Ambassador

>Good to be back.

>Canterlot always looks a treat mid winter. Even in the darkness that pre-empts dawn. It's nice to be back in the cold.

>The Castle looms overhead, but you pay it no mind as you slip toward a tower across the street, resplendent in sandstone blocks and Doric columns.

>You enter the quite lobby.

>"Your coat, sir?"

"Sure".

>"And your bag, sir?"

"Hmm. No, no. I'm sure I shall manage."

>These clerks are getting younger by the year.

>This one still seams stranded between puberty and adulthood. His bandy legs bend as much as his back as he bows twice; once to accept the large waistcoat, and one for the sake of decorum.  

>Memory strikes.

"Uhmm, tell me..."

>You falter to quietus where the colt's name should fit.

>"Basil, sir."

>Thankyou, Basil.

"Well, Basil, Princess Sparkle: Is she accepting guests at this time of night?"

>The colt halts. He perceives your face earnestly.

>You wait patiently.

>Suddenly a bright pink blush washes over the bridge of his nose, and he drops into a further bow.

>"Oh, Ambassador, I didn't recognize you."

>You murmur a quite chuckle.

"That's quite alright, basil. I-"

>The colt is not finished.

>"You see, we have business partners from various dragon enterprises seeking, well, business and-"

"Basil, I took no offence; do not feel inclined to apologize for such an honest mistake."

>He isn't listening.

>"-it seems awfully strange that you, y'excellency, would be lodged in such, well, common-"

>You haven't the heart to tell him these aren't temporary lodgings. Or that you should be referred to as Your Governance.

>"-you were the Princess's assistant for much of her youth, weren't you? On your behalf, I shall take umbrage with the diplomatic corps at-"

>Probably best to let him talk.

>Basil prattles on, as you and he make your way up three cyclic flights of stairs.

>You trudge--as only a biped can--to your front door as Basil flutters along on his hooves, doing that dance of awkward reverence.

>-"and when you brokered that deal with the Prench! By Celestia, my balls were in my..."

>He clenches his snout, and you regard him with a raised eyebrow and a pencil thin smile.

"I should think, Basil, the Prench would rather enjoy to hear they had put balls in somepony's mouth. Come, my coat?"

>He grins. Too much. It wasn't that witty. Then again, the memory of Celestia first swearing before you is one of everlasting pleasure.

>The coat exchanges stewardship, and with one final bow, Basil leaves you to your slumber.

>You fumble with the lock. Opposable thumbs are such a curse.

>The door swings open on fresh oiled hinges.

>The flat is sterile, with a cold chill that sticks like sweat to every surface.

>The blinds across the windows are shut; the chairs before the coffee table are stacked atop each other; Everything is bear.

>Everything is as it should be. Fabulous.

>Except is is not, for there is something you perceive at your feet. A small white card, positioned as if it had been slipped through the crack beneath the door.

>Your bag falls to the carpet, and you bend to reach it. And stop suddenly, with your outstretched claw inches from the white card.

>Pinkie, I swear...

>But that would be silly. She's still in Ponyville, right?

>But it is silly; ergo, caution is justified. This is Pinkie: sense and her are diametrically opposed.

>And you realize you've been cantered over the small card for over a minute. And that just seems sad.

>Nothing for it, you suppose.

>Quick as a flash, you pluck the card from the carpet, and yelp in surprise as absolutely nothing happens.

>Streamers do not cascade from the ceiling. Horns do not sound. The only thing you hear is your own nervous yelp, bouncing around the flat, mocking you.

>Fabulous.

>You read the small rectangle a little slow; it is horn writ but of a thin, classical brand of scrawl.

>It reads thus.

 

Spike.

I wonder if you remember me. My name is Pipsqueak. From Ponyville. Do you recall?

I was a few years younger than you. We were on sound terms, in a mutual circle of

friendship with Applebloom and the crusaders. Regardless, I understand that you,

Ambassador, are rather a busy dragon. But, permit a fellow his right to entreaty;

You, through pleasant circumstance, happen to be in a prime position to aid me

in the study of a certain field in which we both hold vested interests.

I wake early enough, as, I am told, do you. If at all possible, might you meet me

tomorrow at the Featherstoneborough Club, half past six, for a minute discussion of

the terms of this cooperation.

Cheerfully,

Pipsqueak. BA MA PhD

 

>Questions. They accost you at every front.

>Of course you remember Pipsqueak. He with the patch on his eye and toned legs, whom you always thought looked better in a scarf.

>He who, as you both blossomed into your teens, laughed by your side.

>He who you first fantasized about, and who almost drove you to ceaseless insecurity.

>He who, you last remember, was betrothed to Applebloom.

>You remember how that made you think about this whole life thing, what with your [i]disposition[/i] and all.

>Celestia, how long has this note even been here?

>Did he know you were returning this morning? Does he mean [i]this[/i] morning?!

>If he thought you were in the city, why didn't he just see you face to face?

>Or, if this is for the sake of academia, simply contact the office?

>Further in what field could you possibly help him?

>Oh Luna, its six o'clock already.

>Should you go?

>The Featherstoneborough is well placed in society. You would have become rather a frequenter if you fancied the company of its clientele. As best as you can remember, its a 40 minuet walk, on the other side of town.

>The door to you apartment shuts with finality. The card is whipped up in the draft, tossed in the air and then settles back where you found it.

>At that moment, you burst through the lobby doors and out into the street.