Gilda looked out at the assembled councilors and associated ponies, and tried to re-start her stuttering heart. The sound of the Princess's voice beat down on her like the hammering waves of the winter sea in its full fury. Each vast word, amplified by that enormous sounding-board behind her which was the butcher-paper screen, passed through Gilda's body like an alien heart beating her blood against its own courses. Syllable by syllable, Gilda's own heart fought against that vaster aural vessel, until her little flesh heart gave way, and… took that great paper heart's beat, beat with that thump-thump-thump.

Synchronized.

"WHERE ARE MY PONY COUNCILORS? THERE ARE YET PONIES WILLING TO STAND FOR MY COUNCIL IN TROTTINGHAM, ARE THERE NOT? BLUEBLOOD, WHERE ARE THE PONIES?"

Each syllable drove another beat of blood through Gilda's arteries. Each little pause gave her little heart a reprieve. She'd never felt anything like it, not since that one wild afternoon she'd snuck down the lip of the Abysmal Abyss, to peer over the edge into the howling wilderness outside of Griffonstone. To hear the wind screaming its fury at the victims of its endless rage, the rattling of the bones and bone-shards and bone-chips among the cliffs below as the freed wind tossed and tossed and tossed the remnants of those who had dared to try to enchain the wild wind, to imprison Boreas.

This booming, overwhelming, visceral sound sent Gilda back to that cliff, looking down into the cleft in the earth where a divine wind's fury had trapped itself, its endless vengeance locking it more firmly in a narrow space than ever the pride of Great Grover and his knights had, in their then-famously found, now-famously lost Idol.

"Auntie! I'm not running this hack box! This is Sandwich's mess," the prince-major squeaked, looking aside at the tan earth-pony whose ironed-down mane was starting to frizz at the edges.

"Uh, hiya Princess! My plans didn't include you. Or ponies in general. This is a griffish tribal council, not a ducal council! Didn't they tell you?" The governor's aide was admirably composed, for somepony upon whom the Royal sketch's eye had fallen, disapprovingly.

"IF THEY HAD, I WOULD HAVE CORRECTED THEM. THERE IS NO SUCH THING."

"But!? The books all say that the griffonmoots-"

"DO NOT LECTURE ME ABOUT THE GRIFFONMOOTS. THERE HAS NEVER BEEN A GRIFFONMOOT IN TROTTINGHAM. THERE NEVER WILL BE AS LONG AS I AM DUCHESS. I WILL NOT DEBATE YOU, I WILL NOT LET MY SUN SET ON TROTTINGHAM BEFORE I SEE MY FULL COUNCIL BEFORE ME. BRING ME MY PONY-"

And the great booming voice ended, abruptly, in sparks. Gilda's heart pitter-pattered a few more times, searching for its original, lesser rhythm.

"Sorry!" Gleaming Shield yelped, scampering about putting out the little fires lit by the scattering sparks. She frantically returned to fussing over her magic book, her horn glowing with a flameless blaze. "Sorry everypony! The modified Haycartes is touchy, and time-limited! I'm trying to get it- no, that won't work. I need to clear the line, we're getting feedback. Or, no, that's no good. I think I need to cut the connection and reboot. It'll take a couple minutes." She shut the book, and extinguished her hornglow.

Gilda looked up at the now-empty butcher-paper screen now speckled with little burn-holes. The great animated alicornic sketch was gone, leaving only an impression of burning eyes scorched into the paper itself, a charred trace of pupil and sclera.

Garrick, Cheese Sandwich, and Livery were faced off in some sort of argument, with Blueblood standing awkwardly to the side, looking uncertain. The far side of the aisle was in tumult, with Sergeant-Major Gary's corporals and rankers scattered here and there, keeping the unaligned councilors from each others throats, or those of the uneasy guild-griffons. The guild faction sat silently on their own side, their eyes locked on the back of their leader and spokes-griffon, as Garrick fumed at the governor-general's representative.

"Captain ma'am?" Gilda whispered to the distracted unicorn. "Captain? Captain! Gleaming Shield, please, leave that thing be. We don't have the time, ma'am. Please."

"What!" snapped Gleaming Shield. "What? Look, I'm the only pony who can get this apparatus work- oh. Damn. I don't know, let Cadance handle it. It's obvious what the Princess wanted, right?"

"Duchess, captain ma'am. And what is obvious can quail in the face of what griffons - or ponies! Want. They won't do it without somegriffon telling them they have to. That was what She was going to say, before it cut out."

"Then Cadance can tell them in her stead." Gleaming looked uncertain, and shifted slightly, her eyes going back to the ensorceled journal and her self-assigned task.

"Cadance is not my captain. You are. I need you to be the captain, ma'am."

"You do? You do. OK. Go put our oar in. Go get the Princess's - ok, the Duchess's pony councilors. Give Princess Celestia her full council." Stiffening under Gilda's steady gaze, Gleaming Shield straightened up, standing her full length and looking up at her corporal. "Corporal Gilda, gather a party and take them to Government House and deliver the Duchess's orders that the councilors of the old Council join the new joint Council here in the Cathedral. Make sure her orders are understood and obeyed."

"Yes, Captain ma'am."

Gilda charged into the fray, sticking her lowly beak into the heated squabble at the foot of the dais, leaving her unicorn to do her unicorn-things.

Her Captain had spoken.

"-thing is, until we get the straight poop straight from the Princess's mouth, I have to follow the Governor-General's explicit orders. It isn't fun, but it is all the authority I really got, y'know?"

"Mr. Sandwich, Auntie Celestia said all the words. The meaning was clear. I don't know how many- Corporal, we're in the middle of something here."

"No you aren't, Princess. You're at the end of something. I'm just here to hurry it up. Captain says it'll be a while before the connection is back. I didn't understand the explanation, maybe you can hear it from the horse's mouth."

"What? Oh, poo, excuse me everypony." The little princess - when did Gilda start thinking of her as the little one? - got up from her couch and went back to talk to Gleaming Shield.

Gilda's eyes roamed over the scene, picking out the ponies and the griffons she needed. Livery was arguing with Garrick and Cheese Sandwich again. One of her other sisters - Gilda thought it was Hotspur from the steady gaze she directed at the quarrels on the gangster side of the aisle, but couldn't be certain. Sergeant-Major Gary, directing his corporals in maintaining a bare sort of order in the chamber, never actually interceding himself. Prince-Major Blueblood, his valet Jeeves standing stolidly by his side, looking a bit panicky around the eyes, but standing relatively still next to the princess's abandoned, empty couch.

OK.

"Hotspur, could you help me?" asked Gilda. "I have my Captain's orders, and the Duchess's orders. We have much to do, and a long way to go. I could use your support right now."

"My help? Oh, my. That's a new turn, isn't it. Of course I'll help, Corporal. It is what Auntie wants, isn't it?" The White Sister glided gracefully across the dias, passing between Blueblood and the argument on the steps. "Bluey, dear. Don't you think we have something to do?"

"What? Hotspur, I'm busy, don't pester me."

"Bluey, we have an errand. Don't just stand there watching the adults argue. Do what you must while we have time to do so."

"Hotspur! I'm not a colt anymore, you can't send me out of the room for a snack."

"I'm not, Bluey. We're going together. It'll be an adventure. A little errand into the wilderness."

"No! I've got my orders, I'm accompanying the governor-general's aide. That's all that I'm doing."

"We have higher orders now, Bluey."

"But I'm doing what-"

"Sir, I recognize that it's traditional for a Prince to refuse the crown three times, but perhaps we could spare the dramatics?"

Gilda and Blueblood stared in astonishment at Jeeves, as startled as if the empty couch had stood up and offered an opinion on whose rear was worthy to grace its cushions.

Hotspur didn't look surprised to see the gentlepony's gentlecolt intercede, Gilda noted out of the corner of her eye.

"The Duchess Calls, sir," said Jeeves, amiably. He looked at his charge, steadily, smiling slightly. "You will, of course, answer her Call."

"But Jeeves-"

"I knew you were up to it, sir."

"Oh, blast it. How long will this take?" The tall white unicorn looked around, clearly plotting a line of retreat out of the restive improvised council-chamber. "Corporal- what was your name again?"

"Gilda, prince-major… sir."

"Right, I think we need somepony more… ah, him. He'll confuse the councilors enough to get through to them. Right. Right." The tall pony started off suddenly, leaving his valet and the rest to follow in his train. He trotted down the three steps into the half-crowded aisle, and tapped the distracted sergeant-major on the flank.

"I say, Gary old bean, we could use your famous talons. We have a bit of cloud-wrangling, what?"

"Who? Oh, Blueblood. I'm sorry, sir, I've a bit of a wobbly 'ere, these griffons don't want to 'erd, but 'ave you ever seen a griffon oo would?"

"Put 'em in somepony else's hooves, old bean. We need a famous face, and yours is just what the bar-back ordered. The Princess Calls! We've got a load of council-clouds to haul in here."

"What, from Government 'ouse? That's a long pitch, sir. Plenty of space for them to wander on the way."

"Exactly why we need the best cloudpuncher in the game, Gary. Come on, it'll be ripping!"

"Right 'o, sir. Corporal Gilson! You're in charge here, keep them from killing each other while I'm gone!"

Between Sergeant-Major Gary and Blueblood, they got to the chariots without a fight, but it was a damn close thing. Gilda, Hotspur, and Jeeves followed Gary and Blueblood as they worked their way across the square to where the pegasi were keeping their part of the perimeter, and the idled chariots. Little clots of toughs and gangsters were quarrelling here and there, with griffish Territorials rushing back and forth to break up any physical altercations.

Blueblood took the major of Cadance's chasseurs aside, while Gary and Gilda looked to the chariot Hotspur had chosen for their errand.

"Sergeant-Major, I'm not wearing my chariot gear," Gilda admitted, sheepishly.

"Neither am I, me 'en, but needs must when Discord drives. It'll just be a bit of galling," Gary said, looking resigned to the discomfort of hauling a chariot without the usual straps and padding.

"Oh, nonsense, you two. Bluey will get the pegasi who hauled us here to hook up again. Look, here they come. You will escort us, of course? We don't need you, Corporal Gilda, of course, but if your orders from Gleaming Shield say-"

Gilda looked back at the cathedral, and the chaos inside.

No.

"I have my orders…" Blast. Was Hotspur an honorable or a lady? Gilda had forgotten. "Miss. And they are to see the ponies back here. I'm in for the duration."

To be honest, Gilda was trying to not think. The Princess - the Duchess? Gilda wasn't sure what to call Celestia in her head, with nogriffon listening. Whatever she called her, Celestia's voice still rang in her ears, churned in her guts.

Gilda was unsettled, and the more she moved, the less she had to think about that voice, and how it'd stirred the waters of her mind. Like a heavy wind that ripped still waters into rippling waves.

Like the cold, drowning waters of the North Celestia Sea, just before the hornglow of a strange unicorn pulled her soaked, heavy feathers from certain doom.

Cadance's chasseurs hooked themselves into the traces of Hotspur's and Blueblood's chariot, and they took off into the air, rising rapidly over the half-crowded heaving mass of the griffons on and above Ironmonger's Square. Griffons generally stayed on the ground except when agitated, but there were a good many flying around in this part of the blue zone.

Including a couple tangled up and fighting here and there, within eyesight. Additional flights of griffish Territorials were approaching from the south and north. Gilda's half-distracted eyes noted the uniforms and the guidons, and filed them as platoons from two of the other three Territorial battalions sent out to patrol the city that morning, dismissing them as not a threat.

Assuming that no rebels had gotten uniforms from anywhere. If they approached their flock, Gilda'd give them a second thought.

The tangled half-fighting of the Crab Bucket, fleeing rebels in their clan homespun, the Territorials chasing the rebels into the Fifth's positions, the constant fear that they'd strike down the wrong griffons, kill their own griffons in the chaos. The uncertainty of real battle.

Government House was a far flight from the Cathedral of Labour, almost the entire length of the city. Two full flights of Cadance's chasseurs flew escort for the lesser royals' chariot, beside the two griffish non-coms. Despite all the restive griffons in the air that sunny afternoon, nogriff approached the little column.

They were too obviously a tough nut to crack.

The gonne mis-firing in her talons. Scrambling to refill the emptied flashpan. Snapping to aim, the flash and boom, the pony's head bursting like a ripe melon.

Gilda shook her head, and tried to think. She cast one eye up at the sun still overhead. It should be afternoon, the sun should be chasing the western horizon now. Had it stopped moving? Was she imagining things?

They did say that Celestia commanded the heavens, the sun and the moon in their courses. I will not let my sun set on Trottingham before I see my full council seated before me.

Could she do that?

A half-flight of Rangers met them over the Blue Line, and paced them for a few dozen lengths as they exchanged a few words with the pegasi escort. If it'd been only griffons, that would have been a different story.

It was always an awkward dance when griffons crossed the Blue Line in flight.

Garrick outside of his battered house, promising his participation in the maybe-a-death-trap griffish council. Garrick in that borrowed apartment across from the cathedral, confessing to his once-betrayal of the unionist cause and his exiled family, all for nothing but the hope of a promise of some future for the workers and his griffons.

There were no pegasi waiting for them in the air over Government House. There were never that many winged ponies in Trottingham in the best of times, and the lesser royals had taken all of the ones available around Government House with them when they'd flown into Ironmonger's Square.

The ground-bound pony Territorials who guarded the governor-general's palace scurried around ineffectually under the returning flight.

The pegasi dancing with the sickly yellow clouds in the smoky skies over the Crab Bucket. Kicking and coaxing and pleading with the reluctant vapors as they wrung bitter tears from a dry-eyed heaven.

They settled lightly into the landing-courtyard of Government House, and the pony Territorials lined up to greet their Equestrian opposites as the chasseurs gracefully touched down. Gilda had rarely had any contact with the Fifth Territorial's pony equivalents. The pony territorial battalions were outnumbered by the griffish territorials about two to three, and they'd always used the pony battalions to hold the Blue Line and garrison the pony side of the city, and the pony districts in the outer Isles.

Gilda looked at the earth ponies in Territorial gear, and the chasseurs in their finery.

The burning wind full of falling pegasi, falling chariots, burning ponies and griffons screaming with the wind itself, snow and fire and burning fire.

The sergeant of the chasseurs' flight looked back at the ponies in the chariot, and hesitated. Gilda strode forward, seizing the initiative. She found the officer among the pony territorials, and met her gaze.

"Lieutenant ma'am," and wasn't that a bit of nostalgia. "Corporal Gilda of the Fifth Griffish Territorials, on detached duty. We're here to collect some ponies who have gone missing. Duchess's orders. She wants her ponies in council, now, soon as we can get them across town."

"What?" squawked the pony officer. "What council? They're meeting upstairs in the council room. About that griffish thing. Who wants the councilors?"

"The Duchess, lieutenant ma'am."

"The Duchess is in Canterlot, like she always is. The Duchess never wants anything, that's always code for somepony taking her name in vain."

"I'm told she's in Buckmoral today, not Canterlot. Or maybe Canter Surleau. Look, they've got a remote magicky rig thing going over in the Cathedral of Labour, and the Duchess is right pissed, you understand? The Duchess herself, in the virtual flesh - well, papery, anyways."

"What, that griffish nonsense? I didn't think it was going to-"

"It did. It is. And if we don't get the rest of the council up there, we're all screwed. You see that up there?"

"No, what?"

"The sun, ma'am. Duchess said she won't let the sun set until she sees her ponies. Been a long lunch hour, hasn't it?"

"Uh…"

"Let us through, lieutenant ma'am."

"Not my circus, not my monkeys. Oh! Hello, Prince-Major!"

"Yarrow Wood, what are you doing? We have an errand for my Aunt. Get your troopers out of our way."

"Yessir!"

And that was that. Having a prince in one's panniers was, occasionally, useful. As they escorted the royals into the palace and up the stairs, Gilda thought about winds. About the wild wind in the Abysmal Abyss, set free from its griffish prison. About the ponies who could make the wind cry, or burn, or dance.

About a distant pony princess who could hold the sun in the sky, and turn a cold February day into a sweltering, humid summer day.

They found the pony councilors slouching about the oaken-paneled luxury of the Trottish City Council's chambers. The visitors' gallery was empty, and the pageantry of an official session was notably absent, but everypony was there, arguing in a desultory, aimless manner.

The way that powerful ponies behave when nopony's watching, and they're waiting for news, for events to change the facts on the ground.

They didn't take note of Blueblood when he stepped into the room, but a couple jumped to their hooves when Gilda followed in his train.

"Blueblood! What are you about, bringing a griffon into the chambers! That's a security risk!" one of them barked. His cronies got up to join his little chorus of stuffy disapproval.

"Councilor Sachem, I completely understand your ire, old boy, but m' aunt is on the warpath. Let the birds go, we're in the wrong place."

"What do you mean, wrong place? I'm a councilor of the Duchess's council, standing in the council's chambers! I am exactly where I'm supposed to be!"

"Are you in session, now? I don't see the governor-general. Where is he?"

"Upstairs somewhere, probably having a brandy. And no, we're not in session."

"Send someone to bring him down. You are now."

"What! You can't call us to session! You're just the liaison!"

"I am a prince of the blood, you will respect my title!"

"You're a bloody Platinum afterthought, and you ain't any of ours! You're just a major in this room, Blueblood! Stay in your lane. Equestrian."

Sergeant-Major Gary took that moment to step up and calm the Equestrian princeling. Jeeves, Blueblood's valet was standing back, his eyes on his charge, keeping out of the argument. Gilda didn't understand, this was exactly the sort of situation a status and standards obsessed pony like Jeeves should have relished. Gilda didn't understand that pony, and today, she understood him even less than usual…

"''ere now, sir. No need to get worked up. Councilors Sachem, Speaker Tweed, Smith - good to see you all. You all know about our little get-together in the Cathedral today?"

"Gary!" laughed Councilor Sachem. "Is that you? Goalkeeper Gary! Aren't you a sight for nostalgic eyes! How many years has it been?"

"Too long, Councilor. We always were thankful of your support, me and the toms."

"Cloudball was good for the constituencies! And a right ripping lot of fun to watch! Shame when we had to shut it all down. Was against it, you know that."

"We knew, Councilor. I'm too old for cloudball these days, but it'd be nice if the fledgelings could 'ave their turn in the pillar-pitch some day, eh?"

"Sergeant-major!" Gilda ground out, her head full of burning eyes and her heart full of worry. What riots were brewing in the streets of the blue zone? When would the rebels emerge from their holes? What was Colonel Pie plotting?

"Oh, is this one of your proteges?" asked the councilor, looking at Gilda for the first time.

"Nah, she's not even one of my corporals. From the Fifth, but she's political, y'know?"

"Aren't we all! Aren't we all. What's all this about, Gary?"

"Equestrians! And the Duchess, of course. 'erself sent us, she did."

"What! She never! The Duchess is in town?"

"Inna manner of speakin', she is. This new Guards captain, she's got a new toy, projects a pony alla way from Canterlot to speak to us. Could you imagine? Griffons in Trottingham could watch a match from Cloudsdale!"

"Cor! You don't say."

"Well, it only lasted for about five minutes, but proof of concept, y'know? Great things happening, my colt."

"Great things! Fancy that. You say the Duchess was talkin' to that stupid griffonmoot of Sandwich's?"

They were now surrounded by curious pony councilors, listening to the amiable sergeant-major and his suddenly-tamed Councilor Sachem.

"Surely she was, as tall as life. Walkin' across this big brown paper screen like a drawin' come to life. 'er voice, sure as I'm talkin' to you. Louder than 'ades, though. Not sure if that was a drawback o' the medium or what. 'erself's righteous, though, me colts and fillies. So fulla the fire of ire that she burnt a bit of the paper screen. You all ain't where she wants you to be, you ain't."

Gilda had come, intending to dress down this chamber full of ponies, laying about, useless, lazy, cowardly. She had a gut full of angry words, righteous words.

And she wasn't speaking a word of them. But she knew better than to interrupt a griffon when he was on a roll. She stayed silent, fuming, watching.

"Now either you are closing your eyes to a situation with your Duchess that you do not want to acknowledge, or you are not aware of the caliber of the Duchess's fury with yourselves. You've got trouble and that starts with a T and that rhymes with C and that spells Celestia!"

"Celestia?" squealed three councilors in unison.

"Now folks, you know I knew the Duchess, even played before her in my prime, yes I did. I was the king of the cloudsball pillar-pitch, and that starts with P which rhymes with T which rhymes with C and that spells Celestia!"

"Celestia!" sang four councilors, looking alarmed.

"Oh, she's a mighty mare, fillies and colts, a big pony, is our Duchess. Tall as the dawn, and hot as fire, but sweet, oh so sweet when she smiles at 'er ponies. She's a big girl, a queen 'ead and shoulders above us all. But when you've made her mad?"

"Trouble!" sang five councilors, looking panicked.

"Ponies, she's in town, in spirit if not in flesh, she's a fiery mare, our Duchess, and that starts with D which rhymes with P which rhymes with T and that spells?"

"Trouble!" sang a half-dozen ponies, up from their slouches, shifting back and forth on their hooves.

"Oh, there's a cathedral full of griffons across the city, my boys and girls, and a princess drawn on a big brown paper screen, and they're waiting on you, yes on you, and the big filly is burnin' 'oles in her paper screen with 'er waiting. You know what that spells?"

"Trouble! Trouble! Trouble!"

"Get to your hooves, my fillies and my colts! Get to your hooves and sing in tune! Get to your hooves and make them dance a jig! Because we got a road to follow, double-pace!"

Then an invisible band started up the tune, and the rest of them started singing, get to your hooves! and the rest of the chorus.

Gilda was all for the pony virtues, but she drew the line at singing. She kept her beak shut tight, but couldn't keep her paws from following the dancing ponies as they trotted out of the council chambers. Gary flapped his wings and led the march, warbling along, his bass voice deepening oddly into a sweet baritone that only half sounded like him.

The rest of the afternoon blended into a long montage, as that ludicrous song led the pony councilors into the streets outside of Government House, surrounded by a chorus of singing chasseurs, and joined by a tap-dancing governor-general.

For the first time in her life, Gilda suffered a heartsong. She hated every moment of it.

Halfway through the number, as they passed through the Blue Line checkpoints, she spotted Colonel Pie pronking in the rear of the parade, a trombone in her hooves and at her lips. It was her, Gilda thought to herself, as her two left paws did their best to tangle her up, I don't know how she did it, but this was her plan all along. How did she do it?

Author's Notes:

Thanks for editing and pre-reading help to Shrink Laureate, Oliver, and the general Company.