Not that Bitterroot would’ve wanted to talk, anyway. Her last job had been aggravating and she just wanted some alcohol to relax. She stared into her almost-full glass and swished the beer around. “Why’d you run, you little idiot?” she muttered, half to herself, half to the little idiot. The foal had just been stupid. The heir to some medium-big-time noble title, almost but not yet of age, had committed petty theft in Canterlot and skipped town while on bail (she’d hid out in her family’s manor, as it turned out) while her family used connections and other technically legal means to stymie attempts by the Guard to find her. After all, she was an Important Pony who couldn’t go to jail. (Theft was apparently a-okay, though.) Eventually, an aggravated lieutenant had come up to Bitterroot and hired her, as somepony outside governmental channels, for a foalnapping. Using those words, too. At least you couldn’t fault him for beating around the bush.