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          The Many Adventures of Cranky D. Donkey          
                  -by Will-Owl-the-Wisp-                   
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             1. The Crown Jewels of Canterlot              
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1. Cranky and the Crown Jewels of Canterlot
Canterlot was resplendent in the light of a new day. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Birdsong drifted through the streets. Ponies of every race—though unicorns held the majority—went about their errands, chatting with one another. A group of foals kicked a ball up and down the thoroughfare. The cobblestones had been swept clean of the confetti that had littered them not so very long ago. A few decorations still clung to the lampposts, but ponies in the white and gold of the Sun Princess were making quick work of those. In another few hours, there would be no signs left of the Grand Galloping Gala.
The donkey heaved a sigh, long ears drooping. A pleasant breeze ruffled his shock of black mane as he turned down a bystreet, but he barely noticed. No matter how wonderful the day was, there would be a metaphorical dark cloud hanging over Cranky’s head. His heart ached too much for him to be happy today. He’d met the sweetest, most beautiful jenny in Equestria, and she’d slipped away from him like a song on the wind. Cranky had never believed in all that love at first sight nonsense before Matilda, but he did now. He had thought she’d felt the same way, from how well things went at the gala, but he must have been mistaken. Surely his one true love would have left a note for him, but, when he’d gone to her rooms this morning, there had been no note, no letter, and—worst of all—no Matilda.
Where had she gone? Why had she gone? Shaking his head, Cranky grumbled under his breath. There was no point thinking in circles. It was closing on the afternoon now, and he’d already searched the better half of Canterlot, but there had been no sign of Matilda. What if she’d left the city? How in the world would Cranky find her then?
“No, you can’t give up, Cranky,” he said, straightening to his full height, chest swelling. “If you have to search all of Equestria, you’ll find Matilda again. No matter how long it takes, no matter what dangers you have to face, you’ll—”
Something crashed into him. Cranky toppled to the ground, rolling into a pair of trashcans. One turned over on impact, and the other’s lid spun atop it in a tinny cacophony. Cranky rubbed his throbbing head with a fore hoof. Something slimy slid from his forelock to his nose. He scowled, cross-eyed, at the banana peel, and then shook it off.
“What the blazes is going on?” griped Cranky. He picked himself up and found the culprit sitting just behind him, somewhat dazed from the collision. Cranky snorted, flicking his ears back. “What’s the big idea, kid? Racing around, knocking folks over—why, I’ve got a mind to drag you by the ears back to your parents and—!”
“I say!” the white unicorn colt interrupted, standing. He glared up at Cranky. “Don’t get your feathers in a bunch, old jack.”
Cranky sputtered. “Old jack! Listen, kid, I may be older than you, but I’m not old by a longshot. And another thing—”
“Terribly sorry, but I can’t hang about fraternizing.” The colt started to leave, but Cranky stamped a hoof on the colt’s tail, stopping him in his tracks. The colt bristled, a faint aura sparkling around his horn. It was a fitful display; the colt was barely old enough to work his magic properly. “Let me go this instant!”
“You owe me an apology, kid. An explanation wouldn’t hurt, either.”
“What! An apology? Of all the ludicrous—! I haven’t got time for this. If you’re smart, you’ll make yourself scarce. Now, if you please, unhoof me!”
The nerve of this colt! Cranky opened his mouth to retort, but, before he could utter a word, hooves rang sharply against the cobblestones. He turned from the colt to find four beefy, rough-shaven stallions blocking the bystreet both ways.
“Nice going, old jack,” the colt muttered, scowling at Cranky.
“What?” Cranky kept his eyes on the toughs. The way they were watching him and the colt made his ears itch something awful. “Look, kid, if this is some kind of prank, I don’t—”
The colt groaned and dragged a fore hoof down his face. “Of all the donkeys in Canterlot…”
“Ah, our little spy,” came an oily voice. A wiry unicorn stepped between two of the toughs. He had a greasy mane and tail, a black fedora sat upon his head, and he wore a matching three-piece suit over his muddy coat. His face was pointed like that of a weasel, and he had the beady eyes of a rat. “And his consort, eh? Lady Luck’s with us today, boys.”
Cranky started to speak, but the colt elbowed him hard in the ribs.
“Don’t be daft,” the colt hissed. “There’s no talking your way out of it, old jack. Just shut it.”
Weasel traded glances with the toughs. Even his smirk was ratty. “Well, boys, let’s not keep the Cat waiting.”
“The Cat?” Cranky whispered, shooting a sidelong glance at the colt.
“Hey!” Weasel snapped. “That’s enough chatter. Conspire on your own time. Let’s move, boys. The Cat gets antsy so close to the hunt.”
As the five stallions boxed Cranky and the colt in and shuffled them off down a nearby alley, Cranky looked to the colt and breathed, “What have you gotten me into, kid?”
The colt sniffed, holding his head high and raising his nose. “It’s your own fault. I tried to tell you to trot off. Now we’re both caught in the Cat’s cradle.”
* * *
Cranky and the colt were escorted to possibly the most horrible place in all of Canterlot. The ponies they passed were either none the wiser or too consumed with their individual torture sessions to take much note of the group. Probably the latter. Bottles and vials of foul-smelling concoctions sat bunched together on the tables beside each torture station. Terrible instruments glinted upon the tables as well, with not a speck of rust on them. Not a speck of anything on them, actually. Cranky and the colt might face the merciless whims of a madpony, but at least they wouldn’t get an infection.
The colt shuddered. “I don’t know about you, old jack,” he muttered, “but these places always give me the willies.”
Cranky nodded with a harrumph.
“Welcome to the Selle Français Salon, where our affair is your hair!” a slip of a mare greeted them abruptly. She trotted up to Weasel, plastering a bright smile on her face. “Do you fine gentlecolts have appointments?”
“You’re a new one, eh?” said Weasel, rolling his eyes.
The mare blinked, her cheery façade slipping somewhat. “Um, yes. I started just this week, actually. How do you…?”
“Listen, doll. We—” he gestured to his four toughs, the colt, and Cranky “—aren’t here. We’re not even in this district. Got it?”
“But…”
“’Cause if we’re here, you’re the one who’s in trouble,” Weasel continued over the mare, jabbing a fore hoof at her. “Now run along and keep that lovely mouth of yours shut. I’d hate to think what would happen to such a pretty mare with loose lips.”
The mare cringed, eyes wide and ears drooped. She hastily skirted the group, stammering fervent apologies all the way to her hairdressing station.
Weasel muttered something coarse under his breath, drawing a few chuckles from the toughs, and led the way into a back storeroom. Amid boxes of hair product and spare salon equipment was perhaps the most perfect trapdoor Cranky had ever seen. Not that he’d seen many, mind. Or any. But this trapdoor was cut along the floor’s natural grain and grooves. There was no handle, nor any obvious hinges. Weasel encircled the whole trapdoor with his magic—an aura of ugly brown—and levitated it in the air, revealing a square tunnel plunging straight down into the earth. There were a series of iron rungs, but they were rusted and looked about as safe as a bridge made of toothpicks. Two of the toughs went down first, and then Cranky and the colt were herded into the dark, cramped space. How the condemnable ladder managed to support their weight was beyond Cranky, whose brow became sticky with sweat at every creak and groan of the metal under his hooves. Weasel and the last two toughs soon followed, with Weasel replacing the trapdoor with magic as he descended.
The hidden passage ended with a short drop to solid ground. The unicorns all lit their horns, illuminating the pitch-black. They were in an underground corridor—it was too well-constructed to be a natural cave—that ran in two directions. Weasel took them to the left. As they walked, the narrow tunnel widened, the ceiling rising, until it opened into a large, round chamber, from which sprouted other passages. Mirrored stand-lamps bearing brilliant, heatless orbs flooded the whole room with light. A large table dominated the scene, with a number of smaller ones dotting the room, as well as a stack of crates at one end. All the tables were piled with sheaves of paper of every conceivable size and length. Cranky tried to get a better look at one of the papers, but the toughs ushered him and the colt down a side passage before he could.
This tunnel was short, ending still within the light from the main chamber. A wall of wrought iron bars sectioned off a cell, lit by a dim orb suspended from the ceiling. One tough hauled the barred door aside while the others shoved Cranky and the colt into the cell. Then the door was shut and locked with a spell, and the toughs filed back into the main chamber, leaving their captives alone in the half-light.
Cranky waited until the toughs had exited the passage, and then rounded on the colt. “All right, kid, start talking,” he said. “What in Celestia’s name is going on?”
“I say, old jack, I do have a name,” the colt replied, scowling. “And it isn’t ‘kid’.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Fancy Pants.”
Cranky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. Once he was sure he could speak without chortling, he asked, “Well, Fancy Pants, I’m Cranky D. Donkey. Now that we’ve wasted time introducing ourselves, mind telling me what this is all about?”
Fancy Pants dropped his gaze at that. He scuffed a hoof against the floor. “It’s all rather silly, really. I overheard those chaps talking in the market. I was just in a queue, you understand, picking up some things for my mum, and the mind does wander so when one’s queuing. Those miscreants were in the queue next to mine, just a pace or so off, and they were whispering among themselves. Whispering quite loudly, if I may say so. They obviously aren’t terribly good at this sort of thing.
“Anyway, the chap with the rather rakish fedora said something about the Crown Jewels. As you can imagine, that piqued my curiosity in an instant. I then leaned a little closer to them to listen in—not very much, of course. It wouldn’t do to be caught eavesdropping. One of the rough chaps asked if the Cat had decided when a ‘job’ was going down, and another fellow wondered whether they could trust such a mysterious figure. The one with the fedora—”
“Weasel.”
Fancy Pants blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, he looks like a weasel to me,” said Cranky, shrugging. “It’s as good a name as any.”
“Yes, well…” Fancy Pants cleared his throat. “Quite. Now, as I was saying, Weasel told the others that the Cat was the best thief in Equestria. Legendary, as a matter of fact.”
Cranky snorted. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“Oh, but you must have, old jack! There’s always some heist or other being attributed to the Cat in the papers. Why, the Cat’s suspected of filching the prized firedrop necklace right from under the nose of the Dowager Duchess of Canterbury, while she was wearing it at a dinner party!”
“Never much liked reading the newspapers. They’re too depressing, if you ask me.”
Fancy Pants frowned. “You don’t get out much, do you, old jack?”
“Something wrong with that?” asked Cranky, brow creasing somewhat.
“Oh. Well, no, I suppose not.”
Cranky nodded. “You were saying?”
“Ah, yes! Weasel said the Cat was the best thief in Equestria,” Fancy Pants went on, “that they couldn’t have a more professional rogue to head their venture. If anyone could get into the Royal Treasury and out again with the Crown Jewels of Canterlot, without getting caught, it would be the Cat.
“By this time, both our queues had gotten quite short, but they reached their destination first, made their purchases, and headed off down the boulevard just past Bayberry’s Bakery. Well, I wasn’t about to let those criminals out of my sight! I abandoned my queue and dashed after them, keeping well back enough that they wouldn’t suspect a pursuer. As we left the market and entered a less populated avenue near the lower city, they started talking more and more about this job of theirs. They mentioned an old servant’s entrance into the Royal Palace that had been bricked up in some fellow’s cider cellar, and it was by this means that they would infiltrate the Palace, and then the treasury, and make off with the Crown Jewels.
“And then…” Fancy Pants sighed. “And then I was foolish enough to get too close. Weasel spotted me, and I ran down an alley and back toward the upper city. Luckily for me, I’m the top track runner in my class,” he said, puffing out his chest and raising his chin. Then he settled a flat glare on Cranky. “Unluckily, you, old jack, were standing in the middle of the bystreet—talking to yourself like an imbecile, I might add!—and ruined my chances of reaching the Royal Guard to alert them of Weasel’s schemes.”
Cranky settled back on his haunches, letting the information sink in. Then, smirking, he arched one eyebrow. “Who’s the girl?”
“W-what! A girl?” spluttered Fancy Pants. “What the devil are you on about?”
“Most colts pull stupid stunts because, well, they’re colts,” said Cranky. “You don’t strike me as ‘most colts,’ though, kid, which means there’s some girl you’re trying to impress.”
Fancy Pants swished his tail, scowling and pointedly not looking at Cranky. “That is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”
“What’s her name?”
After a reluctant pause, Fancy Pants finally relented. “Fleur. Her name is Fleur de Lis.” He chuckled, but it was a mirthless sound. “I haven’t even worked up the nerve to speak with her yet, you know. The grandest filly in all of Canterlot doesn’t even know I exist…”
“Take it from me, kid,” said Cranky, moderating his usually gruff manner. That was always easy whenever he thought of Matilda. She just made him feel less… well, less cranky. “If this Fleur is as special to you as my Matilda is to me, it’ll all work out for the best.”
Fancy Pants glanced up at him. “You think so?”
“Of course I do,” said Cranky, nodding. “You just have to talk to her first. Get the ball rolling. You won’t get anything in life if you don’t step up and do it yourself. And don’t ever let her slip away,” he added, more to himself than to the colt.
“Well,” said Fancy Pants after a quiet moment, “I suppose it’s a moot point for the both of us, now that we’re stuck down here.”
Cranky barked a laugh—barked, not brayed. He definitely did not bray. “Who said anything about being stuck?”
“But we are stuck, old jack. Even if we did, by some miracle, manage to get past these bars, Weasel and his lot have us cut off just ahead.”
“One thing at a time, kid,” said Cranky, and he began to dig through his mane with his fore hooves.
Fancy Pants snorted. Somehow, he made it sound delicate—however that worked. “Whatever are you doing?”
“Having hair like this takes work, kid,” answered Cranky. “And I don’t trust anypony else to do it right. Especially not ponies in salons and barbershops.” His hoof finally found its mark, and he teased one of several hairpins out of his mane. A patch of forelock fell over one eye. Cranky blew it out of the way, set the hairpin on the floor, and straightened the twisted bit of wire into a makeshift lockpick. Grinning, he took the hairpin lockpick up in his teeth and went to the cell door. The iron bars were too narrow for either Cranky or Fancy Pants to squeeze through completely, but Cranky could slip his head between the bars all the way to his shoulders. Keeping one ear flicked toward the main chamber, he slid the pick into the lock’s keyhole and began to tickle the tumblers one by one.
“Extraordinary!” breathed Fancy Pants, standing on Cranky’s other side. “I never pegged you for a rogue, old jack.”
Cranky grunted in response. Within a few more moments, the lock snapped open. Cranky and Fancy Pants both froze, straining their ears for any sound that the thieves in the main chamber had heard. When no-pony came to investigate, Cranky slowly nosed the door aside. Then he and Fancy Pants crept out of the cell and into the passage. Careful not to make a sound, they pressed themselves against one wall and edged toward the main chamber. At the corner, Cranky peeked around the bend.
The room was empty.
Cautiously, they entered the main chamber. No, there was no sign of Weasel, nor any of his toughs. Good. Cranky swept his eyes around the room, trying to remember which passage led to the Selle Français Salon storeroom. As unpleasant as such places were, it was their only certain route of escape. Unless, of course, that was where Weasel and his toughs had gone.
“Do you remember which way’s out, Fancy Pants?” asked Cranky, keeping his voice low. When he received no answer, he glanced back. “Kid?”
Fancy Pants had wandered to the table in the center of the room. The colt had to climb atop one of the rickety chairs to see the tabletop and the papers spread out there. One page in particular seemed to have captured his interest. “I say! Take a look at this, old jack.”
Grumbling under his breath, Cranky joined Fancy Pants at the table and scanned the indicated sheet. “It’s just a jumble of numbers and figures. I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
“No, no, you don’t understand,” said Fancy Pants, pointing to one sum that had quite a few zeroes in it. Cranky had never seen that sort of sum in actual bits; he doubted anypony had seen that many bits in one pile. “Look, this is the estimated value of the Crown Jewels on the black market. And these figures—” Fancy Pants shifted his hoof to a new set of numbers “—they’re how the money’s going to be divided among Weasel and his chaps. Weasel seems to get the largest share of those five, but there’s another figure part of the division that’s larger than the others combined. That must be the Cat’s share.”
“Fascinating, kid,” said Cranky, voice thick with sarcasm. “But we’ve got to get out of here, and we’re not going to get very far staring at a bunch of numbers.”
“But there’s more!” Fancy Pants pressed, sliding his hoof to a page just beside the one with the figures. “Look here, old jack. See this? It’s a—” Before he could finish, voices issued from one of the tunnels, coming closer.
“Quick, over here,” Cranky whispered, darting behind a stack of crates. Fancy Pants wasn’t far behind, a sheaf of paper clutched in his teeth. He set the paper on the floor as he and Cranky crouched, ears flattened so the appendages wouldn’t peek over the crates and give them away.
“What’s that?” Cranky breathed, nodding toward the page.
“A map of the tunnel network,” said Fancy Pants, just as quietly. “I spotted it just as I was about to hop down.”
The corners of Cranky’s mouth lifted. “Good work, kid.”
Fancy Pants beamed, raising his chin slightly. Then the voices and hoofsteps neared, and Fancy Pants ducked low again. He and Cranky peered through a thin strip of space between two crates. Across the room from their hiding place, Weasel and the four toughs exited one of the passages.
“We’re all set, boys,” Weasel said, a wicked twist to his lips. “Sun’s nearly set. Now we just need the Cat, and the Crown Jewels will be ours.”
“I still don’t see why we need her,” one of the toughs complained.
Cranky and Fancy Pants traded a silent look. Her?
“Yeah, we’re just losin’ money, boss. The Cat’s gettin’ more outta this than any of us, includin’ you,” said another tough.
Weasel scowled, beady eyes narrowing. “I’d watch what you say down here, boys. The walls have ears.”
“As do I,” came a new, deliciously feminine voice. All eyes shifted toward the voice, but Cranky and Fancy Pants couldn’t see the speaker from their vantage, not without moving and risking being spotted.
“My Lady,” said Weasel, tipping his fedora with a flick of his muddy magic.
After a pause, there came a prim sniff. “Rat.”
Weasel frowned, but quickly smeared an ingratiating smile over it. “To what do the boys and I owe the pleasure of a visit from the great Cat herself?”
“My ears were burning.” The Cat paused. “Have I doubters in my employ? Have I need to cull the herd?” When no-pony responded, there was a rich, throaty laugh from the Cat’s direction. “A wise decision. Now, what of the spy and his consort?”
“Locked away, safe and sound, my Lady,” said Weasel. “They won’t be troubling us tonight.”
“Excellent,” said the Cat. “Night falls—the hunt begins. To your positions, ponies! By the time the moon reaches its apex, the Crown Jewels will be ours!”
The clatter of hurried hooves ensued, echoing in the stone chamber and tunnels. Weasel and the four toughs departed. Cranky and Fancy Pants never got a glimpse of the Cat; she must have left through one of the other tunnels. They waited, barely daring to breathe, until the whole underground lair fell silent once more. Cranky motioned for Fancy Pants to stay down, and then slowly inched up so he could see over the crates. No one. Straightening fully, Cranky helped Fancy Pants to his hooves, grabbed the map, and smoothed it out on top of a crate. He may be no good at numbers and figures, but he could read a map, sure as his name was Cranky D. Donkey.
“We’d best get out while the gettin’s good,” said Cranky, studying the map closely. “The Guard needs to be alerted before that Cat and her goons get to the Crown Jewels. Ah-ha! This way!” He pointed to the passage directly to their left. “If this thing’s right, it’ll take us right into the market square. Then we can hightail it to the Palace and—” Cranky paused, looking up. Fancy Pants had gone to the center table again, perched atop the same chair as before. Leaving the map—they wouldn’t need it now—Cranky joined Fancy Pants and said, “Kid, we’ve got to move.”
“Just a moment more,” said Fancy Pants, rifling through the papers. “Yes! Here it is!” he cried, stamping a hoof against a packet stapled together at one corner.
“What?”
“The proof! This packet will guarantee the lot of them a place in prison. It has everything, old jack. Names, roles, an outline of the plan—everything!”
“A shame it doesn’t belong to you,” purred a familiar voice. Cranky and Fancy Pants whirled around. A pair of yellow eyes glowed in the darkness of a nearby tunnel. “Such naughty little boys,” the Cat continued. “Don’t you know stealing is against the law?”
Cranky snorted, placing himself between Fancy Pants and the Cat. “You’re one to talk.”
The Cat laughed. “A spy with morals!”
“We’re not spies!” Fancy Pants shouted, horn flickering and sparking. “If your lackeys knew how to whisper properly, you’d have gotten off scot free!”
“And what makes you so certain I won’t?” The eyes drew closer, but there was no sound of the Cat’s approach. White, sharp teeth flashed in the shadows beneath the Cat’s eyes. An enormous, black paw stepped into the light, followed by a lithe, ebony body twice as tall as Cranky and at least three times as long, whiplash tail included. The body of a panther.
“I say!” gasped Fancy Pants, eyes widening. “You’re… you’re a cat!”
“Of course I’m a cat, you blathering foal!” the Cat snarled. “Did you really expect the greatest thief in Equestria to be one of you ponies?”
Cranky and Fancy Pants exchanged glances, and they both said, “Yes.”
“Bah! You equines are so ill-suited to the role. I, on the other paw, am the purrfect thief, and I don’t mind getting my claws dirty.” With a roar, the Cat launched herself clear across the room, claws outstretched, jaws agape.
Cranky grabbed Fancy Pants—who snatched the incriminating packet of papers in his teeth—and threw himself and the colt to the side. The Cat crashed down on the center table, splintering wood and sending papers flying. The table collapsed beneath the Cat’s weight on impact. Cranky urged Fancy Pants to his hooves, and the two of them galloped into the tunnel to the market square. Fancy Pants squeezed a spark of magic out of his horn to light the way. Behind them, the Cat loosed another roar and, no longer paying mind to stealth, lumbered after them.
They came to a ladder similar to the one leading down from the Selle Français Salon storeroom, though this one’s rungs weren’t as rusty. Cranky gave Fancy Pants a boost halfway up the rungs, and then ascended himself. Fancy Pants shoved against the trapdoor, but it was too heavy for him to lift more than a crack. Cranky stretched up a fore hoof, and together they raised the door. They scrambled out, the Cat’s snarls and hisses echoing through the tunnel just behind them.
The market square was deserted. The trapdoor to the underground lair was, in fact, a large flagstone. Cranky managed to slide the flagstone back into place just as the Cat swiped a paw out of the tunnel. The Cat released a vengeful hiss at that, which carried through the thick stone enough to make the fur on the back of Cranky’s neck stand straight up. He began to move off the flagstone, but the Cat shoved against it from below, nearly throwing it aside. Cranky firmly planted himself in the center of the flagstone.
“Go, kid,” said Cranky through gritted teeth. The Cat pushed against the flagstone again. “You said you’re the fastest in your class. Run to the Royal Guard. Give them the evidence so they can stop all this before the Crown Jewels are lost.”
“What!” exclaimed Fancy Pants, dropping the papers. “You can’t be serious, old jack! The Cat will tear you to pieces!”
The flagstone jerked beneath him again. Cranky pinned his ears, scowling. “She’ll do the same to you if you don’t get a move on! Take the proof and clear out! Now!”
“But—!”
“RUN!”
At last, Fancy Pants took up the packet in his teeth and dashed away. He skidded to a stop at the corner of Bayberry’s Bakery, glancing back at Cranky, and then galloped out of sight.
Not a minute later, the flagstone rose into the air, casting Cranky off to one side. He rolled across the square, slamming into the base of a fountain. Blinking the stars out of his eyes, Cranky stumbled to his hooves just as the Cat climbed out into the night air. Her black fur melded far too well with the shadows. Only her glowing eyes gave her away. Cranky kept his back to the fountain. Hopefully the water would keep the Cat from jumping him from behind.
The Cat’s lips peeled back, fangs gleaming in the moonlight. “You chipped one of my claws with that stunt, donkey,” she snarled.
Cranky laughed. “Really? You’re worried about a broken nail, when you’re whole heist is unraveling? You should get your priorities straight, kitty.”
“Where is that little morsel of a foal?” asked the Cat, padding silently to Cranky’s left. “He didn’t have much meat on his bones, but he’d have made a fine snack all the same.”
“And why would I tell you anything?”
“Hmm… It matters not. The night is young yet. Once I’ve finished with you, I’ll hunt down the other, and then I can continue according to plan.”
Cranky swallowed involuntarily. Fancy Pants wouldn’t have much of a head-start on the Cat. Cranky had to stall her somehow. What would stall a bloodthirsty panther? For that matter, what would stall any villain bent on fulfilling some dastardly scheme?
Monologuing!
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he said. “Your crew of thieves are in it for the money. That makes sense. But you—what’s in it for you? From what I hear, you’re the best in the business. You’ve got a fortune stashed away somewhere, or I’m a three-legged mule. Why go after the Crown Jewels at all?”
“They will fetch quite a profit, true,” replied the Cat. She circled in the other direction, drawing closer with every step. “But I don’t do what I do for the money. I do it for the challenge. The Crown Jewels of Canterlot are a fine challenge, indeed! My… crowning achievement, you might say.” Her laughed rolled through the darkness, soft like a purr and richer than a heavenly choir.
“So you want a challenge. Why hire those goons to do the job for you, then?”
The Cat stepped into a patch of moonlight, less than ten paces away from Cranky. She could probably jump that distance in her sleep. “Even the great need the small who know the rat-holes and hidden dens of an unfamiliar territory… But I tire of your pitiful ploy. I have more important matters to be about tonight.” She gathered her paws under her, the powerful muscles of her haunches bunching in preparation to pounce.
A dot of light zipped to the flagstones in front of the Cat.
Her eyes locked on it, pupils dilating.
The dot darted to the side. The Cat pounced on it, but the light shifted again. It jerked one way and then another, zigzagging around the square. The Cat followed it, crouched low, tail swishing rapidly. Wherever the dot of light went, the Cat prowled just behind it. The dot scaled the wall of a shop; the Cat stretched up on her hind legs, clawing at the façade. It was such an unexpected sight that Cranky didn’t know whether to laugh or stare.
Actually, he did know what to do. Cranky doubled over, laughing so hard that his stomach started to ache and tears came to his eyes.
“Enjoying yourself?”
Cranky quieted. That voice… He looked up, and there was Weasel, of all ponies, standing just a pace or so away. His fedora was tipped over one eye, and he wore that same ratty smirk. A dim, brownish light glowed from beneath the brim of the fedora. Cranky’s eyebrows rose, and he glanced toward the dot the Cat was still chasing. Brown, like mud.
“Bumped into your friend a street over,” Weasel said, barely paying the Cat and her roving light any heed. “Good thing, too. Never would’ve known Catrina was stalking you instead of sticking to the plan, otherwise.” He turned toward the corner briefly, raising his voice. “All right, boys, we’ve got her!”
And in an instant, the whole square was flooded with light and Royal Guards. Unicorns stood on rooftops and along the perimeter, horns aglow, their spotlights focused on the Cat. Pegasi dove out of the sky, dropping a weighted net upon the black panther. Earth ponies surrounded the Cat on the ground, some leveling polearms and lances on her. The Cat barely had time to react once the lights illuminated the night; she was still blinking at the abrupt brightness. She bared her teeth at the ponies, struggling to swipe her claws at them and maneuver to watch them all at once. Fortunately, the net successfully restrained her movements, tangling her legs. She locked blazing eyes on Weasel.
“Traitor!” hissed the Cat. “Turncoat! Infiltrator! Imposter!”
“You do have such a way with words, Lady Catrina,” Weasel replied, dousing his magic. He jerked his head toward one of the nearby guards. “Take her away, boys.”
The Cat spat and snarled as the unicorn guards hoisted her and the net into the air by strands of magic. The rest of the guards fell into step around her, with the pegasi taking winged formation above. Then they marched off toward the thoroughfare, filing out of the market.
Cranky shook himself. He hadn’t been gaping, but he’d been pretty close to it. He worked his jaw several times, but the only thing that came out was, “What?”
“We did it, old jack!” cried a familiar voice. Cranky didn’t even get a chance to turn around before Fancy Pants barreled into him. The colt wrapped his forelegs around Cranky in a tight hug. Then he seemed to realize what he was doing. His face reddened slightly, and Fancy Pants swiftly released Cranky.
“I thought I told you to get the Guard, kid, not Weasel,” said Cranky.
“The name’s Fox,” Weasel intervened. He levitated a police badge out of his suit pocket. “Detective Gray Fox.”
Fancy Pants gasped. “You’re the Gray Fox?”
“Who the blazes is the Gray Fox?” Cranky asked.
“You don’t get out much, do you?” answered Weasel—Detective Fox. That was going to take some getting used to. “Best undercover copper around. I’ve been casing Catrina and that sorry bunch of thieves for months now. Finally got the chance to catch her in the act, thanks to you two.”
Cranky scowled, pinning his ears. “You’re the one who locked us up in the first place!”
“All part of the job,” said Fox with a shrug. “If I hadn’t done it, the bums I was with would’ve been suspicious. The Guard and I would’ve come back for you after we nabbed Catrina and that lot.”
After a moment of inaudible grumbling, Cranky let that part slide. Much as he hated admitting it, Fox’s explanation made sense. “Fine. But what happened to those toughs you left with, back in that thieves’ den—” he gestured toward the hole leading to the underground tunnels “—and why do you keep calling the Cat ‘Catrina’?”
“They got those ruffians straight off, old jack,” said Fancy Pants. “Detective Fox led them right into the Guard’s hooves before their heist even got started.”
“And the Cat wasn’t always the Cat,” Fox explained. “She used to be Lady Catrina Pantherin of Felidae, but her family’s money ran out years ago. She took to a life of crime like a fish to water.”
“They never had the evidence to prosecute her before,” said Fancy Pants. “But now, old jack, they’ve got everything they need, including the papers we pinched during our escape.”
“And the Crown Jewels are still right where they’re supposed to be, safe inside the treasury. I don’t think it’s too much to assume that you’ve both got Canterlot’s thanks.”
“Careful,” Cranky said, cracking a smile. “You know what happens when you assume.”
Fox laughed. “Touché, jack. Take care of yourselves, boys,” he said, turning away. Then, with a last look over his shoulder and a wave, he trotted after the guards.
Fancy Pants scrunched up his face, glancing from Fox to Cranky. “What happens when one assumes, old jack?”
Cranky chuckled. “You’ll find out when you’re older, kid.”
* * *
The next day, Canterlot continued as if nothing had changed. Well, for most ponies, very little probably had changed. Only the Royal Guard, Detective Fox, and a pair of unlikely friends knew of the Cat’s attempt to steal the Crown Jewels and, of course, her capture. Then again, the Princesses might know about it, too, by now.
Cranky shook his head to clear it. The Cat was behind him. It was time to move on. Matilda wasn’t in Canterlot, Cranky was certain, but she was somewhere, and he would find her. Cranky checked the girth strapping his saddlebags to him—no point going on a quest for true love if your saddlebags fell off after two steps.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, old jack?” asked Fancy Pants, standing beside him. “Equestria’s quite a big place, you know. Your Matilda could be anywhere.”
“Then I’d better get started,” Cranky said. Yes, the girth was in good repair. No falling off for these saddlebags. Time to go.
Fancy Pants was wearing a pack himself, and he now drew a parcel out of it. The parcel was wrapped in plain, brown paper, tied with string. “Before you go, old jack, I wanted to give you something,” he said, proffering the parcel.
Raising an eyebrow, Cranky took the gift and unwrapped it, breaking the string with his teeth. It was a book with a blue cover. When Cranky opened it, however, the thick pages were empty.
“It’s a scrapbook,” said Fancy Pants. “I thought you could use it to keep reminders of that special jenny of yours, and to document your adventures, of course. This way, when you find Matilda—and you will find her, old jack—you can show her everything you went through to get to her, yes?”
Cranky blinked, his vision blurring. He quickly rubbed at his eyes. To get the dust out of them. “Thanks, kid,” he said, finally looking up at Fancy Pants again. However, Fancy Pants’ gaze was focused elsewhere. Cranky followed the colt’s wide-eyed gawking. Right, he thought, smiling.
A white unicorn filly with lavender eyes and soft pink curls stood a little ways off. She was making a show of not looking at Fancy Pants, fluffing her mane, watching the clouds in the sky.
Cranky glanced at Fancy Pants. The colt was frozen in place. Rolling his eyes, Cranky nudged Fancy Pants forward a step, toward Fleur de Lis.
“I say! What are you doing, old jack?”
“Go on,” said Cranky, giving Fancy Pants another nudge. “Get the ball rolling. Introduce yourself.”
Fancy Pants sputtered, ears drooping. “W-what! You mean, you were serious? You actually want me to talk to her? Preposterous!”
Cranky chuckled. “You mean to tell me that you can eavesdrop on thieves, escape a dungeon, and face a crazy cat, but you can’t even talk to one filly?”
Fancy Pants stubbornly raised his chin at that. Then he took a deep breath, puffing out his chest, and strode right up to Fleur. His knees went a little watery when he stopped in front of her, but Cranky heard him manage a firm, “Hello.” Fleur fluttered her long lashes, giving Fancy Pants a tiny, demur smile. No wonder Fancy Pants was smitten with her.
Turning away, Cranky stowed his new scrapbook safely in his saddlebags. Then he began the trek to the city gates.
I’m on my way, Matilda.