I. What's Past is Prologue

Cantor leaned back in the overstuffed chair and rubbed his eyes, letting out a sigh. The table in the hotel suite was awash with paper, all of it covered with varying degrees of scribbled notes. It was, he reflected, a mess. Lots of information, almost no organization, and impossible to tell what (if any) of it was actually relevant to the issues at hoof.

As if on cue, a steaming hot cup of tea was placed beside him. Cantor glanced up and smiled gratefully.

“Thanks Valentina.”

“My pleasure!” Bubbly, Cantor had decided, must be her default state of being. Cantor shook his head slightly, as the thought struck him that being worried was fast becoming his own … and this was, in itself, worrying. The irony was not lost on Cantor, whose self-deprecating smile put in another appearance.

She raised an eyebrow. He shook his head. “Sorry, Valentina. Just thinking to myself.”

“Ah! Sometimes it can be hard to tell when your mind is busy chasing one of your own thoughts in circles or when you’re listening to your other friends chatter on.”

“Oy! As if he listens!”

Cantor glanced at Magpie, more amused than annoyed. “I do so listen, Magpie.”

“If’n you did, you’d be out on the town, that pretty young thing tucked against yer side, ‘n’ a couple o’ drinks in ya. There’d be music, ‘n’ shows, ‘n’ dancing. … Well, maybe not dancing fer you, ya lead-hoof. When’re ya gonna learn that ya need ta relax ‘n’ have a spot o’ fun once ‘n’ a while, ya big lug?”

Cantor rolled his eyes. “Magpie thinks I should take more breaks to enjoy life.” Valentina’s pursed lips and raised eyebrows indicated that she agreed with the ghost.

“Technically, Master Mortalis, I believe she thinks you should take pleasurable excursions of any kind. ‘More breaks’ implies you have taken at least one. I do not count rushed meals while reviewing notes, nor falling exhausted into sleep to be ‘breaks,’ as such. I may only have accompanied you for a few days, but I would say that the pattern of pushing yourself to exhaustion, and then fretting endlessly over things you can not yet affect is hardly productive.”

“You’re right, Admiral. I think it might have something to do with his training at Nighthaven – ‘always learning’ also means always thinking … and thought can be the enemy of joy. I know this only too well. I struggled to turn my mind from constant observation and obsessive analysis to simply being in the moment, as it were. To enjoyment. These days it’s less of an issue for me – what with not having a body that becomes tired and cranky. But I agree, Cantor needs to take better care of himself. Perhaps, Cantor, you might try considering the pursuit of pleasure as much a duty as your pursuit of answers? It does one’s spirit good to see one’s friends happy.”

Valentina chimed in, “I take it they have opinions on the matter?” She had learned to watch Cantor. The way his eyes shifted from one empty point in the hotel room to another empty point, the play of expression on his face – sometimes it wasn’t that hard to tell when he was listening. But given that he also worked through entire conversations with himself in his head, especially when he was trying to either reason through a problem or track down a half-forgotten memory, Valentina couldn’t always be sure what was causing Cantor’s perpetually distracted state.

Cantor sighed again. “They do. Indeed, they all seem to be in full accord with one another.” Cantor’s tone was wry as he continued, “And they have good points. I find myself agreeing, in principal, but …” Cantor tapped his head, “… getting my fool brain to cooperate isn’t always as easy!”

Valentina chuckled and gave Cantor a pat on the shoulder. He took another sip of tea and looked at her again. Really looked at her. Usually he registered her presence, and strove to project an air of friendly interest – that part was easy and natural, given that he did rather like her – but, as he had found himself thinking before, bodies could be distracting. In some ways, focusing on them took away his awareness of the spirit of whatever pony he was dealing with. Looking at spirit alone was somehow easier. But she was here. Physically present as well as present in Cantor's mental perceptions. And that started a train of thought Cantor wasn’t entirely sure he liked the looks of.

“Valentina … uh …” Cantor was frowning. “I don’t quite know how to say this in a way that doesn’t come out sounding very, very wrong … but …” he cocked his head to the side in confusion, “What are you doing here?”

“Reading the newspapers and keeping you supplied with tea, of course.”

“I know that. I mean … it’s been a couple of days. Wasn’t there something else you were going to be doing in Albion? Friends and family? Or just taking in the sights and enjoying the nightlife of Lunadun?” Cantor hurried on before she could reply, “I am very grateful for your help, and your presence … but you don’t have to be here … and I don’t want you to feel like … uh …”

“Like I’ve been pony-napped and am being held against my will? Forced into assisting you in this mad business of the Trotting Dead?” Valentina’s response was reassuringly light-hearted.

“Well … uh … yes.”

“Oh, la! No worries there, Cantor dear. I’m intrigued – and while it’s not been the most exciting few days (other than going to see the play) I’ve found that it’s important to me.”

She grinned.

“Besides! If I left Thretan would probably kill me just to make sure I didn’t accidentally blab about your current whereabouts to the authorities or to Doctor Fether.”

Cantor’s expression of shocked horror caused Valentina to break into laughter again.

“Oh, don’t look like that! I hardly feel like a captive. Except possibly of my own curiosity. My own affairs are in order. I needn’t report back to work for at least another week – and probably two. My sister is on holiday abroad, so you’re not keeping me from her. I haven’t any close friends half as interesting as this mystery is. So while it may be quite wicked of me to ditch them to hang around and eavesdrop on your work, I find it too delicious an opportunity to pass up.

“Oh, and my sister’s house and her trinity of devil-cats are being looked after by one of your other changeling friends. While I’ve been here, with you, since Saturday evening … somepony who might as well be me, for all anypony else knows, has been popping by to keep the little furry beasts fed.”

Cantor was starting to look a little relieved. “Oh. Good.”

Valentina smiled, “It’s sweet that you care. I think that’s one of the things your friends like about you. You do care. You wouldn’t be doing all of this if you didn’t.”

Cantor blushed, but his expression was deepening in thought. “Thretan hasn’t made you feel unsafe about leaving, has she?”

Valentina considered that. “Well, maybe a bit. I gather from her suggestion that Doctor Fether could cease to be a concern (and your strong reaction to that suggestion) that she … er … is familiar with that sort of work?”

“Thretan was the personal assassin of Queen Vespid of Hive Venom. Dozy said that back in the day Hive Chitin called Thretan the Lady Glittersting – beautiful and deadly. So, yes, I suspect Thretan was being serious about permanently taking care of the problem of Doctor Fether. I think I managed to talk her out of it. Sweet Celestia, I hope I did.”

“I’m sure you have.” Valentina then frowned, “Didn’t Dozy say something about a war with Hive Venom?”

“He did. Hive Chitin and Hive Venom were neighbors. They were both expanding. They started battling one another. Later on, once it was too late, the survivors learned that the conflict was led on by Chrysalis Hive – manipulating these two rivals into increasing and prolonging their war, ultimately weakening both sides far more than would have happened in the ordinary course of such things. Then, after enough of their resources were expended fruitlessly striving to take down one another, Queen Chrysalis moved in, killing both the weakened Vespid and Chitin and annexing their territories.”

“Dozy was one of Chitin’s better scouts. Trained for deep-cover reconnaissance of other changeling Hives. He wasn’t at the home-hive during Chrysalis’ surprise assault in the last days of the war. It turns out that Thretan was undertaking an assassination mission in Chitin’s home-hive at the time of the assault. She completed her assigned mission and then fled the battle successfully, but when she returned to Vespid Hive she found it had been overrun by Chrysalis as well. The Queen of Changes and Transformation had gathered the remains of both Vespid’s and Chitin’s territory into her own Hive. Some of the drones she kept, adding to her own forces. Others …”

The way Cantor trailed off let Valentina know that none of the other outcomes were pleasant. Cantor sighed again and shook his head before continuing. “Lots of changelings don’t do well when they suddenly become UnHived. Dozy and Thretan both had enough … I guess you could call it a kind of ‘sense of self awareness’ … and the right training … to escape and survive on their own.”

Valentina nodded. “I’m guessing that having two changelings from historically warring Hives joining forces for this Hive Naught experiment of yours helped sell the idea that Equestria could be seen as a ‘new Hive’ … a sanctuary for lost changelings, and a place where old rivalries were put aside?”

Cantor smiled, “Quite! And the fact they’ve even recruited refugees, like Bob, from Chrysalis’ subsequent assault on Canterlot shows that Hive Naught really is available as an option for any changeling willing to put the old – and rather wicked – Hive system of the badlands behind them.”

“I do have a question, though. Something I’ve not been exactly comfortable asking either Thretan or Dozy,” Valentina poured herself a cup of tea. Her tone was questioning.

“Please. Ask away!”

“Why those names? I get ‘Bob’ … but I’m at my wits end trying to figure out those two!”

Cantor blinked. “Oh! Uh … well, they’re related to their old Drone Numbers – as you probably guessed. Both of them had been numbered drones rather than named drones.”

Valentina nodded.

“When I was first getting to know Dozy I sort of felt that having a name rather than just a number would be a good step in, uh, I guess you could call it ‘integrating’ into Equestrian society. Finding a name that also had links to the number they had grown up associating themselves with … the number they thought of as who, or what, they were … would be an easier transition that just trying to give them any old name. Or asking them to pick one for themselves.”

“That makes sense. But I still can’t see the origins. Oh, Dozy can be dizzy enough … and Thretan is threatening, even when she’s trying not to be.”

Cantor grinned. “Dozy was Drone Zero-Zero-One-Two. One-two. Or Drone Twelve …”

Valentina’s eyes grew wide, “He’s a Dozen! Dozy from Dozen, yes?”

Cantor nodded. “And Thretan was Drone Zero-Three-One-Zero.”

Valentina groaned. “Three-Ten. Thretan. Now it’s obvious.”

Cantor smiled. “Some consider my sense of humor to be a bit … odd.”

Valentina stuck her tongue out at him, “You make puns when you’re happy, did you know that?”

Cantor grinned. “It has been noted by others.” His eyes fell on the table full of papers again. His smile faded.

Valentina watched him for a moment or two. “How much longer do you think we’ll be stuck here? I strongly suspect you’d feel better if you were actually out there doing something … researching this matter … than you are here. Even if Bogart has gotten us a very pleasant suite!”

Cantor shrugged. “Don’t know. Hive Naught is making arrangements. Looking for possible leads. Admittedly, I would almost certainly need to get my own eyes on resources to determine if they are helpful or connected to this situation. That means access to places. And after Whitstable, getting that access (or even just getting around the country) will require use of aliases. It’s risky for me to go out and about. But …” Cantor trailed off.

“But staying here is risky too. Eventually somepony will figure out where you are. Doctor Fether is quite keen to have you under his care, from what I gather.”

Cantor’s face fell. He nodded at Valentina.

“Here now, buck up! He doesn’t have you yet. And with the friends you have helping you out, he may not ever get his hooves on you.” Valentina’s optimism was comforting.

But Cantor’s tone was distracted, and there was an undercurrent of sadness, of frustration, and of fear, as he added, “He thinks I’m mad you know. Or worse.” Cantor looked a little sick. “And he has some persuasive arguments on his side. He might even be right.”

Cantor looked apologetically at the three ghosts in the room.

“Fether doesn’t believe that I can see the dead. He doesn’t believe in things like ghosts or haunts at all. I don’t think he can believe in them.” There was a significant pause, before Cantor added softly, “And I think that’s my fault.”

Valentina wasn’t the only one in the room to find themselves staring at Cantor, suddenly intrigued. He didn’t like talking about Fether. And on the rare occasions when he did speak of the Doctor, it wasn’t as if Cantor thought of Fether as an enemy, which – Valentina felt sure – the Doctor certainly was. No, from what Cantor said, and how he said it, it was as if Fether was somepony Cantor had wronged.

Cantor sighed and reached for the papers again. “Well, no matter.” It was clear he didn’t want to talk about the good Doctor now either. “Time to see if there’s some other connection we can tease out of the available data.”

“Ooo! Can I play secretary?” Valentina snatched up the quill and paper.

Cantor chuckled. “If you like! Now, Morari – going back to that spell you were telling me about …”

Cantor looked up from the newspaper, his expression was one of complete dismay.

“Don’t worry, Cantor, it’s been taken care of.” Bogart had been the one to deliver the bad news. The old stallion was resting comfortably in his wheelchair.

“As much as it can be.” Dozy added. Dozy had been the one pushing Bogart's chair along.

The two had arrived at Cantor’s hotel suite and made themselves comfortable while a pair of Hive Naught's zebra guards stood watch outside. Valentina and Cantor had gathered from their greeting that there was both some sort of new trouble on the one hoof, but on the other hoof plans were coming together to get the investigation into the return of the Trotting Dead back into motion.

Which was when Bogart had tossed the evening Times to Cantor.

“Murders? At the Ashmulean? A break in?” Cantor pointed to a sentence buried half way through the article, “And … this … this …”

“Yes, the ‘mad-pony’ suspected of being involved was a reference to you,” Bogart nodded.

“But it’s been taken care of.” Dozy added.

“How do you ‘take care of’ something like that?” Cantor was still somewhat in shock.

Bogart grinned and gestured to Dozy who gathered up the cup of tea Valentina provided with a grateful nod.

“I spent the afternoon chatting with an Inspector from Shetland Yard.”

Cantor sat back. He still looked stunned.

“Given the business of this new (and horrifying) rise of the Trotting Dead that Cantor brought to our attention, we decided that we’d take advantage of Hive Naught's situation to open up a dialogue. It was quite profitable.”

“Open up a dialogue?” Valentina’s request for clarification was obviously a sentiment shared by Cantor, even if he couldn’t quite get his mind around the words.

“Oy, what she said.”

Cantor nodded at Magpie. Fairweather and Morari were talking quietly among themselves.

“Well, pretty much from its inception, Hive Naught has been of considerable interest to the authorities of Albion.”

“Dozy,” Bogart commented, “Has a gift for understatement.”

Cantor chuckled in spite of himself. Dozy rolled his eyes, and continued, “We’ve known for some time that the Yard has plants in our organization.”

Cantor shook his head, more to settle his thoughts than from disagreement.

“Hive Naught has grown quite a bit since you left, Cantor. Back then, we had four changelings total, two other actors, one lawyer in addition to Ziggler, three big name living celebrities, and the permissions for likeness rights from the estates of two other actors who had passed on.”

“We’re up to eleven changelings today, a staff that’s pushing fifty ponies, and quite a lot of fodder for faces – big names and small, living and dead. It’s been a good time. But it’s been challenging as well. Naturally, a growing organization of changelings in Equestria isn’t the sort of thing to go entirely unnoticed. For most of our existence we’ve been monitored, and monitored closely.”

“How closely?” Valentina’s curiosity was, Cantor reflected, just what he needed right now. She asked the questions he would have, if only he weren’t still reeling from the description of the Monday night Ashmulean break in, the realization that he himself was believed to be involved, and the interest of Shetland Yard in the whole affair.

“Three of Hive Naught’s employees are also employed by Shetland Yard. They don’t know we knew about any of their plants. Or, at least, they didn’t know we knew about any of them until a few days ago.”

“We’ve taken it as an opportunity rather than a threat,” Bogart broke in. “Kat’s idea, and it’s a good one. We’ve carefully put those three ponies in positions where they have excellent oversight on Hive Naught’s operations. Keep’s the Yard reassured that we aren’t up to some sort of funny business. Well, funny business in the illegal and dangerous way. We do put on the occasional comedy.”

“And,” Dozy continued, “We’ve taken advantage of that relationship to feed information about changelings we’ve identified who are either Hived agents or, while UnHived are …” Dozy trailed off.

“…‘Deeply Unsuitable’ is the term Thretan used.” Bogart supplied helpfully.

Dozy nodded, “Deeply unsuitable for an invitation into Hive Naught.”

“What happens to such agents … or unsuitable changelings?” Valentina asked. Cantor, on the other hoof, winced – he suspected he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Well, if they don’t present a clear and present danger to the pony-folk … and if they don’t seem at immediate risk of flight, we’ve arranged to discuss them in front of a pony we know is not just working for us, but is also a double agent. She works for us officially, for Shetland Yard unofficially, and for S.M.I.L.E. very, very unofficially. When possible, we let S.M.I.L.E. or the Yard deal with them.” Dozy took a sip of tea. “If they do pose an immediate danger, or look likely to escape, Thretan makes sure they won’t threaten the ponies of Equestria.”

Valentina looked startled. More confused and bemused than shocked. “S.M.I.L.E.? As in the Mares from S.M.I.L.E.? They don’t really exist, do they? I thought they were just … comic book nonsense.”

“What’s S.M.I.L.E., Cantor?” Morari was interested.

“It’s the Secret Monster Intelligence League of Equestria, Morari. A secret society of intelligence agents who deal with extraordinary and supernatural threats to the realm. The Mares in Black. Officially they don't exist.” Cantor clarified for the benefit of the haunts.

Dozy put down his cup. His tone was dead serious, “As a survivor of one of the earlier iterations of Operation Swiss Cheese, I can assure you, Valentina, that the Mares from S.M.I.L.E. are both very real and are exceedingly good at their work. The popular perception that they are nothing more than a fiction is a tool they employ regularly to keep their activities secret.”

Dozy sighed, “At any rate – we opened up official negotiations with Shetland Yard two days ago. They weren’t exactly pleased to learn we knew about one of their plants in our Hive-Cell. We have thus far neglected to tell them we know about all of their plants in our Hive-Cell, as that might make them a bit more recalcitrant in their dealings with us.”

“We asked them for information about the Trotting Dead. Old case files, things spoken of off the record, both modern and historical,” Bogart added. “We let them know that you were interested in the subject and in possession of unique magics that could potentially aid in unraveling some old and arcane mysteries.”

“Naturally they weren’t that receptive to the idea,” Dozy grinned, “But they were considerably more receptive than we had thought they would be. Apparently there have been the occasional bits of ‘odd business’ back in the day that they’ve had to gloss over, bury, or shelve that could be best explained by ‘ghosts.’

“The point is, right now they know where you are, Cantor. They’re not interested in following up on this Whitstable business. And they seem reasonably convinced you weren’t involved in the tomb-breaking at Canterbury Saturday evening. But what they really wanted to know where you were Monday night.

“You see, what the paper doesn’t say is that a fire-blackened medal from Admiral Fairweather’s tomb was found at the scene of the murders. And at least two of the murders were committed by some sort of mental magic. A fear spell strong enough to drive somepony mad … or stop their heart. Such fear based magic is usually categorized as a sub-set of ‘enchantment’ or ‘compulsion’ magic, and enchantments or bewitchments are (generally speaking) something you are unusually, perhaps innately, skilled at invoking. Your record from Nighthaven Academy reflects this.”

Cantor made a strangled noise.

“No fear, Cantor!” Dozy hurried to add, “We provided proof that you never left the hotel, much less Lunadun, and thus couldn’t have been directly involved. Apparently somepony else broke into Fairweather’s mausoleum after you left.”

“So, the good news is that while Whitstable authorities might be interested in snatching you up for breaking and entering, the Yard considers that to be relatively unimportant in comparison to some of the other things now going on … and our cooperation with their investigation is yielding both a bit of breathing room for you, and some information as well. They’re satisfied you’re not directly associated with the murders or the thefts. And they should be sending over copies of potentially relevant ‘unexplained phenomena’ files in the next few days. I expect part of the delay is that they're busy redacting those files to their satisfaction before handing them over to somepony outside the agency.”

“Plus,” Bogart smiled, “I heard back from those requests I had my agent make. Much sooner than I had thought reasonable, actually. We’ve got a plausible excuse to get you into some of the local libraries. The interesting and old ones, where there are books of magic dating back centuries. Books that might have information on the Trotting Dead.” Bogart gestured at Dozy, who produced a folder and slid it across the table to Cantor.

Cantor started flipping through it as Bogart continued.

“You’re going to be doing some research for a historical adventure novel. The author herself isn’t able to make the trip over here, and she has recruited you – through my agent – to do some digging in various archives. Starting with the Bodleian.”

“Who’s the author?” Valentina was looking over Cantor’s shoulder at the paperwork.

“A.K. Yearling. I don’t know why she responded so quickly, nor why she’d want to be involved in this, but she apparently jumped at the offer.” Bogart chuckled, “Unlike Thretan, I didn’t feel it appropriate to check the teeth of this particular gift horse.”

“Valentina? What’s wrong?” Dozy sounded concerned. Cantor looked up to see she had gone pale. In a daze, Valentina walked over to an unoccupied chair and sat down.

“It’s … it’s just … I was thinking …”

“Yes, Valentina?”

“Well … if you’d asked me a week ago if ghosts were a real thing, I would have said no – they’re all story-book fantasies.”

“Yes?” Bogart watched her intently, clearly trying to follow along – to understand the source of her sudden shock.

“And then, if you’d said that the Mares from S.M.I.L.E. existed outside of a comic book, I’d have laughed at you. Those stories aren’t real, I would have said. But … here you’re telling us that they do exist and we may shortly be dealing with one of their agents.”

“Indeed,” Dozy tilted his head to one side, his own expression mirrored Bogarts.

“Now A.K. Yearling has leaped at the opportunity to be involved. She's jumped in to help with extraordinary haste. So … I had a sudden thought – are there any other stories hiding in plain sight?”

The room was quiet. Cantor looked back at the article in the Times. Valentina could tell from his expression that he understood her completely.

Cantor sounded quite thoughtful as he said, “Somepony in Canterbury broke into a tomb no one knew was there. They can’t tell if anything was taken. Within three days the Ashmulean has the worst robbery in its history – priceless artifacts stolen, a fire set in their back room, and seven ponies found dead. And here we are discussing ponies widely believed to be fictional but who are, in fact, real.”

Cantor looked around the room.

“It may be relevant to mention that one of the other passengers on the Westphalia was an archeologist who called himself Doctor Caballeron. In addition, when I was passing through Canterbury on the way back to Lunadun from Whitstable, I had to dodge a hue and cry about some sort of graverobbing. What we later learned was that tomb break-in had just happened. At the time, I thought Canterbury's police force had heard about Admiral Fairweather’s mausoleum from earlier and they were after me. So I hid. Coincidentally, or perhaps not so coincidentally, hiding five paces away from me was Doctor Caballeron himself.”

“Oy, ‘e had that briefcase too. Clutched it right close.”

Cantor nodded, “Magpie just reminded me that he was clutching a briefcase. He was hiding from the chase too. If he was the pony who had just committed the Canterbury theft it would explain his actions then.” Cantor tapped the Ashmulean story, “And this reads like something right out of one of Daring Do’s novels.

“So … how well do you know A.K. Yearling, Bogart?”

Bogart frowned. “Not at all. My agent knows her agent. This wasn't something I sent specifically to her, I had him blanket every writer, producer, and director who might be willing to provide you with a believable cover story to do some digging. I honestly hadn't expected to get any replies for at least a week or two, much less to get a letter back within two days from somepony who could provide you with as perfect an excuse for your researches as Ms. Yearling.

“You really think Ms. Yearling might be a ghost writer for a real Daring Do? That the chronicles of Daring's adventures are only semi-fictionalized?”

“Cantor, this talk of ‘ghost-writing’ has me intrigued. Remind me to discuss the matter with you a bit later.” Morari, who had been listening with considerable concern, had been struck by a thought which pleased him.

“Maybe,” Valentina said. “Doctor Caballeron looked and acted awfully like the descriptions.”

Dozy grimaced. “Ugh. Sounds like a complication. Well, assuming that you ran into the real Doctor Caballeron, and he's a likely candidate for the perpetrator of these crimes, we should probably pass that tidbit of information along to the Yard. And to S.M.I.L.E. I don’t suppose you’ve made any headway on figuring out the whole Trotting Dead mystery, have you Cantor?”

Cantor grimaced in return. “I don’t know. I’ve been talking with our three spirits. Taking and comparing notes. One of the things we started looking into were any commonalities regarding their lives or deaths that might account for why they have risen while other ponies haven't.”

Cantor sighed. “There’s nothing really concrete we’ve come up with yet. Just some intriguing areas of overlap, hints of connections. Morari and Fairweather both died of natural causes, at different ages and a considerable distance from one another – both in terms of time and space. Time of death, in terms of part of the year, day of the week, and time of day are all quite different too.”

“What about Magpie?” Bogart asked.

Cantor winced.

“Oy, it’s done now. No need to fret! And leastwise it didn’t take long.”

Cantor nodded at Magpie.

“She was murdered. Throat slit by a serial killer known as Laughing Jack. Or Jack of Blades. From what she’s said of his reputation, it’s probably a good thing we don’t know what happened to her body afterwards.”

“Both Admiral Fairweather and Morari report having had dealings with the Trotting Dead of their own time.”

“What? Really?” Dozy’s interest echoed Bogarts own.

“Yes. The Trotting Dead were much more commonly believed in four and five hundred years ago. Fairweather was in charge of the Wonderbolts when somepony known as the Winter Queen wound up hiring a mercenary army from the griffon princes (from several of their independent city states rather than just one of them) to invade Equestria by air and by sea. Apparently the Winter Queen sought to destroy Equestria, and considered Celestia a personal enemy. There were some nasty battles back in the day, griffon raiders versus the ponies, with Albion on the front lines. Fairweather defeated the enemy in the sky and on the waves, ultimately bringing the battle not just to her griffon pawns but to the Queen herself. It was an ugly fight, in part because the Winter Queen was already dead. As near as we can determine, she didn’t maintain her grip on her old bones or flesh, but somehow had wrapped her spirit in ashes and snow. It made defeating her quite a challenge. Fairweather was the one who held her semi-bodiless spirit pinned in a chamber beneath the earth with a magical spear – one provided to him by Celestia, and looking like the crudely sharpened branch of some sort of crystaline tree – while a coalition of Equestrian Unicorns pooled their power to use multiple castings of Trotwine’s Ward to bind her there. They sealed the barrow up and warded it further. In addition to the Queen herself, she was guarded by half a dozen of Trotting Dead. Zombies and skeletons, who fought like they were demon possessed.”

“Morari’s own dealings with the Trotting Dead were much more removed. One of the Trotting Dead emerged in his era and started a murderous cult, one that seemed poised to strike against the heart of Canterlot itself. The leader – known as the Red Reaver – was undead. In addition, a small force (perhaps a hundred total) comprised of skeletons and zombies aided the ghost. Like the Trotting Dead Fairweather fought, they too seemed mad, insane, berserk. Barely controlled engines of destruction that the Reaver would drive into battle. Morari never fought them. But Morari had worked with a council of unicorn wizards who were looking at what magics could be used to contain them. Morari substantially improved upon Trotwine’s old wards – his personal embellishments drastically increased their efficiency. When the Reaver was finally put down, they used Morari's version of those spells in a spiritual binding to make sure there would be no more murders. No more long red nights when the moon was dark.”

Cantor sighed and took another sip of tea. Valentina had taken the opportunity presented by Cantor’s explanations to refresh everypony’s cup.

“So, Fairweather personally pinned a Ghost Queen to her grave in the last moments of her reign. Morari’s magic is wrapped around some other undead villain …” Dozy was thinking aloud.

Bogart picked up where the changeling left off, “That sort of personal contact – physical or magical – might explain why they would be especially vulnerable to some kind of arcane influence that was raising the dead. But not so for Magpie.”

“Oy, unless Jack was possessed ‘r’ sumthin’.” Magpie offered.

Cantor added, “Unless her killer was possessed, she says. Do you think he could have been?”

“Dunno. Didn’t really know that cutter. Had a reputation fer bein’ cracked. And it got worse after he got that knife.”

Cantor continued to speak for those who couldn’t hear the spirit. “She says Jack was supposed to be mad. And so it would be hard to say for certain if there was some sort of possession thing going on. Oh, and his madness got worse after he got a knife?”

Magpie shivered. “Right ugly thing it was. Whispered to ya, he said. I coulda swore it rang just like a jingle-bell when it went in me throat. Bright red iron blade, gold hilt wrapped in black.”

“What did you say?” Admiral Fairweather was shocked.

“Uh, Fairweather – do you recognize the description of that knife Jack was using?” Cantor’s question certainly caught the interest of Valentina, Dozy, and Bogart.

“I most certainly do! The Winter Queen wielded a knife exactly like that. I should know, she cut me with it a time or two. Whispering voices, sound of a bell, the terror you felt in that blade’s presence was more deadly than an army. Only myself and two other Wonderbolts could do anything but scream and flee when she took the field. Even the Wizard Council could not get within a dozen paces of her. The unicorns I was serving with, the ones who survived, said it was a relic from old, old times. A thing of evil and death. One of the Four Blades of Fear they called it. After the war, I was given assurances that all of them had been destroyed.”

Cantor, as was his habit, had begun to relay Fairweather’s speech, word for word, mirroring the spirit’s tone and cadence.

Fairweather was frowning. More than unhappy, he was angry. “Of course, I never saw the remains of any of the three supposedly broken blades. And even if they were shattered, rather than hidden away for study (which I would not have put past some of those mages) one of the four blades was with the Queen when she went into the barrow. I know nopony opened that tomb to retrieve and destroy her knife afterward.”

Morari chimed in, he too sounded worried. Cantor continued to relay the spectral conversation for the benefit of the living. “I seem to recall somepony mentioning that the Reaver favored blood red knives in battle as well. Thus the ‘red’ part of Red Reaver. Well, that and all the gruesome murders. I can’t be certain though. But this is sounding less and less like coincidence.”

“You’re right. This doesn’t sound like coincidence,” Bogart sounded grim.

“And it sounds like you’ve got something else to research, Cantor.” Dozy added. “When you’re in the Bodleian, see if you can turn up any information in their archives about the Four Blades of Fear. It sounds like we might need to know more about them. Oxherd University has been around a while. Their libraries might have information on more than just the Trotting Dead. They might have books or scrolls that talk about such old relics.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Valentina spoke. Her voice held a tinge of fear. She was looking at the evening paper.

“Oxherd has been around for a while. You … you don’t suppose the Ashmulean actually had one of those knives … do you?”

Cantor's replied by relaying Morari’s own comment, and both the living scholar and the dead one were clearly deeply distressed, “Even if they did, what sort of horror would want to take it? And why?”