“Potatoes,” Sim answered vaguely when Melaco asked him what food he liked. The chestnut-brown cane farmer recommended something on the menu, but Sim didn’t engage. He just nodded and grunted.

The old lumberpony didn’t much care for fancy food, but that wasn’t the only reason he couldn’t focus on the menu. That damn story had woken some unpleasant memories. And as usual, his brother was getting to him.

They were chalk and cheese, really. Sim watched as Huon joked and laughed with the others, holding forth on this topic or that, plummy and opinionated but convivial for all that. Sim watched jealously as Talib attended to Huon’s pronouncements. The young colt was respectful, interested, and not half as skeptical as he ought to be. Maybe Huon seems like some kind of pony-of-the-world role model, thought Sim. Talib, poor thing, had only faint memories of Baba Azhar. Now there had been true knowledge, not Huon’s shallow imitation. Sim and Ghaliya, whose memories of the poet-minstrel were more vivid, could see Huon for what he was - a show-off and a boor.

Yes, Huon was obnoxious and irritating – Celestia, was he irritating – but there wasn’t a cruel bone in his body. Not really. Whereas Sim, more than once already tonight, had had to physically restrain himself from clocking his brother upside his wavy black mane. Especially when he interrupted Marjorie. Sim’s damn fool brother, somehow, had a son with his head screwed on right and a wife he didn’t even appreciate, while Sim and Glade hadn’t even-

Sim stopped himself there. As if tonight wasn’t already hard enough; putting up with his brother, that damn what’s-her-name griffon, Ghaliya now looking at him suspiciously for some reason, and Talib wearing the stupid suit Progress had given him.

Progress Miller… yes. On that, at least, even Sim and Huon agreed. The past, unresolved, was dangerous ground. The present and future they could probably discuss without rancour. And besides, that was the main game, wasn’t it? Despite his antisocial tendencies, Sim’s pragmatism was his salvation. Stopping Progress had to be his priority. Huon had contacts in industry, and had his finger on the pulse of the wider market, and that was the scale at which Progress operated. It was a world in which Sim had little experience. Huon might be useful. It would serve Sim to try to direct this conversation a little. Besides, there were other agendas at play. Sim didn’t like the way Ghaliya was looking at him, but she was completely opaque when she wanted - he couldn’t read her at all. If she suspected something, and started asking questions about the timberwolf attack, he might let something slip. She was too damn perceptive.

Even though the attack couldn’t possibly have been them. Not after all this time.

Surely.

The conversations swirled on around him as they waited for their entrées. Bianca and Ash were talking mechanic-talk, in their own intense, quiet little world. Ash’s old-timey Southern manners and unpretentious drawl, so different from his father, held Bianca’s rapt attention.

Talib was describing the little cabin he had built with Sifir: trying to emphasize its security, solidity, nearness, and comfort. He spent some time talking about Sifir’s survival skills. Clearly Talib, too, was trying to steer the conversation; trying to convince his parents he’d be safe in the Everfree Forest. Sly fox. Sim looked between the tall, buff-yellow colt and his almost-as-tall, amber-coated mother, and smiled wryly to himself. Talib might not be as comfortable in company as Ghaliya, but for all that, the apple had not fallen far from the tree. In his own slightly skewed way, Sim’s protégé was just as perspicacious and devious as his mother. It was an analytic rather than a social intelligence, with one worrying exception: judging from the revelations following the timberwolf incident, it was clear that Talib was a skilled, if well-meaning, deceiver. Sim made a mental note to go and have a look at this cabin for himself.

What’s gotten into me? Sim wondered. He normally didn’t give a second thought to other ponies’ inner workings. He didn’t need to, out by the Everfree, on his own. This kind of scheming and strategizing, these social manipulations – that was Progress’s game, and Sim had no patience or aptitude for it.

Progress, he thought, with conviction. Right. At least that was straightforward. Progress was an enemy. These ponies – and yes, even that savage, that inscrutable griffoness, if necessary – could help. That was all he needed to think about.

Sim tuned in to the conversations around him. Talib was asking Huon about how their family came to be in Ponyville. The normally jovial stallion became subdued.

“I don’t tell that story much, really,” he said, looking at Sim, who frowned. The past, again, he thought, bitterly. Huon continued anyway.

“Our pappy, Spruce, was actually born and raised in Trottingham, in the plantation business. That’s very different from the silviculture – forestry management – which you and Sim practise here. With plantations, it’s all artificial – plant a bunch of trees, wait for them to grow to harvestable size, then clear-fell them, and start again. Much simpler, and more scalable.”

“Anyway, Spruce heard about this new town, Ponyville, from somepony who knew the Apple family. He wanted to move out here straight away, take advantage of the opportunity, have an adventure.” Sim automatically looked for somewhere to spit, and remembered where he was. He could taste his own disgust.

“Well, our mammy wasn’t having a bar of it. This started when I was a wee foal, and Sim on the way. They fought, she won, we stayed.” Huon paused, clearly pained. For once, Sim felt some sympathy for his older brother. But when Huon looked at him, maybe for support, Sim looked away and glowered at the wall. His brother pressed on.

“Later, when I was about five and Sim was two, mammy fell pregnant again. I remember her saying she was sure it was going to be a filly, this time.” He smiled, but sadly. Sim could see Talib – sensitive colt – watching carefully, sensing something amiss.

“I was so excited to have a younger sister,” Huon continued. “But something-” he suddenly stopped, emotion caught in his throat. After a ragged breath, he continued. “Pappy came downstairs, to where Sim and I were sitting in the kitchen. He sat down, and just… stared. Didn’t even cry. Sim did, though – even though he was only two, he knew something was wrong. After a while Pappy put his forelegs around us and for the longest time we just sat there.”

The other ponies around the table wore sorrowful expressions, but Sim barely reacted. He couldn’t remember his mother, although sometimes he fooled himself into thinking he could recall the colour of her mane, the sound of her voice. But he was probably just making it up. Huon remembered of course, being older, so it was harder for him. Sim only knew his mother through the stories he’d heard, and through the aching sadness she’d left in his father.

Everypony was silent, looking at Sim and Huon. The elder brother pushed through his story, trying to keep the emotions at a manageable distance. “After the funeral – one large coffin, one small one for my sister – we moved to Ponyville the very next week. Pappy couldn’t stay around all the old places, where they’d been a-courting, where they’d played with Sim and me…” he stopped, finally unable to continue. Marjorie put her foreleg around him, and Huon smiled bravely.

“I’m so sorry,” said Bianca, looking at Huon and Sim. “I never knew.” Sim looked at Talib, who seemed aghast that his innocent question had unearthed such sadness.

“It’s alright,” said Huon, still smiling. “I’ve made peace with it. Anyhow, that’s how we ended up here. Things were pretty different, back in those days.”

“Different how?” Talib asked, evidently glad of an excuse to steer the conversation away from grief. “You mean the work?”

“Sure, the work was different,” replied Huon, “we didn’t know what the heck we were doing, at first. The Everfree sure was different from any plantation. But I was thinking more about Ponyville itself, seeing as it was a frontier town, a pioneer town, wild and energetic - Marj will tell you.” Huon gestured towards his wife, who nodded enthusiastically.

“Oh yes,” she said, “they attract all sorts, you know - curious adventurers, hard-nosed businessponies, misfits and outcasts. Crazy places.” She smiled. “That’s what makes them so interesting to study.”

“It sure has changed since the old days,” said Huon.

“So you met Huon here in Ponyville?” Bianca asked Marjorie.

“Goodness, no,” replied Marjorie, “I lived back on a plantation in Trottingham, born and raised. We met when he left Ponyville and came back to his hometown.”

“Oh?” said Talib, “What made you leave?”

“Well…” replied Huon slowly, looking at Sim. Sim returned his gaze, trying to communicate a warning. Unfortunately, Talib seemed to notice.

“Let’s just say I didn’t like the Everfree Forest much anymore,” said Huon. “Or some of its residents, at any rate.”

Sim could see Talib readying more questions. That could not be allowed. He looked around, hoping for a distraction. Savoir Fare did not disappoint, directing several waitponies to deliver the first course.

“Grub’s up, looks like,” Sim said hastily, and soon the assembled ponies – and one griffon – focused their attention on the approaching plates. All except Talib, who was still watching Sim, thoughtfully. Damn you, Huon, thought Sim. You never could keep your mouth shut.

Sim remembered the arguments, when Huon had left Ponyville, though he tried to avoid thinking about Glade. He remembered how his elder brother had accused their father of not caring, of being weak, of valuing the Everfree Forest more than their family. After losing their mother, how could Spruce give up so easily on Glade, when he, of all people, knew how it must make Sim feel? And having given up, how could he now allow Sim to stay out near the Everfree, constantly reminded of his loss?

That had hurt Pappy Timbers, of course, though his response was measured. He was much calmer, like a deep pool, than his two colts – they had their mother’s fire, he used to say. Sim, for his part, already stubborn as a mule, had made his decision. He would stay, and watch and wait, hoping against hope, that Glade would come back to him. Huon called them both fools, and left, not wanting anything more to do with the Everfree Forest or its… inhabitants.

A sudden clunk jolted Sim from his dark reverie as an entrée was carefully placed in front of him. Roasted carrots with a light glaze of honey, sesame seeds, lemon juice and cumin. Beside it was placed a simple vegetable broth with fresh, fragrant herbs. He reached for the salt, then noticed the others were sharing the entrées around, with Melaco’s encouragement. This, Melaco said enthusiastically, was the way things were done back in Portugallop. Sim bit back a sardonic question about when, exactly, Ponyville had been annexed by that country, and shared his carrots with what little grace he could muster. At least there were some roast potatoes on the table.

Still, even Sim had to admit that the food was good. Very good. Everypony expressed their delight, and even Sifir, who had become silent as the grave unless asked a direct question, volunteered some praise. The Canes looked relieved that their only… non-vegetarian guest was enjoying the meal. Huon, to the complete surprise of nopony at all, had an opinion to offer. Normally, he went on and on about the superiority of Trottingham in every respect. But this, he vouchsafed, was the best food he’d eaten in months, bar none – which, considering he had frequent business dinners, was no small feat. Sim watched the other ponies try to look suitably impressed, not sure if Huon was bragging or just offering genuine praise in his own slightly graceless way. Sim knew it was both.

Savoir Fare looked pleased, if a little patronized by the out-of-towner’s carefully-qualified delight. “Thank you, mares and gentlecolts-” here he caught sight of Sifir “-and griffoness.” That’s one smooth operator, thought Sim. The maître d’hôtel had not skipped a beat.

“You can see why we love this place,” said Melaco. “There are restaurants that serve fancier, more elaborate meals in Ponyville - but they don’t have the same soul, the life that this food has.”

“You flatter us,” replied Savoire Fare, with a self-aware smirk, “if accurately. As impressive as those feats of culinary engineering are, they do not overly interest us. We experiment, we apply technique, but artifice must be a slave to art; and art is of the soul as much as the brain. And when the good earth provides us with such sublime works of art, what need we provide ourselves, except the frame? The best food is not manufactured with the aid of chemistry, or magic, or engineering - those are mere techniques. It is a curator’s genius that makes the best food. At best, we can create the perfect setting, the perfect harmony of components, and the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. At worst, we vandalize a masterpiece.”

The imposing restaurateur bowed to the stunned guests. “Bon appetite,” he said, and departed with a flick of his tail, clearly aware of his effect.

In other words, thought Sim, keep it simple, stupid. That pony speaks too much Fancy for his own good. Despite his preference for plain language, however, Sim was impressed. The others seemed unsure how to restart the conversation, after such lofty themes.

Suddenly a strange noise caught everypony’s attention. Sifir had covered her beak with one scaly claw, and was shaking and twitching. Little gasps periodically escaped her beak. Just before somepony could act on the rapidly-growing alarm, she sputtered into outright laughter. The tension broke and, as the griffoness tried and failed to regain her composure, the mischievous Bianca was soon infected. Melaco and Marjorie followed, with the others looking on in bemusement, grinning and shaking their heads. Even Sim, watching the four of them convulsing and wheezing helplessly as they tried not to disturb the other tables, felt an involuntary smile drag his lips into a grin. It hurt his cheeks.

Eventually the mood settled. Sifir, having battled to regain her formal mien, looked aghast. “I must apologize,” she said, “I meant no disrespect. The food is indeed delightful, and Savoir Fare is so impressively articulate and-” she snapped her beak shut and spluttered slightly “-serious. And food is a serious business. I’m afraid my perverse sense of the ridic- of humour has made me act rudely.”

“Oh, will you relax?” Bianca exclaimed, wiping mirthful tears from her eyes. “I haven’t laughed that hard in ages. Your sense of humour is just fine.”

“Yes,” said Ghaliya, “it’s nice to see that side of you.”

“And just to meet you at all,” noted Melaco, “Talib has a yen for picking up strays like you and Dawn, but he doesn’t bring them over very often.” Ghaliya gave him a sharp look, and Melaco looked chagrined. “…I mean, friends, of course.”

Sifir’s eyes smiled, but Sim’s narrowed. You really think you’re getting to know this griffon? he thought, acidly. What a fool’s errand that was. Every story Baba Azhar had ever told made Sim unshakeably suspicious of their exotic dinner guest.

Still, as the gathered party fell to eating, there was no doubt that the mood had lightened, and that they were growing visibly more comfortable with one another. Everypony – and even the griffoness – at the table had revealed something of themselves. Except me, Sim realized. But he was just fine with that.

Even if Ghaliya was still glancing thoughtfully his way.

Even if Talib was looking curiously between him and Huon, clearly formulating some new question about the past.

Sim looked down at his carrots and sighed.

Just as Talib was about to ask Huon why he didn’t like the Everfree Forest, he heard Sim speak up, apparently unprompted.

“And how’s the plantation business these days, Huon?” Sim asked, startling Talib and the older lumberpony alike. Only the reluctance in Sim’s voice reassured them that this was the same old gruff, reticent stallion they were familiar with.

“Pretty fair, thanks,” replied Huon. “Margins are down a touch since cheaper forest lumber started to hit the market. We asked around, but nopony knew where it was coming from – it was sturdier than the plantation stuff, clearly older-growth trees, but kiln-dried so we knew it was somepony doing serious volumes. Now I know it must be from your friend Progress Miller.”

“Kiln-dried?” asked Talib

“Some larger operations use big kilns to dry their lumber,” replied Sim. “I don’t do the volume to make that necessary, being a one-pony operation, so air-drying in the warehouse is enough.”

“Two-pony, now,” said Talib.

Sim smirked, giving Talib a rare glimpse of an unexpected, cheeky humour.

“One and a quarter, maybe. Besides, I hate to see any more wood burnt than necessary. I got an arrangement with Cloudsdale to minimize the damp ‘round the place. The sun provides all the drying I need – just means I’m holding proportionally more stock than a kilned outfit at any given time.”

Huon smiled, glad of an opportunity to talk shop. “And how are you enjoying your apprenticeship with my charming brother, Talib? Sim sent you running for a bag of nail holes, yet? A jar of elbow-grease? A left-hooved screwdriver?”

Talib smiled, too, looking at Sim. “Nothing like that. Just working me ragged.”

Sim smirked dryly. “Pah. You wouldn’t know hard work if’n it spat in your eye, my young scholar.” Talib bit back some retort about building a cabin and running growth experiments in his spare time.

“Sim’s right,” said Huon, mischievously. “Forget that airy-fairy silviculture stuff. You want to know real graft, come work at my plantations around harvest season. We practically don’t stop for weeks.”

“Sure,” replied Sim, taking the bait, “and then you sit on your rears for a few months. Besides, don’t you have fancy machines to do all the hard work?” Talib looked between the two brothers, worried this would degenerate into a quarrel. Much to his surprise, Sim and Huon both wore faint smiles. Work, it seemed, was a safe topic.

“That’s another difficulty we’ve had recently,” replied Huon, serious, “the price of mechanicals has been creeping up for a few months now, and the usual suppliers don’t seem to have much in stock. If it weren’t for Ash here-” he nodded towards his quiet son, who briefly broke off from Bianca to look up, “-keeping things clanking on long after they should be retired, we’d have difficulty with the next harvest. I didn’t think much of it, but now that I know about this new producer in the Everfree…”

“You think Progress Miller could be buying up mechanical equipment?” asked Talib.

“If he is, then it must be a lot, to have affected prices and availability like this,” replied Huon, “equivalent to a half-dozen plantations’ worth, easily.”

Sim frowned. “If that’s true, then it’s definite. There’s no way he’s operating within regs. That machinery’s not much use unless you’re clear-felling, and doing so at scale.”

Huon nodded. “I’ll make some enquiries.”

Sim looked at him for a while. “Thanks,” he said, eventually, “it’d be nice to have the upper on him for a change. That Progress feller moves fast.”

“We may have a little while,” replied Talib. “Progress went back to his logging camp sometime this week. Who knows when he’ll be back.”

“How do you know that?” asked Sim.

“A couple of weeks ago I bumped into Progress at the Carousel Boutique and he encouraged me to visit his office. Said he wanted to ‘reassure’ me about the concerns we were raising in our Ponyville Council report.”

Huon raised his eyebrows. “Those matters are supposed to be confidential between a Town Council and the petitioners.”

Sim nodded, then shrugged. “Sly devil got wind of it somehow.”

“He ambushed me with it,” said Talib, “and I was too shocked to deny it. Anyway, at first I thought about taking him up on the offer, using the meeting to get more information out of him. Then I realized it would probably go the other way. So I didn’t commit. I was supposed to visit a week ago, but I didn’t.”

“You don’t think that will raise his suspicions?” asked Hayfa. Sim looked displeased at her involvement.

“Maybe,” replied Talib, “but if I had gone, he’d probably have wheedled every last detail out of me, which would be worse. Anyway, he said it had to be last week, because then he was going back to the work camp for a while to oversee things there. So at least this way he’s out of our manes for a while, and doesn’t have the specific details of our report. We’re ahead for once.”

“Unless,” replied Hayfa, “one of the councillors sent him a copy.”

Talib and Sim looked at one another.

“Whoa now,” interrupted Huon, “sure, a knowing nod and a wink is pretty common between bureaucrats and businessponies. You shouldn’t be surprised he saw you coming. But it doesn’t mean anything sinister is going on. Say what you like about the regulators-” and here Sim looked like he was going to do just that “-but full-blown corruption is pretty rare. A little quid-pro-quo, a pleasant dinner in exchange for a little insight into what’s on the Council’s mind, sure. Heck, I’ve done that. It’s just business. Giving out copies of confidential reports is blatantly illegal – that’s no grey area.”

“Draw that line wherever you like,” said Hayfa, waving a claw, “It doesn’t matter. Mr. Miller clearly has connections on the Council. But you don’t know how many, or who, or how deep in his pocket they are. I don’t think we can afford give them the benefit of the doubt, do you?”

Everypony was silent for a while. Eventually Sim spoke, eyeing Hayfa carefully. “I don’t like to admit it, but Sifir here’s got a point,” he said, earning a wry nod from the griffoness. “We got to assume Progress already has a copy. If that’s the case, the jig is well and truly up, young colt. Progress knows you’re firmly against him. There’ll be no more making nice. No more gifts. He’ll be strategizing how to wreck it, or make it disappear. Or do the same to us. We got to really watch ourselves.”

“So why did we even bother?” asked Talib, despondently.

“Corruption can be pervasive, but it is rarely complete,” replied Hayfa. “I doubt everypony on the Council is doing favours for Progress Miller, so he won’t be able to make it disappear completely. As long as there’s a record, or one councillor willing to tell the truth, then the higher-ups will pay attention if push comes to shove. In that case, it would look more suspicious if the report had disappeared, so Progress probably won’t risk it.” She turned to Sim. “But just in case… did you make a copy of the report?”

Sim nodded, eventually. Talib could see he’d rather ignore the griffoness, but recognized the value of her insight. Baba Azhar had spoken often and at length about the intricate and dangerous politics of Griffon society. Here was somegriffon who had grown up in a land where ruthless cunning was held in high esteem, and where secret negotiations and skilful double-crossings were de rigeur. It was, Talib knew, the main reason Sim hated their kind – but even he accepted that they needed all the help they could get.

“Good,” said Hayfa. “And did the Council give you any kind of receipt when they took the report?”

Sim looked startled. “…no,” replied the old stallion, grudgingly, “they didn’t.”

Hayfa shook her head. “Always get a receipt. Otherwise they can claim they never received it. Can you get one now?”

“Nope,” said Talib. “I’ve been reading the Council regulations in my off time. Can’t issue post-hoc receipts.”

“That,” said Hayfa, “is problematic.”

Talib and Sim looked glumly at one another for a moment. Talib could tell Sim was kicking himself for not being more savvy. Suddenly an idea struck him.

“Sim,” he said, “they let you into the records room to do your logging permit, right? That’s how you snuck a look at Progress’s permits?”

“…yeah,” replied Sim, slowly, “I don’t think they’ve cottoned on to that, yet. Why?”

“Council minutes are supposed to record any documents received. Maybe we should get into the records and just… hold onto those minutes for a while.” Everypony looked at him. Hayfa’s eyes sparkled gently with mirth. “For safekeeping,” he said, hurriedly.

“Of course,” said Hayfa. “For safekeeping.”

Progress flipped through the report and ignored the messenger’s protestations as Mujeer firmly escorted her out the door of his office. He did enough favours for the councillor who employed her. Any further payments had not been part of the agreement – let her whine to the councillor about that.

The office was a crude affair, hastily constructed from new timber – of which they had a serious over-supply – and assembled with an eye to functionality. It wasn’t large, or ostentatious. Progress Miller wasn’t that kind of manager. The furniture was simple, the lantern-lighting perfectly adequate in the dark evening, and the size comfortable enough. Sufficiency ruled the day, so excess resources could go where they were needed. Large, rude shelves lined the walls and held the outward manifestations of business: endless reports, memos, communiqués and so forth. All fake, of course. Over his many years in business, Progress had amassed a small army of discreet, loyal, and otherwise completely amoral clerks. A select few were paid very well to keep churning this stuff out and to make sure it held up to inspection. A formal audit would be trouble, of course, but their work would be done long before that eventuality.

Unless. His eyes narrowed as he read the report. Sim knew his stuff, of course, when it came to forestry. He was, at least, a known quantity, evaluated and accounted for. But Talib had been unexpected. On paper, the young colt had not been connected with silviculture in any way, having been classified with those other bright young things destined for further education. And yet upon graduating he’d veered sharply, without warning, into the middle of their plans. The research team had missed something.

Fine. Managing risk was part of Progress’s skill set, after all. But in this report Talib showed a rare clarity of style that was all too convincing. On their own, neither Sim nor Talib could have written this. But together, they’d produced something alarmingly perceptive and compelling. This was going to divert more resources than he’d anticipated.

“And what are you going to do about that?” oozed a voice from a corner shadow. Outwardly, Progress didn’t flinch, didn’t even look up. Inwardly, however, his heart leapt and then refused to settle.

“It shouldn’t unduly alter our timetable,” he replied calmly. A slightly fat pegasus, suddenly there and yet somehow seeming as if she had always been there, approached Progress’s desk. She stood looking at him interestedly with deep blue eyes. Mujeer, silent as the air itself, appeared in the doorway behind her and raised an eyebrow at Progress.

“It’s alright, Mujeer,” said the orange pegasus mare without looking around, “just a routine check-in with your boss.” Progress nodded, and Mujeer disappeared to wherever it was he went. They both knew Mujeer could not be expected to warn Progress when this one came to visit. Progress was left staring warily at his visitor. He’d pay quite a lot of bits to know how she maintained that subtly disturbing aura. Probably it was that blankness, the sense of emptiness. After a too-long silence, Progress spoke. He was on a schedule, after all.

“So,” he said neutrally, “what can I do for you, Sasha?”

“Just the obvious thing,” she said, “convince me not to worry about this report.”

The report that had arrived mere minutes earlier. Progress had given up wondering where Sasha got her information. He had a modest experience with corporate espionage. Sasha’s intelligence, however, was so good as to appear supernatural. He sighed.

“Worry is unproductive,” he said. “But yes, it needs addressing. I’ll contain it.”

“Would it not be more effective,” Sasha enquired, idly examining the tip of her hoof, “to eliminate the authors entirely?”

Progress leaned back in his chair and crossed his hooves. He never got used to that. Sasha’s tone was so natural that she might have been discussing the weather.

“Ponyville has a special kind of small-town culture,” he replied evenly. “Ponies don’t simply disappear or die without somepony kicking up a fuss. It would come back to us. And when the Princesses found out, as they would, we’d have the Royal Guard to contend with.”

Sasha looked unconvinced.

“Look,” Progress continued, “the Core supported me in this project. My judgement is sound. Let me handle this.”

Sasha regarded him briefly, absolutely without expression. Internally, Progress quailed. But he forced himself to meet her gaze steadily.

“Alright then,” she said. “Convince me. What will you do?”

“Mujeer!” he called. Wherever he was lurking, Mujeer was never out of earshot. Momentarily, the hulking griffon’s form occluded the door frame. “Is that messenger still nearby?” Mujeer nodded. “Ask her to see me before she leaves in the morning. I have a task for her. Tell her she will receive some remuneration after all.” Mujeer nodded again, and left.

Sasha looked at him expectantly. “The project is proceeding well,” Progress explained. “We don’t need to permanently incapacitate Timbers and the Cane colt, with all the attention that will entail. We just need a little time. Fortunately, they’ve taken the bureaucratic option, like good Ponyville citizens do. Delays, incompetence and contrariness are the Ponyville Council’s modus operandi. We’ll encourage them to amplify that a little and nopony will be the wiser. Maybe they’re busy, and the report takes a while to come up on their meeting agendas. Maybe the report was lost, and that distractible intern receptionist forgot to issue a receipt. Or the Council forgot to note the receipt of the report in their minutes.” Progress gave a bone-dry smile. “Ponyville cares about ponies, but they are less concerned with document control systems and accountable governance.”

“And what if those two go around the Council?” asked Sasha. Progress snorted.

“They won’t. I know them. Talib’s too timid and passive to take matters into his own hooves, and Sim’s too pessimistic and cynical to have much hope of changing things anyway. And even if I’m wrong, by the time they get impatient enough to do anything about it, we’ll be done here. Let them send the royal guard then.” For once, Progress actually grinned at Sasha. “I would welcome it.”

For her part, Sasha merely turned and did her slow disappearing act, dissolving utterly into the night. Behind her, Progress’s grin turned pensive.

Author's Notes:

The meal with the Canes, Timbers, and griffon proceeds about as awkwardly as Talib had feared, but at least everypony gets to know one another a little. Old Sim, despite bitter memories and his distrust of Hayfa, gets drawn into conversation, focused on working against Progress. Progress and his allies, for their part, have certainly not forgotten Talib and Sim...