Author's Notes:

While running some errands, Talib is assaulted without warning and learns that Progress Miller seems to have problems of his own. Not wanting to reveal his mistrust of the powerful pony, Talib attempts a delicate dance between friendship and enmity.

Morning had broken the egg of the sun, and its light had spread like radiant yolk over Equestria by the time Talib awoke on the rest day, groggy and stupid from gorging on desperately-needed sleep. He had intended to be up before dawn to continue working on his cabin and experiments but his body had rebelled, and had tarried with sweet slumber till long after they were supposed to have parted ways. There was much to do, so Talib hurried downstairs for a quick breakfast (discovering that Old Sim, of course, was long gone) before heading off to the Carousel Boutique. A light rain was scheduled in Ponyville and Talib anxiously studied the sky over the Forest – over there, at least, no rain clouds appeared to threaten his unfinished cabin.

Talib had plenty of time along the way to reflect on this gift from Progress Miller. If Old Sim was right, and the impressively-built unicorn really was irresponsibly harming the Forest, Talib was not inclined to accept the morning dress for fear of hypocrisy. On the other hoof, rejecting the gift caused all sorts of problems. For one thing, it would hurt Rarity; materially, since she’d lose some income and a chance for a little advertisement of her skills, and emotionally, since she’d already made the darned things and it was no fault of hers that Talib’s sartorial patron might secretly be an unscrupulous profiteer. Which, incidentally, was far from obvious – although Old Sim’s numbers certainly made a serious argument, it wasn’t iron-clad. Talib had only met Progress once but he’d seemed amiable, positively beaming with good-will, and generous. Then again, in these last two weeks it seemed everypony he thought he’d known had revealed some unexpected depths, and Talib was even less inclined to judge by book-covers than usual. If Progress Miller was not just a driven businesspony, but also even half as ruthless as Old Sim suspected, refusing the gift might tip their hoof. As the Boutique’s tent-like spire of fetching pink and blue loomed over him, Talib tried not to consider the potential consequences. Something about Progress suggested a pony not given to half-measures.

Before he reached the door a sudden noise, a gentle but sinister tearing of the air, swooped towards him from the Boutique’s spire. Talib tried to look up at the strange sound but a clawed hand descended on the back of his skull a moment before the full, significant weight of his assailant bore him roughly to the ground. Struggling vainly in panic against the expert restraint of powerful talons, Talib could only see a confusion of feathers and fur above the dirt which now occupied most of his view.

“What isss your business here?” hissed a calm but menacing voice, the words carried on sour breath.

Talib still stubbornly struggled to turn his head but failed, the feeling of powerlessness churning into hot, futile rage in his stomach. Struggling to speak through the emotions constricting his throat, he spluttered out, “Rarity asked me to come for a fitting!”

The weight was slowly released, his attacker keeping control until the very last instant, and Talib scrambled to his feet, eyes burning. But when he whirled, glaring, to face his ambusher, his thumping heart stopped stone cold. Just out of easy kicking distance, wicked beak half-open and sharp, stood a burly, rough-looking griffon. His stance was relaxed but Talib had no doubt that the least show of violence from the pony would elicit an extremely swift, competent and unpleasant reaction, especially given that Talib had never been in a fight in his life. He gritted his teeth and slowed his breathing as the griffon looked back at him steadily, not a trace of emotion appearing in the sharp golden eyes. A transparent film, the nictitating membrane, flashed unsettlingly over them every few seconds. The young colt dusted himself off, trying to feign composure.

“I have an appointment for a fitting with Rarity. What in Equestria do you think you’re doing?”

This finally caused some change in the griffon’s features – though they were largely alien to Talib, he could recognise amusement when he saw it. Without answering, the looming predator moved to the door of the Boutique and knocked twice, sharply, with his bony knuckles. After a short delay it opened to reveal Rarity, pins gripped in her teeth, clearly interrupted in mid-fashion. Talib could tell she was on edge with the giant carnivore present but, ever the professional, she spoke with as much civility as if he were a regular – in both senses of the word – customer.

“Yes, Mujeer,” she asked, remembering and pronouncing the name with courteous ease, “may I help?”

The giant griffon, still silent, merely stepped aside and indicated Talib with a frighteningly graceful sweep of his claw. The young pony stood there looking slightly misused, still recovering from his roughing-up.

“Talib! Oh, you’re here quite early. Come in, darling!”

Talib looked uncertainly at the griffon but apparently, now that Talib had been vetted by Rarity, he was no longer of interest. Mujeer coiled his dense but elastic lion’s haunches and launched heavily into the air, his wings parting to reveal a long scar running through feathers and fur down his back. Their powerful strokes carried him back up to the top of Rarity’s tower where he perched observantly, his eagle’s eyes searching but otherwise immobile as a statue.

No wonder I didn’t see him coming, thought Talib, he probably picked me out ten minutes ago. If this was Talib’s observer in the forest, he might as well start sleeping in the open again. The cabin was nowhere near finished and his flimsy lean-to would last about two seconds against Mujeer.

Rarity followed his gaze. “Oh, sorry about Mujeer,” she said, leading Talib inside. She took advantage of the eagle-headed creature’s unremarkable hearing to lower her voice and add, “he will insist on checking everypony that comes to visit today, unfortunately. Happily, I don’t have too many clients scheduled.”

As he followed her inside, Talib’s whirling mind tried to make sense of things. “But wha-” he began, before a booming, familiar voice from within the Boutique interrupted him.

“Ho, Talib! What a happy coincidence! Are you here for your morning dress?”

Talib froze momentarily, then with great effort assembled a hasty smile and forced himself to turn nonchalantly. Progress Miller was standing, cog-shaped cutie mark showing and half-dressed in black tie but still imposing, in the centre of the Carousel Boutique and somehow managed to make the spacious floor room seem a trifle cramped. To be sure, part of the effect was his imposing size and musculature, but a goodly part of it was sheer force of personality. It was like Shining Armour’s protection spell they’d passed through when the Cane family had gone to the public wedding events in Canterlot, but instead of a protection field, Progress projected hearty, good-natured authority.

Rarity returned to her client, making minor adjustments to the new outfit, and answered for Talib.

“That’s right. Talib, why don’t you take a seat and I’ll be with you shortly? We’re nearly done here, Progress.”

“Good morning, Progress,” said Talib tightly, remaining standing, “how are you?”

“Oh, pretty fair thank you Talib, pretty fair. I hope Mujeer didn’t give you any bother on the way in?”

Talib hesitated, unsure how to answer. Progress, swiftly and correctly interpreting his caution, didn’t wait for a reply.

“Oh dear. He can be quite… efficient, I’m afraid – of course, it’s one of the chief reasons I hired him, admirable quality, but he is not much given to conversation.”

“He’s your… employee?” asked Talib, unsure how to respond.

“Well, I suppose he is, though I doubt he’d enjoy the term. Griffons tend to bring their honour to even the most mercantile of transactions. Put simply, he is my bodyguard.”

Talib looked the bulky pony up and down, doubtfully, and Progress laughed, causing Rarity to frown slightly at the stretching of fabric under her pins. Unsurprisingly, he had a deep, rolling laugh.

“I shall take your scepticism as a compliment, young Talib. Unfortunately, however,” he continued, suddenly serious, “it seems I may have enemies far more dangerous than one pony, however strong, can hope to face alone.”

At Talib’s surprised expression, Progress elaborated. “A fortnight ago, after the Summer Harvest Parade where we first met, some saboteurs burned and smashed an alarming amount of my logging camp while my, hah, employees, were asleep. The reports only reached me here in Ponyville the day after. By the time the workers had woken up and rushed down to the site, I was told, the vandals had vanished, leaving no trails to follow.” Progress’s jaw clenched, his genial disposition fading momentarily and his eyes narrowing as if they would burn through the walls and seek out the culprits. Talib was reminded of Old Sim’s caution: He’s the Pony with the Plan, and heaven help anypony who gets in his way. Talib tried to set aside his rising sympathy and think of Progress as an enemy. It wasn’t easy.

“We contacted the local authorities, of course,” he continued, “but we’re quite isolated out there so they restricted themselves to sniffing out malcontents here in Ponyville who might know something about it. No luck so far.” He turned his charismatic gaze to Talib, like a bright beam of guilt-inducing magic. Talib shrank a little inwardly but managed to keep his expression neutral. “You wouldn’t have heard about anything of that sort, would you?”

Talib swallowed hard. “No, I haven’t,” he replied, truthfully.

“Well, keep your ears to the ground for me, eh?”

Talib, not seeing how else he could respond, nodded. And anyway, if there were ponies smashing and burning at the work site, somepony could get hurt. For all that he was worried about the Forest, violence of any kind seemed… extreme, to Talib. He would have few qualms turning in such reckless ponies.

“So, Talib… how’s your report coming along?” asked Progress without warning, looking casually at some detail on his jacket sleeve. For the second time that hour Talib felt ambushed and had the wind knocked out of him.

“Uhh… what report?” he stuttered, though he knew very well he was only working on one report which would interest Progress.

Progress looked up, skewering Talib with a friendly intensity. “The one for the Council,” he said helpfully as Rarity worked fastidiously around him.

Talib felt a strange, distant calm come over him, and was reminded of the ferret in the snare. When it had been completely immobilised by Old Sim’s hoof, it had stopped struggling.

Seeing the change, Progress explained. “I’m friendly with a few ponies on the Council, you see, and so they mentioned it to me.”

Light-headed, Talib dropped all useless pretence.

“Oh, not bad… we haven’t really written much yet,” he said with a sort of dazed detachment.

Progress nodded. “So you have been roped in as well. Let me guess, Simon-” Talib had never heard anypony use Old Sim’s full name – “has some fervent but largely intuitive belief about my logging rates and you, with your more analytical approach, are struggling to make the numbers actually add up with rigour on paper. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Talib wondered how much Progress knew about his “more analytical approach”. Where in Equestria does this pony get all his information? Whatever the source, it was accurate.

“That about sums it up,” said Talib.

Progress shook his head, a little sadly. “Simon Timbers is, I know, an excellent lumberpony. One of the old guard. But I’d wager he has no head for figures, and he certainly wouldn’t be up on the new, more efficient methods we’ve developed,” his expression brightened, and he favoured Talib with a generous beam, “but you are the future, yes? Young and open-minded, and full of ideas, perhaps?” Talib made twisty expression at this summation, not quite seeing it, but Progress persevered, “I tell you what, once you’ve picked up your morning dress-” he said, reminding Talib of the gift… deliberately? “-a request, a favour between friends. Why don’t you swing by my Ponyville office and I’ll have my manager run through the numbers with you, maybe explain some of the modern techniques we’re using. I’m sure you’d find it quite interesting.”

The “request” sounded sincere enough, but Talib had serious misgivings. “Um, well I have some errands to run this afternoon, and really Old Sim should be there too, since he’s the one coming up with the figures…” he said uncertainly, not wanting to refuse outright.

The hulking, charming unicorn’s eyes creased into a smile which, for once, was not entirely convincing.

Just then, Rarity chimed in.

“All done, Mr. Miller! This will look absolutely fabulous for the Spring Dance. You’ll have the mares simply fawning over you!”

Progress winked at Talib as he was relieved of the dinner jacket and other formal trimmings.

“Thank you again, Miss Unicorn. As always, my delight over your work cannot be adequately expressed,” he said, passing her a cheque. Rarity scanned it casually and, judging from her double-take, that particular expression of his delight was not entirely inadequate. He turned back to Talib. “May I expect the pleasure of your company at the Dance, young master Cane?”

Rarity frowned. “We’re trying to convince him to attend, though without much luck so far. He hasn’t even got an outfit, yet.”

“Oh?” asked Progress, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t really like crowds,” managed Talib, weakly.

Rarity, anticipating this remark, had her retort ready. Her eyelids half-closed, and an enticing tone transformed her voice.

“Applejack will be there,” she said.

Talib, mortified, looked at Progress. The large unicorn said nothing, but his ears flicked and Talib could practically see him making a mental note of the tidbit and filing it away. Talib passed rapidly through panic and damage control; now the barn was well and truly ablaze and he was in full-blown crisis management.

“Well, of course everypony will be there,” he said, parroting the mares’ earlier argument while shrugging with a nonchalance he did not feel, “but that’s just the problem. I’d really rather just avoid the crush of ponies, to be honest. I’m not really a herd animal.” A flat-out denial of his affection for Applejack, he reasoned, would just draw Rarity out further on the subject. With any luck, if Talib more or less ignored it Progress might think it was nothing significant, maybe just an awkward and unfounded remark by a notorious social engineer.

Progress, however, winked obviously at Rarity and joined the fray. “Miss Unicorn, allow me,” he said smoothly. “Talib, I have a proposition. You said you’re busy today, but pay me a visit at my Ponyville office next weekend. Bring the esteemed Mr. Timbers, if you wish. I’ll personally go over our business model with you both, and try to lay to rest any concerns you may have. Furthermore, we can discuss the dance, and Applejack, stallion-to-stallion, and see if there might be some way we can make another addition to your wardrobe so you may go to the Spring Dance looking your most dashing. You never know, I might even have something useful to say on the subject of courtship. What do you say?”

“Oh, Talib, do!” said Rarity, clearly hoping that a masculine argument might have more sway with him. Talib was trapped. He fervently wished he had some pressing engagement, some urgent and, above all, time consuming task for next rest day which would render a visit to the Progress Group office impossible. Despite his manic inner extemporising, he drew a blank. All he could do was co-opt the same delaying tactics he’d used on his family about the Dance.

“Weeell…” he began, as if considering his schedule, “I have a lot on that day. But I’ll certainly try.”

Progress nodded at him firmly, satisfied. “That’s all I ask, Talib.” Rarity, having finished packing away his suit, handed him a neat, elegant package. “Thank you again, Miss Unicorn. Talib, come outside and I’ll introduce you properly to Mujeer.”

With that commanding tone, there was clearly no wriggling out of it. Rarity opened the door for them and Progress bowed elegantly, his well-muscled frame moving under perfect command.

“Miss Unicorn, a delight, as always.”

Her rapturous smile was all the answer he needed, and Talib followed him out into the bright Equestria day, having to resist the urge to flee back inside when he again heard the ominous swooping noise. Mujeer touched down a little distance away with the peculiar dull thump of a heavy weight landing gently, and stood with his eagle’s head cocked to one side, perhaps awaiting orders.

“Mujeer,” said Progress formally, “this is my friend Talib Cane of Sugarcane Farm. Talib, Mujeer, my bodyguard, of the Griffon Empire.”

Talib, too nervous to offer his hoof, was relieved when the frightening carnivore instead touched the sharp talons of his right claw to his feathered breast, his forehead and then his beak, before sweeping them, palm-up, in Talib’s direction. Unsure of the significance of the gesture, or the appropriate response, Talib merely nodded gravely.

“Talib may pass without inconvenience, Mujeer,” said Progress simply.

Again, sharp golden eyes treated him to an impersonal appraisal.

“I shallll know you next time, Talib,” the griffon rasped. Instead of pronouncing it “Tay-lub” like the Ponyville ponies, Mujeer pronounced it “Tha-leeb”. Like much else this past hour, Talib wasn’t sure how to interpret the griffon’s ambiguous comment, but Progress nodded and turned back to the tall colt.

“Well, Talib my young friend, I hope to see you next rest day. I’ll be in the office all day, but after that I have to return to overseeing the logging camp. Remember me to Simon.”

Talib, nodded mutely and watched Progress Miller walk off. Mujeer gave him a final glance before turning to walk beside his employer.

He went back inside the Carousel Boutique and breathed a sigh of relief. Rarity had laid out the partly-finished items for his morning dress ensemble – pants, shirt, waistcoat, tailcoat and tie – and the preliminary fitting went swiftly under her expert guidance. The fit was almost perfect, though Rarity hadn’t considered the extra muscle he’d be putting on with the lumberpony work and so decided to let it out in a few strategic places to allow for his continued growth. A final fitting of the finished garments would not be possible for several weeks, and she promised to send him a note. Talib thanked her profusely and took his leave.

Going about his second errand of the day, Talib returned to the Golden Oak Library. When he entered, he discovered Twilight and Spike were out on some business or other, leaving Owlowiscious to hold the fort.

“Morning, Owlowiscious,” said Talib, “don’t suppose you have any other books by Spruce Timbers?”

“Who?” replied the owl, inscrutably.

“Spruce Timbers. He’s sometimes called Pappy Timbers in his later life.”

“Who.” Talib was about to get some paper or something to write it down when Owlowiscious flapped over to a nearby shelf. Following, Talib could see the section contained all authors with surnames beginning with ‘T’. After a thorough search, no further works by the mysterious Pappy Timbers were forthcoming.

“Oh, well,” he said, disappointed but not much surprised. “There is one other thing…” Talib thought of his most recent run-in with Progress Miller. If the formidable unicorn had friends on the Council, it would be imprudent to rely solely on the bona fides of its members. Knowledge, at least, did not pick sides.

“Do you have anything on the regulations governing Ponyville Council?”

“Who.”

“You know, Ponyville Coun-” Talib stopped and shook his head, simply waiting. Owlowiscious flew over to a section headed “Reserve” and gestured with a claw to a shelf containing a series of identical-looking volumes. Talib examined them and groaned. The shelf contained the Council records going back to its founding, in Granny Smith’s day. Flipping through a few, it seemed everything was simply lumped together in chronological order: the regulations set by Canterlot which governed their powers, Council-authored documents such as their constitution, changes of sitting members and every Council ordinance ever passed. When a regulation had been updated it was just re-inserted at that point in the timeline with the modifications. The system, or lack thereof, was a nightmare.

Since they were in the Reserve section, Talib was not able to borrow them and so would have to study them right here. He had no time for a close reading today but could at least familiarise himself with the layout and note some sections of particular relevance for when he had more time. He set himself up at a little reading table nearby with paper and pencil, and started taking volumes off the shelf a few at a time, skimming through the pages and searching for promising-looking headers and key words. After an hour or so he’d covered a few pages with references to likely-sounding sections, including their page and volume numbers, but had not yet surveyed even half of the volumes on the shelf.

I seem to have a fondness for daunting tasks, recently, he thought ruefully, rubbing his eyes and face. He packed up, thanked Owlowiscious and headed back into the Everfree Forest.

The day had turned humid and oppressive, and rainclouds had set up their dark camp above Ponyville, mustering courage for an attack. For once, Everfree shared Ponyville’s weather, and it felt more like a steamy jungle as Talib walked quietly deeper into its trees and vines. His head was whirling with his encounter with Progress Miller, and he sought the peace of his little camp. He arrived just as a light drizzle, almost a mist, filled the previously clear air with tepid, miniscule droplets. Checking his nascent cabin, he was satisfied that the light moisture was unlikely to warp the well-seasoned wood, but made a mental note to “borrow” some large oilcloths from Sugarcane Farm, before going to check on his shanty. Everything appeared as he had left it, and he foraged for some lunch, Everfree Forest Edibles in hoof, pulling up several items he’d never tried before.

He sat with his rear hooves in the delicate little stream as he ate, masticating and digesting the events of the day so far along with his meal. Nothing about Progress’s conduct had been particularly threatening or improper, but Talib couldn’t shake his suspicions. When Progress had called him “friend”, something had rung false. And his casual reminder of the gift, and his broad hinting at a second one, had been too closely tied to his request, effectively, that Talib show him their report. At the end of the day, after all the evidence and logic had been pursued, it still seemed to come down to trust. And, like Old Sim, Talib didn’t trust Progress as far as he could spit. He wasn’t used to evaluating things on trust, but there was just no quantifying the vaguely unpleasant sensation he felt in Progress’s company, or his faith in Old Sim’s gruff but honest goodwill. Thinking about his relationship with Old Sim, Talib realised how rare it was for him to have somepony he felt he could trust, outside of his family. An overwhelming desire settled on Talib to do right by the old stallion, to help him with this complaint and be worthy of reciprocal trust.

Thinking about the morning dress he felt a little dirty, a little… bought. But some of his arguments for swallowing his misgivings and accepting it were still valid. Although apparently Talib could not hope to conceal their work on the report, Progress still seemed to think that Talib might be brought round. Refusing the gift would swiftly destroy the option of diplomacy for Progress, leaving only coercion and antagonism as his remaining tactics. Talib wanted to delay that as long as possible. He thought of Applejack and shuddered with the knowledge that Progress hadn’t been fooled one iota by his feigned indifference. There was a lever he’d rather Progress not have access to. The dang unicorn seemed to know enough already. Where had he got his intelligence? He’d known about Talib’s academic leanings – had he talked to somepony at the school? How in Equestria could he have passed that off as a casual inquiry? Or perhaps Mujeer had broken in and snooped at the records. Talib shook his head. That seemed a little overt, a little unsubtle. Progress was no thug, and Mujeer was definitely more bodyguard than cat-burglar.

Thinking on his enemy’s – as he now thought of Progress – subtlety, Talib felt a little fear turn his mouth dry and his lunch tasteless. Had it been a coincidence, as Progress had claimed, that their paths had crossed at the Carousel Boutique? Or was everything planned, down to the timing of Progress’s appointment with Rarity? Perhaps he’d known about Talib’s appointment, and had Mujeer spy on him from the sky, ready to alert Progress when Talib started making his way to the Boutique. He looked up at the clouds apprehensively, but saw only dark grey vapours. If Progress had known Talib was coming, then Mujeer’s casual assault was not spontaneous and took on a more sinister significance, perhaps as a demonstration. A warning. One thing, however, didn’t quite make sense. Why would Mujeer be setting snares in the Forest, and hanging around observing Talib’s experiments? Progress had said nothing of those, and Talib was growing more certain that the formidable Mr. Miller would not have lost any opportunity to further impress – or intimidate – Talib with how well-informed he was. If Mujeer had followed Talib from Sugarcane Farm to the Carousel Boutique, it was possible they did not yet know about his little Forest camp. The dense trees would preclude any aerial observation, and following him through the paths without being observed, Talib knew, was nigh-on impossible, with the young pony’s excellent hearing, alertness for tracks, and quiet step. So the hunter was still a mystery, and Mujeer was probably kept busy guarding Progress Miller.

That was another thing. What was Talib to make of the attack on Progress’s logging camp? In his paranoia, Talib had thought for a while it might have been a fiction, but if so Progress gained nothing obvious from it. And when he’d asked Talib if he’d heard anything, his inquiry had been genuine, even fervent. Who in Equestria would do such a thing, endangering pony lives and causing such destruction? And how had they vanished so completely, without even tracks, when Talib was quite confident the Progress Group employees would have gone through the Forest with a fine-toothed comb? Another mystery. The Everfree Forest seemed to sprout them like weeds.

His lunch was long-finished by now as Talib sat there, thoughts spinning. To clear his head, he held his breath and plunged viciously into the deepest part of the little stream, managing to get completely submerged. At first he struggled to empty his mind but, after a minute or so, was more or less successful. Only one stubborn thought refused to pass gracefully away like the rest; Progress’s comment about the sabotage having happened on the night after the Summer Harvest Parade, when they’d first met. Talib couldn’t remember anything significant about that night, except that he’d awoken before it had ended, and walked through its fading hours on his way to Old Sim’s…

Flaming rubies in the Forest, and black dread possessing his hooves…

Talib nearly gasped but clenched his throat tightly shut. He waited as long as he could before surfacing and exhaled slowly, having lost count. Holding his breath underwater was normally relaxing, like the sauna. But recently it seemed something from his subconscious had taken up residence in the pools and streams of the Forest, waiting to ambush him as he lay there, mind open and receptive. He forced himself to try again, and no further images leapt into his mind’s eye. Somewhat relieved, he shook off, donned his panniers once more, and headed into the warm afternoon mist, towards Zecora’s hut.