Backstage it was a party. A very exclusive party. The entrances had security – not the usual pony bobbies, but pairs of zebras in historical costume, complete with pole arms. The overall feel of their dress – heavy coats, fur hats, with colorful fringe and sashes – was more cold-north rather than jungle-warrior. Valentina didn’t have Vivian’s eye for fashion, but she was thinking “Stalliongrad-chic” of a century or three past. The spear-axe-thingies looked worryingly functional and not merely decorative.

Thretan told one of the zebras, a battle scarred mare with considerably more gold hanging off of her than the others, “This is Cantor. Remember him.” Cantor gave the zebra a smile, and she responded with a nod.

Past the velvet rope Cantor and Valentina found themselves amid a swirl of socialites and nobility, along with actors, actresses, and reporters. There was festive music playing, a table loaded down with food and drink, vases of flowers, parts of sets, and piles of props.

Valentina looked around for more changelings. She didn’t see any, which didn’t actually mean anything she supposed. Thretan still looked like a young Katherine Hoofburn. Valentina started trying to spot other out-of-place actors, old legends of stage and screen walking around in young bodies. Again, she didn’t see any. She did spot a few ponies sporting the pins – a beehive, the letter “H” and a zero. Hive Naught. The pins tended to blend in with the jewelry most of those in attendance were sporting.

Valentina began feeling distinctly under-dressed. She brightened up her smile, and the mischievous twinkle in her eye, to make up for it. When you haven’t jewels to wear, make your expression shine for you, her grandmother had told her. Even if you felt out of place, project a feeling of assurance and you’ll usually fit in. Valentina had discovered that just focusing on the fun could take a lot of the sting out of an awkward social situation. So she ignored some of the ruder stares, and started trying to guess at who was who in the crowd of minor celebrities.

Cantor still looked tired. And he was limping more than usual. Valentina remained beside him, holding on to his fore-leg, as much to help keep him upright as to keep from being separated. He gave her a grateful smile. She was still a little angry at him for keeping this sort of secret from her, though he would doubtless apologize far too much if she brought it up. That she understood why he’d refrain from discussing these “dear friends” of his didn’t make her anger any less, but it made forgiving Cantor easier. She also wondered what other secrets he had. What had Thretan meant by this Magpie being one of his “other friends?”

Thretan left the two of them by the punchbowl, Valentina caught something about “Dozy” and “dressing room” and the name “Ziggler” again. Cantor just nodded.

In the ten minutes that Thretan was gone, a rather tipsy baronet hit on Valentina. Which was, she felt, both flattering and rather off-putting. He had a nice set of wings, though. In other circumstances, she would have been quite interested in some flirting with the upper classes at a swank get together. It could be jolly good fun. Especially when one was party crashing! At the moment, though, Valentina was still coming to grips with the nature of the local acting troupe. So Valentina deflected the baronet’s interest, using skills she had honed over her time as a stewardess for the Grav Zeppelin airship lines. Bored, rich, drunk ponies getting a little hoovesy and inappropriate was hardly new to her.

What was new, and quite amusing for Valentina, was then watching the baronet turn to hit on Cantor. Valentina tried not to giggle as even Cantor, who seemed incapable of picking up a hint, began to realize that the noblecolt in question might be … interested.

Ordinarily, Valentina thought, throwing hints at Cantor would be like bouncing a rubber ball off a brick wall. A trivial amusement that made no impression on anypony involved. Valentina was tempted to whisper her naughtier observations about the baronet’s smooth innuendos in Cantor’s ear … but from the way Cantor was acting, it was almost as if somepony else had beaten her to the punch. Cantor, Valentina could tell, didn’t canter that way. He was a stallion for the fillies, not a stallion's stallion nor a colt for all seasons. Cantor handled it all graciously enough. And in the end the baronet, still smiling, drifted off to flirt outrageously with some of the other socialites in attendance. Valentina doubted the noble would be going home alone tonight, assuming that was what he was actually after. Some ponies just enjoyed the game.

Katherine Hoofburn … no, not her, not really ... it was Thretan, returned. She led Valentina and Cantor through the milling swarm of ponies to a small room in the back. Cantor looked relived when the door shut on the roar of the party. He hadn’t looked like he was enjoying either the noise or the crowd.

The dressing room had a small table, a mirror, several bits of costume, and an assortment of chairs. One of them was already occupied. Valentina stared. Another changeling. It wasn’t Dozy. This one was not bothering to wear a disguise. His left eye was dark and covered with cracks – spider-web shatter lines from an old injury. He was also chewing on a … stick? It looked like a stick.

“Cantor, dear colt, and miss Valentina. Bob here will keep an eye on you while I go gather the others.”

“’Keep an eye on them?' Cute, Thretan. Cute. As always, you’ve a cutting wit.” The changeling’s voice had an insectoid buzz, a hum running beneath it.

Thretan gave Cantor a hug. “If you need anything, dear, just let Bob know. He’ll handle it for you.”

After she left, Cantor stepped forward and reached out a hoof, “Hi Bob. I’m Cantor Mortalis. I don’t think we’ve met before.”

The changeling extended a hoof of his own, the limb was oddly riddled with holes. And even the parts that weren’t seemed cracked and pitted – like leather that somepony had accidentally splattered powerful acid upon.

“Hi Cantor. We haven’t. Pleasure’s mine. I’m Bob.” The changeling put an unusual emphasis on his name. Cantor noticed and raised an eyebrow. “I was Bob before I joined Naught.”

“Really?” Cantor sounded extraordinarily pleased. “Did you come up with that yourself? If you don’t mind my asking.” What sort of a question was that, Valentina thought to herself.

“Nah, I don’t mind. And yeah, I did come up with it myself. It’s funny how the Naughts have taken on that tradition. One of the reasons I felt I would fit right in here.”

“Have you been with Hive Naught long? Are they treating you well?”

Valentina thought Bob looked a little surprised by the second question. Even touched.

“Huh. I can see why Dozy likes you. Yes, its been a while now. And they treat me better than my old Hive ever did.”

Valentina decided to speak up, “I’m sorry, Bob, but this is all quite new to me. What was that about your name?”

Cantor looked and Bob, almost as if asking who should explain it.

“I got this,” Bob put down the stick. “Hello miss. I’m a changeling. Don’t know if you noticed,” Bob’s voice seemed uniquely suited to conveying a dry, biting kind of humor. Valentina had the sudden thought that Bob really should try a stint as a stand-up comedian.

“Changelings are hatched into Hives, and Hives aren’t big on individuality. Concepts like ‘pony-hood’ or, rather, ‘person-hood’ are notably absent from the general education and raising of most grubs. They’re not taught to think of themselves as independent creatures, but as parts of a greater whole. Cogs in the machine. And you don’t give gears names. You give ‘em numbers.”

Bob extended a holey hoof for Valentina to shake. She took it. It was warmer than she had expected. He grinned.

“So, now I’m Bob. Pleased to meet ya. But for most of my life I was just Changeling Drone zero-zero-eight-zero-eight. I wasn’t even the first drone with that number, just the most recent one of that number who hadn’t gotten eaten or had an unfortunately large rock fall on them.”

“Names … well, the Hive Queens have names. Hives have names. Drones? Most drones don’t get names. Even the ones who do rarely have names that you'd think were proper – mostly just names that reinforce that they're a small part of something bigger, part of the body of the Hive as a whole. Names like claw, fang, pterothorax, that kind of thing. Me? I didn’t even merit one of those so-called names. So one of the first things I decided to do when I left my old Hive was to get a name. A real name.” Bob took out a pencil and sketched “808” on the back of a discarded program. He pointed to it. “Looks kinda like ‘BOB’ if ya squint at it just right. So, Bob it is.”

Cantor was frowning. “A five digit Hive? That would have been one of the big ones, if I understand what Dozy told me about the numbering schema for unnamed drones.”

Valentina blinked in surprise. “There’s more than one Hive?”

Bob laughed. “Oh, yes. There are several changeling Queens, or at least there were last I heard. All of them competing for territory and resources. Assuming the Hive-Queens are still warring with each other (and none of ’em’s managed to establish dominance over all the Hives, forming a true Swarm) then here are places in the bad lands that you just do not want to go. Bloody war zones. And if a Swarm’s formed, then all the more reason to stay away.”

He began to chew on his stick again.

“Different Queens, different specialties. Most of ‘em nasty. Back in the day I was part of the Brood of Changes, a cog in the machine of the Queen of Transformation – better known to you lot as Chrysalis. She was trying for a Swarm. And for conquest.”

“And you just up and left?” Cantor sounded quite impressed, “I didn’t know that was even possible!”

“Eh, let’s say I got kicked out.” Bob grinned and tapped his bad eye.

Cantor winced in sympathy. “Did the Queen do that to you?”

“Nah! Some pony named Applejack did that back at Canterlot. I guess she must kick things for a living or something. That was a right fur-ball. No plan better than ‘get ‘em.’ Half a dozen Applejacks were dog piling on one of ‘em – and she seemed stronger than just a changeling copy, so I figured her for the real deal. I was an Applejack myself at the time, made a leap for her back end and … well …” Bob tapped his shattered eye. “Like I said. She must buck things for a living.”

“I came to in a pile of my Hive brothers, crawled out of it, stood up and said, ‘I’m alive!’” Bob struck an inspiring pose as he reenacted the moment. Valentina fought not to giggle.

“And then a wall of crystallized love, harder than diamond, hit me square in the face. Knocked me flying.”

“Ouch.” Cantor winced again. “I heard something about that.”

“I landed outside Trottingham.”

“What?” Valentina and Cantor’s shocked response came in unison.

Bob used hoof-gestures to reinforce his words, “I. Landed. Outside. Trottingham.”

He chuckled. “It was a powerful blast.” And suddenly the changeling was serious. “Never underestimate the power of love. There’s reasons us changelings feed on it.”

“Anyway, I survived. Lucky or tough, I don’t know. Chrysalis Hive is more known for its adaptability than its endurance. Goes along with the whole ‘Queen of Changes and Transformation’ thing.”

“I like to say that Applejack knocked some sense into me. Or that losing an eye made me ‘see things more clearly.’ Makes it sound all noble and mystical, some sort of epic tale of self discovery. Ziggler thinks it might just be brain damage and he’s probably right. Regardless, I took one look around, thought about trying to hike back to the badlands and find what was left of the old Hive, to see if somehow the Queen had survived all that … or a new Queen of Changes had taken her place … and then I said, ‘Buck that. I’m out.’”

“Been wandering UnHived ever since. Well, until I joined up with your lot. I like the way they think. You helped build something good here, Cantor. I was originally bred to be a construction worker first and foremost, so I like good building.” Bob grinned and began chewing on his stick again, “That’s probably why they’ve got me in charge of sets ‘n props!”

Cantor’s expression was one of growing amazement. “You did those sets?”

Valentina looked at Cantor in surprise. They had been nice sets, sure … but what was he on about?

“Yeah. What of it?” Bob paused in his chewing.

“But … the play of shadow, the sense of depth, the layering of the backgrounds, the grand illusion of space … the way perspectives shifted when they’d rotate a section. You designed all of that?”

“Yeah?”

“With no depth perception?” Cantor covered one eye. Valentina hadn’t even thought of that! She found herself impressed both by the creative skill that had been on display as well as Cantor’s own odd perspective on life that led him to immediately notice and appreciate it.

“Yeah.” Bob suddenly sounded a bit embarrassed. “It’s just a thing I do.”

“Dozy doesn’t have you in charge of sets and props just because you were a construction drone, Bob. He has you in charge of sets and props because Dozy has an eye for talent. And you’re a true artist.”

The others had drifted in over the course of the past hour. Dozy was out of both of his costumes. Thretan was still in hers, she looked good as Katherine Hoofburn. Ziggler, a particularly jolly and plump earth-pony who Cantor knew to be delightfully, charmingly corrupt, had settled himself onto a fainting couch. He had an impressively pointy mustache and well trimmed goatee – in addition his perpetually flushed face gave the appearance of being made up in a theatrical style. Cantor reflected that Ziggler was his oldest friend out of the lot, and his greatest threat at the moment. Hoofrey Bogart was also here. The real one, in his wheel-chair, with a blanket over his lap, looking more than a century old if he was a day. That old stallion really should be in bed, Cantor thought.

Cantor really should be in bed as well. Was it still only Saturday? It might be Sunday now, judging from the lateness of the show. This weekend excursion already felt like it had taken up at least a week’s worth of time and energy.

Bob had shown himself out. But he had made Cantor a tea-cup before he went. No tea, just the cup. Admittedly Bob did so by spiting up some of the wood-stuff he had been chewing on and molding the resulting mess with hooves and a touch of magic into an artistic and beautiful bit of faux glass-ware. It had quickly dried into something surprisingly hard and light. Cantor noted Valentina had looked both fascinated and a little ill while watching the process. The changeling had been quite forthcoming about his own sort of chew-it-up and spit-it-out construction techniques – much to Morari’s delight. Apparently this was a specialty of Bob’s; something not many other changelings could do.

Prompted by the ghostly scholar, Cantor had asked Bob quite a few questions. What raw materials and chemical concoctions could be consumed, half-digested, and then regurgitated … what properties in terms of color, hardness, transparency that resulted from different mixes … that sort of thing. Turned out Bob could produce surprisingly realistic replicas of nearly anything made from stone, metal, wood, clay, or glass. Even paper. Leather and cloth items weren’t something he could manage. More often than not, what Bob "built" tended to be light-weight, well insulated, fireproof and waterproof – though the right mixture of chemicals could dissolve his creations back into a puddle of goo which, Bob assured them, was itself quite tasty with a little salt and lemon. He claimed it made post production clean-up deliciously simple.

But now everypony was here. As was Valentina. Magpie reported that some Zebras were on watch outside and that Bob was surreptitiously patching holes, insuring there would be no conventional eavesdroppers.

Cantor couldn’t help but smile. The reception was warmer than he could have hoped for. Dozy in particular had given him an extra strong hug … which Ziggler, not to be out done, had followed up on by kissing both of Cantor’s cheeks.

Alas, the good times would not be rolling on much longer. Thretan noticed the gradual fall of Cantor’s smile and spoke up, “So, dear colt, what brings you back to us after all this time? You mentioned needing our help?”

“Help? Help? Cantor asking for help?” Ziggler puffed up in shocked disbelief. “Well I never thought I’d live to see the day. Sweet Cantor, always giving help and never asking for it. So, how bad is it? Are we talking money? Bodies to be made? Bodies to be removed?” Ziggler loved to talk. He rarely used five words when ten could be employed, or better yet, fifteen.

Cantor, though tired, grinned. “Oh, it’s bad. But first … uh …” Cantor’s gaze tracked over to Valentina, who had taken a seat between Ziggler and Mr. Bogart. She was flirting with the old actor, much to his delight.

“She doesn’t know.” Thretan stated. The room stared at Cantor in various states of disbelief.

“What?” Dozy sounded surprised, then he started to chuckle. “Cantor … you sly old rascal.”

“There wasn’t an appropriate time or place,” Cantor couldn’t keep a touch of exasperation from creeping into his voice.

“Well, old friend, then somepony should tell her.” Ziggler turned to Valentina and took one of her forehooves with a smile. He kissed it and said, “Cantor sees dead ponies.”

Valentina stared in disbelief, too shocked to even retrieve her hoof. “What?!”

“Cantor sees dead ponies,” Dozy confirmed. His tone was quite serious.

Valentina looked at Cantor.

He shrugged, “It’s true. I see dead ponies. Ghosts, haunts, call them what you like. I’ve been able to see them since I was quite young. Helping sing them back to … uh … sleep is actually how I got my cutie mark.”

“It is?” Valentina eyed Cantor’s flank. As always, his tattered cloak covered his mark.

He twitched it aside. A black skull, crowned with silver, and surmounted by a spray of colorful music notes.

Her eyes met his, then widened. “Oh … so … when you say the voices aren’t 'in your head' …”

“Then yes, he’s talking … or more often listening to … one of his ‘other friends.’” Thretan answered Valentina’s unfinished question.

Cantor sighed, “As I mentioned, Valentina, there is some doubt as to my sanity. Plenty of ponies are more comfortable with the belief that I’m cracked and the voices are all just in my head. Others, including the ponies here, are willing to take my apparently unique mystical gifts at face value.”

“Balderdash!” It was Ziggler. He was clearly pleased to have the opportunity to deploy such a grandiose word. “My sweet young filly, trust me in this, if in nothing else: Cantor is precisely what he has, on occasion, claimed to be. He is a spiritualist. A medium. A speaker with spirits from the great beyond. I have, in my exceedingly checkered past as a stage manager, dealt with frauds and con-colts, gypsies and fortune tellers, confidence tricksters, hustlers, stage magicians, crystal gazers, tarot readers, spirit board savants, proponents of automatic writing, swindlers, resurectionists, cheats, ectoplasmists, dowsers, crooks, performers, musicians, actors, artists, adulterers, prostitutes, and thieves of all varieties. I know every lying trick in the books. I know lying tricks so scandalous that no pony writes them down in books! As a result, I also know every word of double-speak and vague half-truth designed to convince the gullible that they too can hear one last message from dear, departed grandmother for a modest sum of bits. I’ve dealt with sane ponies and mad-ponies, the very wise and the very foolish, the entirely corrupt,” and here Ziggler proudly pounded his own chest, “and the entirely incorruptible,” and here he gestured, with a hint of hesitation, at Cantor, “So I can speak with considerable authority when I say this:

“Cantor is the real thing. The. Real. Thing.”

Ziggler dropped Valentina’s hoof and gave a sad sigh. It had been a good rant. “If only he weren’t entirely crippled by the possession of scruples we could have made so much money,” he turned his eyes on Cantor and his expression was comically sad. A tear even rolled down one plump cheek.

“I can vouch for him too,” Dozy added, dryly. “It’s how he first unmasked me back in my bad old days.”

“I … see.” Valentina gave Cantor a small, distracted smile. Thretan poured her a stiff drink. Valentina took it and tossed it down.

Cantor’s return smile to Valentina was intended to be reassuring. Cantor wasn’t sure how well he managed it.

“Yes. And my ‘other friends’ as Thretan calls them are the reason I’m here tonight.”

“Indeed, dear colt, would you be so kind as to introduce us?” Thretan smiled.

“That would be the polite thing to do, old boy.” Admiral Fairweather remarked.

Cantor nodded. “At the moment I’m traveling with three spirits, and have been working with one of them for going on a year now. Two of them accompanied me here from the mainland.” Dozy gave a little start and frowned. Cantor continued, “The first is a scholar by the name of Morari.”

“Morari the Maneless?” Ziggler’s eyebrows shot up.

“Er, yes. Read his book have you?”

“’The life and times of?’ More or less. It was assigned reading back at Oxherd for a sixth century literature class I studiously avoided.”

“How nice, somepony else who’s heard of me. Cantor, is Ziggler really what you’d call a friend? He seems … unusually disreputable. Even for this crowd. And I say that after having taken careful note of how the modern ponies of Albion react to the presence of changelings.”

“Morari is pleased you have heard of him, Ziggler. And yes, Morari, Ziggler is both a friend and entirely disreputable. His combination of being disreputable coupled with his being highly skilled at all the behind the scenes wheeling and dealing that makes a theatre … or any ‘entertainment industry’ endeavor ... run, and run well, is the reason Dozy and I first approached him about setting up Hive Naught.”

Ziggler grinned. He had been about to consume another cup-cake. He ate with surprising daintiness. “Quite right, Master Morari. A reputable agent would have taken one look at a changeling would-be actor and would have laughed them right out of his office.” Ziggler giggled, “Right out of his office, down the street to the constables, and straight into jail ... or the gallows.” Ziggler’s grin settled into something that managed to be both pleasant and wicked. “And, in doing so, they’d have lost out on being involved on the ground floor, so to speak, of an extremely lucrative business.”

Cantor nodded.

“Next we have a young filly I know as the Thieving Magpie. From her mannerisms, skills, and speech, I suspect she had a … checkered past … probably in the less reputable parts of Manehattan …”

“Ah,” Mr. Bogart nodded. He was fond of the city.

“… back when it was called New Amsteerdame.” Cantor continued.

“Ah?” Mr. Bogart frowned. “That was, what, a hundred years or more ago?”

“Oy, closer ta two.”

“She says it was closer to two hundred.”

“The third?” Dozy was quite interested.

“Admiral Fairweather. He’s been with me for … uh … almost a day.”

There was a moment of silence. Amid a chorus of “Whats?” came some specific questions.

“The Admiral Fairweather?” That was Bogart, who went on to mutter, “I’ve played that role a time or two.”

“Only a day?” That from Valentina.

“Cantor, dear, what have you been doing?” That was Threatan.

“Blessed Luna, not grave robbing! Please, Cantor, my sweet! Not again!”

It was the “again” in Ziggler’s wail that caught the room’s attention.

In the momentary pause as those assembled looked from Ziggler to Cantor and back again, Admiral Fairweather said, “Please convey my kind regards, and tell them it is a pleasure to make their acquaintance.” He said it with dignity and sincerity.

“Admiral Fairweather conveys his kind regards to the company, he says it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“That’s nice,” Dozy’s tone was the sort of bland that also said “but moving on to the real issue.” He continued, “Not exactly your usual sort of spooks, are they Cantor?”

Cantor shook his head.

“What do you mean?” Valentina asked. Others were looking to Dozy as well.

He tilted his head at Cantor in a considering fashion. “Cantor and I discussed his … calling … in great detail back when we first met. I was curious about it. He was kind enough to provide considerable insight. And this is sounding disturbingly unlike what he described then.”

“How so?” Bogart gestured towards a bottle. Thretan fetched him a drink.

Dozy hesitated, but Cantor nodded at him. He relieved he wouldn't have to go over all of this on his own.

Dozy sighed. “Well, first off, I've never heard of Cantor dealing with more than one ghost at a time. Two would be a stretch, but three? Nor do they usually wind up having to travel all that far, a few miles, a few tens-of-miles maybe. Across an ocean? Never.”

Dozy gave a little shrug, he seemed to be trying to decide how best to explain matters. “As I understand it, generally speaking when ponies pass on, there isn’t any sort of haunt or ghost left behind. I once tried figuring the odds. It’s rare. Not one-in-a-million rare, but rare. Back when he was actively traveling around looking for spirits in need of his help, he could go a month or more without meeting any. Other times it could be four or five in a week.

“But there were things in common with just about every one of the haunts he’s dealt with. One being that they usually hadn’t been dead all that long. Days, weeks, years … decades at the outside. Only rarely did he encounter old ghosts.

“You said the youngest of these three is two centuries in her grave? And we’re looking at, what, four and five centuries dead spirits as well? Any one of them would be some sort of oddity, just on that point, right?”

Cantor nodded. And he winced. “That’s not all, Dozy. These three haven’t got any … issues.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Valentina was speaking for quite a few of the assembled pony-folk, Cantor could tell.

Dozy nodded. Cantor thought he was looking increasingly concerned and distressed. Admittedly, Dozy's armored carapace was thicker and bulkier (looking in some ways more like an old suit of plate-mail – a real knight of a changeling) than the slimmer forms of Thretan or Bob. It was part of his having been one of Queen Chitin's brood back in the day. Both "Old Ironsides" (as that Queen had been known) and her Hive had a reputation for being unusually tough, hardy, and well armored. It still hadn't been enough to keep her Hive from falling in the wars.

The end result of Dozy's heritage made reading his expressions more difficult than it was for other changelings, those hatched to less bulky broods, but Cantor thought he knew his friend well enough to pick up on his growing distress. Although it was strange, Cantor thought, somehow Dozy's chitinous form seemed ... shinier ... than Cantor remembered it. Cantor stared, puzzled. Could it just be a trick of the lighting? No ... no, something about Dozy did look different from when Cantor had first seen his true form.

“That’s another odd thing then.” Dozy paused and then continued the explanation for the others, “As I said, most ponies … go on. The ones who, uh, linger do so because there is something deeply personal, strongly felt, and unfinished they are compelled to try to complete before they can let go and rest.”

Dozy got up and came around behind Cantor’s seat. The changeling rested a forehoof on Cantor’s right shoulder, it was a gesture of reassurance that Cantor found himself appreciating deeply.

“Most of the time, from what Cantor told me, they had somepony they loved. And they had some final message they needed, desperately needed, to pass on to that loved one. On rare occasions it was something practical – an otherwise unknown legacy, a hidden treasure, a secret life insurance policy. Mostly it was just a simple ‘I love you.’ Or one of its variants.”

The room was quiet. Ziggler betrayed himself by looking distinctly uncomfortable. He was a venal and immoral pony, but he wasn’t as entirely corrupt as he liked to pretend. Almost, perhaps, but not quite.

“Cantor would then track down the appropriate pony ... which is not usually too hard. You see, such is the nature of a haunting that the ghost tends to manifest quite near to wherever ... or whomever ... it needed to deal with to resolve its issues. Cantor would then convey the message or accomplish whatever tasks were involved in easing a troubled spirit’s mind. Then, voila!” Dozy waved a hoof. “The spirit would fade away.”

“They aren’t supposed to linger.” Cantor said. He could hear the tiredness in his voice. “When whatever so preyed on their mind ... the guilt for something unsaid or undone ... once that was properly addressed they just go back to sleep.”

Cantor eyed the three specters in the room. They had been talking among themselves. Cantor hadn't really been paying attention to what was said.

“They’re supposed to just … go back to sleep.”

“But these three.” Cantor sighed, “None of them have any unfinished business from their lives that would keep their spirits bound to this world. I’m sure of it. And not just because they say so. Ghosts with such business tend to be … fixated … fixated is a good word … on whatever it is they've left undone almost to the exclusion of all else. They’re so focused on that one thing that conversation with them will spiral back around to the object of their obsessive concern over and over again. Not so with these.”

“And,” Cantor swallowed hard. “None of these three were just standing or wandering around. Which is usually how I find ghosts.”

“What do you mean? How did you find these three?” Thretan asked.

Cantor shuddered.

“Easy there, my friend, just tell them. I know you’re tired, and I know it’s very distressing for you to remember, but if they are to help then they, like I, will need data.” Morari’s voice was soothing.

“The first one I found was Morari,” Cantor had shrunk back into his seat, his face had fallen. He looked and felt truly haunted by the memory. His tone, though was emotionless. Expressionless. It was the only way, Cantor thought, he could possibly get through a recitation of that event, given his current state of exhaustion. “Morari was still clinging to his bones … or what was left of them after all the centuries. He was … caught … in some sort of arcane vortex. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any sort of magic exactly like it. It was …” Cantor’s voice lost its dispassionate tone for a moment, “… it was evil.”

Cantor drew a breath, returning to a more clinical recounting of events, striving to once again keep some sort of emotional remove. But even Valentina, who had known Cantor barely a week, could tell “evil” wasn’t a word he threw around casually.

“Morari was screaming. He was terrified. He couldn’t stop. It was like he was caught in a perpetual nightmare, just on the edge of waking up, and the nightmare he was caught in was he, himself. There was no escape.”

“I had to help him,” Cantor’s eyes were leaking tears. He was so tired. He really should have waited until morning to tell them all. His voice was starting to go raw.

“Of course you did, my sweet colt. Of course you did.” Most of those present found it very strange to hear Ziggler striving to offer comfort. And even more strange to see he was good at it.

Cantor swallowed and nodded. He continued, “I tried talking … singing … what I usually did. It was like Morari could almost hear me, but that my words meant nothing. He was too frightened to do anything but scream. He couldn’t understand me. Couldn’t understand that it was going to be all right, that I was going to try to help him."

Another deep breath, “At Nighthaven I studied magics of compulsion and charm. Enchantment. Bewitchment. I wasn’t half bad. Against somepony weak willed, distracted, or simply unlucky, I can, in theory make them my very good and dear friend … for a few minutes at least. If I throw some real power into it, that can stretch out to an hour. Also, I can suggest outlandish courses of action. The words will worm their way deep into the mind, and twist the hearer’s thoughts until it all seems oh so reasonable. A century ago one of the Masters of the School got burned at the stake for dabbling in unconventional methods of mind control, as you may know. But there are plenty of perfectly conventional methods of mind control available for the discerning wizard. And while I may not truly be a wizard, per se, I always had a bit of a talent for … leaning … you could say … on the minds and spirits of those I spoke with. I learned several such tricks in my college days.

“So I leaned on Morari’s spirit. I leaned hard. I drew in my power and threw my most potent enchantment at him. I am your friend, it whispered in his mind. Your best friend ever. You should love me and listen to what I say. It is a magic that is ethically dubious to use. I employ it as rarely as I can.

“And it worked. I had his attention. His undivided attention. And he thought of me as his oldest and dearest friend. The sort of pony he would do anything for. The screams started to falter.

“So I tried compulsion … suggestion. You don’t want to be afraid any more, I said. You don’t need to fear. Just relax and let it all go. It will be all right. And I sang. I sang him children’s lullabyes.”

“It worked.”

“His ghost was like a pony just waking from sleep. He was himself again. He couldn’t remember what had happened though. What had … awoken him. He didn’t even know how long he had been …” Cantor trailed off.

“You don’t have to continue,” Dozy said. The changeling still had hold of one of Cantor’s shoulders.

“Oh, but I do. I must.” Cantor patted Dozy’s hoof.

“I don’t know how long he had been like that. After I recovered my mystic strength, I tried several varieties of compulsion to return him to sleep. With his permission of course. Morari had no reason to be awake. No unfinished business. And he rather wanted to return to wherever it is spirits go when they pass on. He couldn’t remember that either, his last memories were of dying. Then of ... something terrible. Then of my voice singing to him and his return to sanity.”

“Nothing’s worked. He’s still here. He has been very gracious about my total failure to aid him.”

“To quote Mr. Ziggler, that’s Balderdash. Even if I roam Equestria bodiless forever, you’ve already done more for me than I could ever hope to repay just by prying my mind loose from that … phenomena.”

“Thank you, Morari. That’s kind of you.” Cantor smiled. “He basically said I’m being a bit too hard on myself.

“We started doing research together. Looking into what could be causing this sort of thing. Theoretical magics involving the dead and the spirits of the dead. The sort of libraries I had access to didn't have anything as exotic as practical works on the dark arts. As you may expect, we had very little luck. Well, that is to say, I found a ritual in a very old book that purports to ward a corpse so that it cannot rise as one of the Trotting Dead, for a ten-day or thereabouts, but it’s had no discernible effect on these … unquiet haunts.

“While researching, we heard rumors about some fantastical hauntings. Oh, it was the dark of winter – and plenty of ponies see imagined horrors in the long nights of the year. We checked them out. Mostly it was imagination, frauds, hoaxers, charlatans of the sort Ziggler knows so well. One involved a particularly clever unicorn who was a skilled puppeteer, some black wire holding together bones, minor levitation, a come-to-life spell, and a ridiculous plan to scare folks away from an old cotton mill. That sort of thing.

“But there was a haunted house in Manehattan where we found a second vortex. And in it? Thieving Magpie.”

Cantor blinked a couple of times. Morari had just given Magpie a hug. Given how those two usually bickered, it was rare to see such an obvious show of compassion from the ancient scholar. Even rarer to see Magpie accept it and give the old unicorn a quick hug back.

“Her circumstances were … much the same. She, too, was stuck to her bones ... and while I can see spirits, anypony can see a skeleton thrashing about in a whirlwind of black magic. I managed to break her free in the same manner that I had freed Morari. She’s been a great help to us since then. Fearless. Clever. And an extra set of eyes and ears when and where I’ve needed them most.

“There were a couple of other disturbances that looked promising. But I was running out of resources quickly. This wasn't the sort of work one could do while holding down odd jobs. One lead involved heading south, towards the badlands. Another out Seaddle way. And one …” Cantor rubbed his eyes. “One in Whitstable. A cemetery fire where initial witnesses, in a state of panic, swore up and down that one of the Trotting Dead had risen and been trapped in the mausoleum. A cemetery fire that was rapidly contained, walled in, fenced off, and no pony was allowed near.”

“So I borrowed money from my sister, caught the fastest form of travel I could from Equestria to Albion, and last night I … uh …”

“You went grave robbing, my sweet.” Ziggler’s voice dripped sympathy.

“I crafted an entry into his sealed tomb and pried the good Admiral free from a most horrible and unnatural mystical event. He has thanked me for it. Repeatedly. I have his permission for everything I did there.” Cantor managed to strike a tone that implied all of that was quite proper.

“But ... even though this time Morari and I were able to study the vortex that held the Admiral, and searched his tomb afterwards for any sign of a disturbance that might have precipitated his awakening, we found nothing.” Cantor hoped he didn't sound as defeated as he felt. Judging from the expressions of the ponies around him, he suspected that hope was a vain one.

All was quiet for a moment. Then Ziggler, his tone all honeyed sweetness, asked “And Cantor, dear Cantor, how many of Whitstable’s finest are looking for you as we speak?”

“All of them Ziggler. All of them.”

“An’ Fether,” Magpie chimed in.

Cantor winced, “And … er … a Psychiatrist from Bedlam is hunting for me too. One who knows about me. My mother may have kind of, sort of, arranged to have me involuntarily committed … again … as a mad-pony.” He grinned, though there wasn’t much humor in it, “There’s a rumor going around that I think I can talk to the dead, you see. How ridiculous is that?”

“I helped smuggle Cantor off the Zeppelin and away from Doctor Fether!” Valentina had brightened up at the thought. She smiled at Cantor, “You poor dear. You need some rest. It’ll be all right, just as you said.”

“So,” Ziggler ticked off the points, “Out of money, out of energy, out of friends, hunted by Bedlam, and hunted by the police for crimes you’ve actually committed, your only defenses for your actions being that it’s ‘the right thing to do’ and that ‘the dead told you so,’ (because goodness knows it’s not like anypony else can actually verify your claims) … and you’ve come here for our help?”

Cantor grinned, “Quite right, old friend. I’m hoping you’ll be outvoted.”

“Outvoted?” Valentina was surprised.

Cantor nodded. “Yes. I haven’t approached my friends here at Hive Naught Productions because I know all too well the sorts of trouble this could get them into. It’s not like an association of actors which openly employs changelings is exactly on the right side of the law. I’ve been following what news about Hive Naught that I could, and I know enough to know that there are still more than a few areas where Hive Naught's practices are on dubious legal footing. If, indeed, they are on any kind legal footing at all.

“There are plenty of ordinary ponies who hate changelings on principal. And others in the theatre business who hate the competition that a really extraordinary group of actors could provide. As Thretan said, the reason Katherine isn’t here is that she’s back in Caster, where Hive Naught is based, keeping their enemies from bringing them all down.

“Helping me is … risky at best. A foolish, unprofitable, extraordinarily dangerous risk for them. That’s why I only came here as a last resort. I wouldn’t have come at all if there had been any other options for me.”

Cantor smiled. He might just nod off here while they argued the matter. Because there was going to be an argument, he felt sure of that. But first, “Ziggler is a dear old scoundrel of a friend. Part of what makes him perfect for his role here in Hive Naught is that he is able to be utterly cutthroat, as much as dear Thretan, when it comes to protecting his interests. And right now? Right now helping me is a threat to Hive Naught. And therefore, a threat to his personal prosperity and his golden, bright future.”

Cantor turned to address Ziggler. “Am I wrong in thinking that your argument will be something to the tune that I’m clearly wildly overstressed, possibly delusional, and that the best thing for all concerned is that I get a nice long rest in Bedlam where they will give me proper medical and psychiatric care … allowing Hive Naught to stay on the right side of the law and giving the rest of you time to look into the matter a bit more, just in case I might be correct about the whole ‘Return of the Trotting Dead’ thing?”

“Not at all wrong, Cantor, dear poppet. I love you like one of my own foals … but …” Ziggler sounded a bit sad.

“Ziggler, I’m two years older than you.” Cantor barely mustered up enough energy to be annoyed.

“True, and right now it looks more like twenty. A little vacation somewhere quiet would do you a world of good. And save us all from a world of trouble. I’m going to have to vote that we turn him over to the authorities. You will go quietly, won’t you, my sweet? Save us all the unpleasantness?”

“If that’s what you decide, I will. I don’t really have the strength to run right now. Even if I had somewhere else to go.”

“Who else gets to vote?” Valentina was giving Ziggler a genuinely angry glare.

“Dozy, Thretan, Bogart, and Hoofburn. Katherine’s in Caster, we’ve a quorum here, so she counts as an abstention.” Ziggler answered her question.

“We could alert her!” Dozy seemed quite willing to send somepony off that very minute.

“Too much time. Ziggler’s right. This has to be decided now. Tonight.” It was Bogart.

“Quite right! Listen to Mr. Bogart.” Ziggler rubbed his hooves together.

“And you forgot one, Ziggler.” Mr. Bogart went on.

“Eh?”

“Cantor gets a vote too.”

“What? He does not!” Ziggler did outrage well.

“He does so. This whole business was his brainchild. And even if he walked away from it all, he’s still listed as one of the co-founders. I’ve dealt with shady agents, too, Ziggler. Long before you were born. I know how to read a contract. And I know what ours says. Cantor.” Mr. Bogart leaned forward. “Gets. A. Vote.”

“Quite right! Listen to Mr. Bogart,” Dozy’s impersonation of Ziggler was spot on.

“Fine. Dozy?” Ziggler gestured at the changeling actor with a cupcake he had just picked up.

“I vote we help Cantor.” Dozy spoke with firm conviction.

“Thretan?”

Thretan didn’t answer. She looked lost in thought.

“Cantor, dear colt, how much risk to Hive Naught are we talking about here?”

“I don’t know. Harboring a wanted fugitive, aiding and abetting a pony on the run from the law. It wouldn’t be good, under the best of circumstance, if it gets out.”

“Worst case?”

Cantor shrugged, “Worst case the Hive Naught Theatrical Production Company would be dismantled and we would all be looking at terrible personal consequences. ... Jail,” he pointed to Bogart. “Jail and the loony bin,” he tapped his own chest. “Double jail plus bankruptcy,” he pointed at Ziggler. “Noose,” he pointed at Dozy. “Noose, fire, dismemberment, and a wooden stake through the heart,” he pointed at Thretan. After a slight pause he pointed at Valentina, “A stern talking to.”

“Your vote, Thretan.” Ziggler was insistent.

“I’m responsible for Hive security Ziggler, I will not make this decision lightly.” Thretan’s eyes were glowing green. Her voice was cold enough to shut Ziggler up. She turned back to Cantor.

“How far does this go? This wrongness? This trouble with the dead?”

“I don’t know, Thretan. Sisters preserve, I just don’t know.”

“Worst case, Cantor. I have to know.”

Cantor shuddered. “Worst case? Potentially all of them. Eventually. Everypony who has ever died in Equestria. Every pony who will ever die. All of them. And more each day until the time comes that no pony rests in peace. I hope ... sisters preserve, I pray ... it doesn't come to that.”

“Ah. I vote with Dozy. We help Cantor.”

“What?” Ziggler was outraged.

“You forget our place, Ziggler. You always do.” Thretan’s voice was back to poison, ice, and knives. Ziggler wasn't the only one to go pale at the sound of it. “The principals under which Hive Naught operates, the heart of the business which allows us to function at all, are clear to any changeling who joins. Those principals were hammered out by Cantor and Dozy before they ever sought your aid.”

Hints of an old pain, of a terrible despair, entered Thretan's icy tone as she continued, all while her gaze bored mercilessly into Ziggler, “We were UnHived. You are a pony. You do not … you can not know what that meant to us.”

Thretan took a deep breath, and the echo of old pain was replaced with an undercurrent of gratitude – surprised, unbelieving gratitude. “We were UnHived and this new Hive has taken us in rather than simply having us slain and consuming our flesh.”

Thretan sighed, there was a certain annoyance in her tone now, like a teacher who is repeating an old lesson to a particularly slow student. Her eyes narrowed, her unblinking gaze remained on Ziggler. “I remind you: Hive Naught Productions is not the Hive. It is a single Cell of that Hive.”

Pride now, as she continued, and as her turned her gaze on the other ponies in the room.

“Our Hive has a name. Its name is Equestria. Our Hive has no Queens. It has, in that place, four Princesses: Celestia, Luna, Cadence, and Twilight. We serve them. We serve all ponies who are our Hive brothers and Hive sisters. We protect them from the threat of other Hives, and from treachery from within.”

“If Cantor is right, this could potentially threaten all of Equestria. This could threaten the Hive. To speak of saving the Cell by sacrificing the Hive is to speak of betraying of all of our Hive brothers and sisters. Of all of ponykind.”

Thretan’s voice at last softened to something much less dangerous, but still quite serious.

“I shall, of course, abide by the will of this Cell we call Hive Naught. That is how things are done. But I urge you to reconsider Ziggler. Look beyond your personal interest, if you are able, to the good of others.”

Ziggler thought about that for a few minutes in the silence that followed Thretan’s speech. Then shook his head, “You know I can’t, my dear, scary lady. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. The company needs my sort of thinking if it wants to keep from being gobbled up or torn down by others who think and act as I do. I may be voting to save myself, but I’m also voting to save you all along with me.” Ziggler sighed.

Then Ziggler grimaced, “I assume Cantor votes for our help?”

“Correct.” Cantor nodded.

“Which leaves Katherine and Hoofrey, here.”

“I thought you said it would take too long to contact Katherine?” Dozy’s tone was not at all pleased.

“Did I? Well, I think this is far too important to leave up to a mere quorum. The full board needs to vote on something that risks the destruction of the Company! And if Hoofrey and Katherine vote with me, then it’s a tie. And we decide those by coin toss. As I recall, I called the vote, so I toss the coin.”

“You use weighted coins!” Dozy was indignant.

“You haven’t proved that. And even if I do, it has saved the company from many a ruinous financial decision.”

“A coin toss won’t be necessary,” Hoofrey Bogart said, quietly but firmly. “I’m casting my vote to help Cantor out, and bugger our earlier agreement, Ziggy. So even if Kat goes with you, that’s still four to two. Or three to two if you can get Cantor's vote recused by some legal trick or other. Either way, the motion to aid Cantor carries.”

“Fine!” Ziggler threw up his hooves in disgust, “It’s your funeral.” A moment later Ziggler paled and stated, “That ... that was in poor taste, even for me. My deepest apologies, gentlecolts and ladies. It would break my heart should I be forced to don the black on any of your behalves.”

Cantor smiled. He could tell Ziggler was truly sincere with that his last statement, even if Ziggler didn’t quite believe it himself.

Author's Note

For those curious as to the look of Hive Naught's Zebra guard's costumes – the Author would refer you to the broad category of Imperial Russian Army Uniforms in the Napoleonic era (the late 1700's through the early 1800s.)

The Author would also like to note (apropos of nothing) that Harold Ziggler's cutie-mark, while not referenced in the story, is a Red Windmill.