to the crate he had been heading to before their encounter. Opening it, he took out a small vial. Within was a small piece of paper rolled up.
 
“What is this?” Handy asked.
 
“We were hoping you could tell us. It concerns you specifically. We were under orders to direct you, if encountered, with all haste towards Gethrenia.” Handy didn’t take the vial from the bird.
 
“Open it.” The bird hesitated, but then unplugged the vial. Nothing happened, so Handy took the glass and took out the small paper, shining the light upon it.
 


Dagger Coast. Seawarck Isle. Found artefact. Evidence of it belonging to the human.


 
“Know what it could be referring to?” the agent asked. Handy looked completely puzzled.
 
“Where did you get this?” The agent shook his head.
 
“That is not mine to know. It is only here because the chancellor’s diplomatic cache is amongst the safest places to store it.”
 
“How many national secrets does Sunderclaw squirrel away in Ivorybeak’s effects?”
 
“None,” the agent said resolutely. Handy paused for a moment.
 
“How many compromising secrets about personalities in the kingdom does Sunderclaw hide in Ivorybeak’s things?” The agent remained completely silent. Handy rolled his eyes. The chancellor being found with secrets about random persons of import in the kingdom would be considered unusual, possibly even embarrassing, but not unbelievable. It’d make sense the person on the king’s inner circle responsible for diplomatic affairs would keep tabs on such things, even if Ivorybeak personally didn’t. Sunderclaw was using him and his assets to funnel non-critical, but useful information along his network, with no indication of himself or his network even existing.
 
That made Handy slightly wary of what Sunderclaw may be using his assets for, if at all. He pocketed the slip of paper.
 
“And that’s what you’ve been running up and down for?”
 
“How did you know?”
 
“Don’t worry about it. Now, my question.” The agent simply frowned.
 
“Count Heinrich is rather indecisive about his wines every hour or so. I’ve been coming down here changing vintages.”
 
“You’re kidding me.” The agent shook his head and gestured to the open crate. Handy looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, there were half a dozen wine bottles. Handy tried not to sigh. “Fine, go on. Get out of here.”
 
“Sir?”
 
“Did I stutter? Just get the wine and leave.” The agent turned off the light at his neck after picking a bottle and leaving up the way he came, just as silent as when he came down. Handy shook his head and prepared to go back down to the two ponies. He paused, thought twice, then went to the crate and took out one of the bottles.
 
Six bottles was entirely too much for one man to pack away on such a short flight, so Handy figured he’d give him a little help. 

Besides, Ivorybeak owed him.