I. What's Past is Prologue

“You’re still in shock, Cantor. Take the medicine.” Hoofrey Bogart had adopted a no-nonsense tone. He was also speaking more loudly than usual. Cantor’s hearing still hadn’t fully recovered.

Cantor thought about arguing some more, but he couldn’t muster up the energy. So he opened his mouth, raised his hoof, and tossed back the pills the nurse had provided.

“That’s a good fellow,” Morari murmured. He looked exhausted.

Cantor gave him a nod. Earlier Cantor had broken down into tears when the three haunts had caught up with them at the café. Morari and Fairweather had still been … unconscious. Cantor supposed that “unconscious” was probably the best word for it. Magpie had been dragging their two bodiless shades along behind her. Right now, she was on watch outside the door, along with two more zebras.

“Well, I say, thank Celestia this does not hurt. Still feel like I have flown non-stop for a week.” Fairweather had a hole through his chest, but it was closing … healing with strange rapidity. At this rate, he’d be fine by morning.

They were back in Cantor’s hotel room. It was unusually crowded. Cantor and Valentina had managed to stagger in through the door and up the elevator with the help of Thretan and their zebra security, all of whom were still here. Bogart and Dozy had arrived almost immediately, and they had a nurse in tow.

At the moment, the nurse was tsking distractedly at the knife wound in Valentina’s wing. With an off-hoof comment of “This is going to need a couple of stitches, dear,” she got to work. Already Cantor and Valentina were sporting quite a bit of tape and bandages. One of the zebra guards, the fellow who had been carrying Valentina, Cantor thought, likewise had one leg in a fresh splint. The nurse didn’t think he had broken anything, but from the way he was limping after leaping from a second story window, she feared some sort of fracture.

Cantor frowned worriedly at Valentina. She grinned back at him. Like Cantor she had one cheek stuffed with cotton. Cantor felt rather conflicted. On the one hoof, he felt really bad about dragging her into the middle of all of this. Seeing her bruised and bloodied on his account hurt. On the other hoof, she acted like she was having a really good time. Even getting the stuffing kicked out of her didn’t seem to have dampened her spirits. If anything, it had raised them. Possibly because she had done a goodly bit of stuffing-kicking herself. If it had just been Caballeron, Cantor suspected that the archaeologist wouldn’t have been able to make a get-away from as determined and feisty an opponent as Valentina.

“Take out your cotton, drink this, put it back in.” Thretan handed Cantor a cup of tea. He followed her directions, wincing with surprise as the hot liquid, to which the changeling had added a substantial splash of whisky, washed over the cuts in his mouth. After a few gulps, Cantor handed the cup back and carefully placed the cotton back against the cuts inside his cheek.

His hooves were still shaking.

Maybe he did need that medicine more than he had thought.

“What happened back there Cantor? Did you get the information you were after?” Dozy made no effort to lower his voice. Possibly because Cantor, in his mildly concussed, post adrenaline rush, flash-bang addled state had accused them all of mumbling at him. Cantor blushed and started to shake his head … but decided against it.

“Yesh,” Cantor began. Well, that wasn’t going to work – so he pulled the cotton out again.

“Phtah! Er … yes. I was able to use the Iron Book of Shadows to learn where the lost city of Tambelon used to lie. That little magical trick with the shadows did indeed cause yet another layer of meaning to appear within the tome. Bunches of stuff about the shadow realm and the various mystic uses ponies could put the … uh … shadow-stuff there to.”

Something about the conversation felt a bit off to Cantor, but at the moment, he couldn’t quite put his hoof on it.

“You weren’t making much sense, Cantor, dear,” Thretan chimed in. She had a cup of tea herself, and was drinking it. She had also ditched the Katherine Hoofburn costume. The tips of her fangs and horn glistened slightly with a touch of venom. “Can you go over the events from the beginning?”

“Which one?” Cantor’s wry tone was an attempt at humor.

“Let’s say, from when you managed to get into the reading room again.” Thretan’s gaze was encouraging, though Cantor still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out of the ordinary.

Cantor sighed, trying to gather his thoughts.

“We got in, and we got the book out of its case. Valentina turned off the lights and I tried that … trick I guess you could call it. I don’t know that it is a spell, not really, just a magical thing I can do … like the whole seeing in the dark business. Anyway, I vanished – from the sight of both the living and my ghostly friends. They could still hear me, though, and the book, like I said, had different information in it when you looked at it under those circumstances. There was about a page and a half about Tambelon and its connections to the realm of shadow, including some geographical references and descriptions that I can use to put it on a map.”

Cantor paused, “I … I’ll need a couple of good atlases to make sure, and some other reference materials … maybe even official geologic surveys.”

“Where?” Dozy was gently insistent, and his verbal nudge kept Cantor from drifting off on a tangent. Cantor found himself grateful for the direction, the focus.

“Somewhere in the Badlands, like I said, I’d need some better guides and references to really pin it down. But I can.”

Bogart frowned worriedly, “If you’re needing official geological survey-maps of the badlands, I don’t know that Albion has many of those.”

“Probably not,” Cantor agreed, “And even if they do, what with the fire I suspect getting access to them would be …” he trailed off.

“Diffikhul” Valentine chimed in.

“Yes, difficult.” Cantor sighed. “I’m going to have to head back to the Equestrian mainland anyway to get there, so I’ll just have to get access to official records once I’m back home.”

“But you were saying: you had retrieved the information,” Dozy prompted Cantor to continue.

“Right, I had gotten what I needed and started back to return the book. Apparently the whole ‘being one with shadows’ thing only works if I’m standing still.”

“Pity that,” Thretan muttered, “Being able to move about unseen would be an exceedingly handy talent to possess.”

“Which was when Caballeron showed up.”

“Chomplishashions,” Valentina grumbled.

“He looked at us, and the book, and said something about complications.” Cantor winced and raised one hoof to the side of his face. “Then he lunged at me. He had a metal-banded case … like a briefcase only bigger – maybe three feet to a side and a foot deep. Caught me in the jaw with the corner of the thing. Then bounced it off my nose.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t break either of them,” the nurse had finished her sutures and was now dealing with tape and salves, bandaging Valentina’s other injuries.

Cantor nodded, “Needless to say I dropped the book. Then Valentina jumped Caballeron.” Even though it hurt, Cantor couldn’t keep a grin from his face. “I don’t think he was expecting that.”

“Thaugh I wash jusht a helplesh liddle gurl!” Valentina was indignant.

Cantor snorted, “You’re anything but helpless Val, I was the one fumbling about. If you hadn’t been there he would have beaten me unconscious in a matter of moments and been out of there with the book.”

“But anyway,” Cantor returned to the retelling, “It turned into a big fight. And … and there was something wrong with the ghosts.”

“You’ve mentioned that before. Can you be a bit more definite than just ‘something wrong.’” Thretan freshened up her own tea-cup as she spoke.

“I do not know, Cantor, old boy. ‘Something wrong’ is about as good an explanation as I could provide,” Fairweather shifted and stretched. He poked at the hole in his chest as if he expected it to pain him. It didn’t. “Hmm. One more advantage to being bodiless I suppose.”

“Cantor, if you’ll relay this, I think I can spare your overtaxed brain a bit of work,” Morari sounded tired, but not as tired as Cantor felt. Cantor nodded, then began his familiar translator role, dropping into Morari’s cadence and tone as he followed along a word or two behind the scholar. Valentina felt a sudden chill at the shift in tone, Cantor really did sound eerily like someone different when he did this little trick.

“Morari says: whatever mystic energies have raised haunts like Fairweather and Magpie are quite unpleasant, even evil, powers. They are otherworldly and unnatural – far more unnatural than the more usual business of the spirit of the deceased having unfinished business in the land of the living. Whatever source has awoken us, that keeps us awake, does so via some arcana that goes beyond merely contacting spirits or making bones dance about – it is a force of madness and fear and despair, coupled with some dark power like that of Grogar's mastery over the rituals needed to make sacrifices to the shadow lands.

“We strongly suspect that the Four Blades of Fear are directly involved – that their origin as melted down fragments of Grogar’s magic bell has imbued them with magic to pull the spirits of the dead from some unseen realm … while other magics Phoebe forged into them have also imbued them with a power of madness and terror. Which is why past wielders, or at least past unicorn wielders, have risen from their graves. But these knives are not the only such otherworldly powers of darkness, madness, and terror that strive to act on Equestria. Cantor has spoken of those whisperers that lie outside the borders of reality, striving to breach the walls and push fragments of their influence in. As it turns out, Caballeron was traveling with just such an entity. Or a fragment of one anyway. A crack in the walls if you will. It was leaking power. Power from the other side. The magic of darkness in its worst sense. It was a spirit of bitterness and envy, potent enough to turn a good pony wicked. A spirit of lies and deception and manipulation. Now, having been brought out of our eternal sleep by a kindred magic, we haunts reacted to the presence of a sister-power in a kind of sympathetic magic. We resonated to its essence, like crystal glasses will hum if you sound the right musical note. Unfortunately a further infusion of that sort of power, as mentioned, was driving us back into the sort of screaming terrified madness that Cantor originally found us trapped in.

“Magpie succumbed first, I suspect because unlike Fairweather or I she had actually been killed by one of the Blades of Fear. Fairweather was driven into a state of near-berserk rage (from what I saw, his mental state looked to be a close match to the reports of the fear-maddened undead who guarded the Reaver and the Queen.) While in some ways terrifyingly effective, the infusion of power rendered him as a most unstable aid on the battlefield. As for myself, I strove to channel the power flowing into me via arcane means. Were it not for a bit of old sympathetic magic involving Cantor’s blood, I don’t think I would have succeeded. But Cantor has always had a healing and calming influence on the dead. His blood, shed in our defense, has a certain … potency … when it comes to protecting us from the sort of creeping madness that was not so gradually filling our essence.

“I told Cantor the dark power that was rising all around us and filling us up was making us ‘more real.’ What I meant was our ability to interact with, to affect, and to be perceived by the living and the world of the living was increasing. ‘More tangible’ would perhaps be a better term. To make a spirit take on enough mystical energy to give it the ability to manipulate the environment? That takes power. Lots of it. And that power has to come from somewhere. It came from her.”

Cantor sighed. He returned to his own retelling, dropping out of his translation (and imitation) of Morari's speech. “Which brings us back to her.”

“You said it was Nightmare Moon,” Thretan observed.

Cantor nodded, “Have any of you ever read a series of essays called ‘Nightfall?’ They are supposedly copies of copies of some of Clover the Clever’s notes – her attempt to understand what exactly had happened to Luna to cause her to turn into Nightmare Moon.” From the looks of confusion around the room, Cantor deduced that only Morari was familiar with that work. Cantor sighed.

“I’ve read parts of it. I’ll try to keep it short. It’s not just the walls of the world that can crack and let whispers in … bits of power from beyond. Some of it what we’d consider good, some of it quite, quite evil. Minds can crack as well. So can hearts. Put enough strain on them, and it might not just be a pony’s own worse nature that starts whispering in the back of their mind.”

Cantor’s face had turned quite grim, “Anyone who has battled with anxiety, or self-doubt, or sadness, or loss, or worry knows what it’s like to have … intrusive thoughts. Most of the time … almost all of the time … it’s our own worries and fears talking to us. But sometimes … sometimes it’s not. Sometimes, if the mind involved has been under too much strain, too much pressure, if it has cracked … sometimes it’s one of them. One of the whisperers.

“Early in their reign Celestia and Luna had to deal with threats to the realm which no young alicorn mare should ever have to face. Enemies with vastly more power and experience than either of the royal sisters. Time and again the two were thrust into battles they were ill equipped, un-prepared to handle. But they pulled through. Celestia was a little older. A little wiser, perhaps. And she had the love and support of pony kind in a way which Luna, it seemed, didn’t. Whether or not it was intended, Luna felt that ponies shunned her and her beautiful night. And with all that stress, without the support she needed to recover from mastering the vast celestial magics involved in bringing forth the night … or in battling Discord … or Sombra … or Tirek … or … well, you get the picture. Clover came to believe that something in Luna cracked.”

The room had gone silent. Even the nurse was staring at Cantor.

“Just a bit. Just enough. And something else started whispering to her through that crack in her mind,” no longer merely grim, Cantor’s face bore an expression of haunted sorrow, “Terrible things. Such terrible things. Lies. Fears. Twisting and turning, working on Luna’s insecurities, her vulnerabilities. And eventually Luna came to believe those lies. Her belief filled them with power. Let them use her magic in a way which corrupted and transformed she herself, twisting her form into a wicked mare of darkness. Nightmare Moon.

“We know what happened next. The war. But there was an old legend that when Nightmare Moon was banished, not all of her dark power went with her. Some of it, torn free from her, remained behind in the form of the Pony of Shadows. A weakened, stolen scrap of Luna’s worst fears … her magic … and a vehicle through which the whisperer that had corrupted her could still strive to act.”

Cantor tried an experimental stretch of his hind legs. They were working a bit better. The knee brace for his right leg wasn’t going to have to be permanent.

“Anyway, that legend is true. And the Pony of Shadows popped in to see what was taking her minion Caballeron so long in retrieving the Iron Book of Shadows.”

Cantor’s grin wasn’t friendly at all.

“We put up a fight.”

“Kicked her ash!” Valentina gave a hoof-pump.

Cantor let out a pained chuckle, “Held her off. I know a spell designed to ward a pony against … ugly things of an unnatural nature. Supposedly it can keep the Trotting Dead at bay. Or demons. I can report it works as advertised. For the few minutes I was able to keep it active, the Pony of Shadows had considerable difficulty in touching me at all.”

Cantor’s slight grin faded. “I saw her, you see. I can see darkness. Really see it. Anypony else looking beneath that cloak would only see a being of shadow with glowing yellow eyes. Something wicked. But I saw her. I saw that scrap of Luna’s nightmares.”

Cantor slowly shook his head. “I … I’m still recovering. Ponies were not meant to gaze upon such … horrors. It has no body beyond darkness, fear, and lies. So I used light and truth against it. Compulsion magic to try to force that … that thing to believe something it already knew to be true: that it doesn’t really exist. Not in the way you or I exist. Not even in the way Morari, Magpie, or Fairweather exists. Only in the way that the memory of a lie exists. Or a lie itself exists – only because somepony believes it. If Caballeron hadn’t done his level best to break both my rear legs, I might even have managed to burn that scrap of her out.”

“Pardon Cantor, ‘that scrap of her?’” Thretan pounced on that conversational point with deadly precision.

“Yes, Thretan, that scrap of her. It’s like piece of cloth: you can tear it more than once. The Pony of Shadows was ripped free from Nightmare Moon. But other scraps of power have ripped free as well. And the Pony herself could tear off parts of her essence and leave them around. They’d take on a bit of an independent life, but they’re all part of the same thing … in theory, she can likely see and hear whatever any of her tatters can see or hear. I don’t even know if the bit traveling with Caballeron is the largest piece of her left in Equestria, but it is a big one. I hurt her, but I didn’t destroy her.”

“And even if we burned all of her tatters away, which would be a very good thing indeed, what we’d accomplish wouldn’t be the destruction of an enemy of Equestria but … but …” Cantor stumbled around trying to find a way to explain what he had seen, “Like … o.k. … it would be like if something particularly nasty was reaching its claws through holes in a fence, striving to snatch or tear at whatever it could reach. She’s one of those claws … other Shadow-Pony-bits-of-her are other claws. By destroying them, we smack those claws and make them withdraw back through the fence. Then we patch the holes to keep the thing behind the claws from reaching through again from its side of that wall.”

Cantor sighed again. “I saw … I saw something of its true nature … from looking at one of its claws. Whisperers like that don’t really have names … just like they don’t really have bodies. They’re not bound by physical forms, nor by reason and logic, nor by the harmonics of magic, nor by the geometries of space or time. But I have gazed upon a reflection of our enemies face. Upon one of it's many shadows. It's not an experience I recommend. I know the color and shape and flavor of its tools … its power. I know a name by which it may be called.”

“Our enemy is Fear.”

Another silence, then Bogart spoke up, “How does that golden ring you mentioned fit into all this?”

Cantor shrugged. That was a mistake. He winced immediately. “Ow. I don’t know. In the fight, Caballeron’s case burst open. It dropped a clay tablet wrapped in a cloth. The tablet broke open on impact and there was a big golden ring in the middle – maybe an inch wide, quarter inch thick, and two feet in diameter. I didn’t see any markings on it, but I didn’t get a good look at it either. Caballeron wanted it and the Iron Book. Most of our fight was trying to keep him from getting both of them and getting away. Well, until the Shadow Pony showed up anyway.”

“We were woefully unsuccessful. Caballeron and the Shadow fled. And he had both the ring and the book when he went. I managed to snatch up the broken bits of the clay tablet it had been concealed in ... and the cloth it had been wrapped in ... before getting hauled out of there by Thretan. I haven't really had a chance to go over them yet to see if there are any clues there about ... well ... any of that business with the golden ring.”

It finally struck Cantor what was so odd about this conversation. The other ponies listening in. Sitting up, slightly shocked, his gaze jumped from the nurse, to the two zebra guards, to the zebra matriarch. Thretan leaned forward and laid one chitonous hoof on his knee.

“There, there,” she said reassuringly, “It will all be all right.”

Oh. Oh! Cantor sat back, stunned. Thretan, Dozy, and Bogart wanted these other ponies to hear all of this. One of them must be a secret agent for Shetland Yard. Possibly even the double-agent for the Mares from S.M.I.L.E. There were times when Cantor didn’t feel like a clever pony. Having been so slow on the uptake, this was one of those times. Given the events at the Bodleian, though, he supposed it could be forgiven.

There was a knock at the door. The zebra matriarch opened it and let a unicorn into the room. He was young, and vaguely familiar to Cantor – Cantor was sure he had seen the fellow around, but hadn’t really spoken to him. The newcomer was wearing a Hive-Naught insignia on his collar. He had a creamy coat and a pink (and rather tousled) mane. His cutie mark looked rather like a shimmering, multi-colored veil surrounded by bright pink sparkles.

“’allo all!” His tone was bright, but his expression was worried.

“Yes, Lucian?” Thretan’s tone was one of her warmer welcomes. Still, it tended to give ponies the sense that they had best be about something important if they were going to be interrupting her.

“Sorry Ma’am, but we’ve got an incident on our hooves.” Lucian looked around the room, taking in the current, much bandaged state of Valentina, Cantor, and one of the zebras. “Make that, we’ve got a very minor incident on our hooves.”

“What is it?” Dozy said, shutting the door behind Lucian.

“There’s a pony who showed up at the National ticket window. Claims he has to speak to Cantor in person. He’s being exceptionally persistent. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it – some nonsense about the Star and some reporter named Jon Quill. But given the difficulties security is having in convincing the fellow we don’t have Cantor squirreled away somewhere, I figured you ought to know about it.”

Lucian raised an eyebrow at Cantor, “Friend of yours?”

Cantor sighed with relief. “Jon Quill? Yes. I’ve been a bit worried that he hasn’t been in contact before now. It should only have taken him a couple of days in Whitstable to get all the information he needed.”

“Is he alone?” Thretan’s tone was suspicious.

“Yes. Quite. If you like, I could bring him here.” Lucian offered.

“Please!” Cantor smiled.

“Will do, oh and pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mortalis sir!” Cantor blinked in surprise. As Lucian trotted off to return to the National, Lucian himself appeared to remain, giving a formal bow. A moment or two later the Lucian in the room winked out of existence, a good half minute after the other Lucian had left.

“Illusionist,” Thretan explained.

“Bloody good one,” Dozy added.

“And a card carrying member of the Albion Actor’s Guild.” Bogart added, “The kid’s a real find. Not only is his membership in Hive Naught something that gives us even more legitimacy in the eyes of society, but he’s nice. You’d like him. He’s another pony who can, after a fashion, make Old Legends New Again. Wrap an actor in an illusion of somepony else, or even create the seeming of a pony from conjured light with no need for an actor at all! More traditional actors guilds felt threatened by his potential, or sought to use his abilities in petty and unfulfilling ways. We’re giving him the recognition and support he deserves. Oh, and you’ve seen his work, Cantor. He does the illusion of the Maltese Griffon at the start of the show.”

Dozy chuckled, “And he is particularly nice when I need a stunt double! I know I’m tough, but there are falls and maneuvers that I’d rather not risk in person, if you know what I mean.”

Dozy grinned at Cantor, “It’s not just changelings in Hive Naught, Cantor. We’ve been looking to expand our work by including other ponies with talents that overlap well with Hive Naught’s mission. Lucian does illusions, and he’s getting better and better at them – which means better special effects without making Bob molt from frustration. We’ve also got three other ponies on board who have talents with minor shape-shifting. Hair and eye color mostly, although one of them can adjust her own height and weight as well. Not changeling changes, but something vaguely like it. Two of ‘em are working make-up, and one is a supporting actor.”

“I think I’m done here,” the nurse broke in, her tone quite professional. “I still say you need to get x-rays of Cantor, Valentina, and your hoof Mister!” she poked at the Zebra guard, who chuckled and blew her a kiss.

After she left, Dozy turned to Cantor saying, “So, you’re still planning on tracking down the lost valley where Tambelon once lay? In light of recent revelations, don’t you think we should be pursuing the Shadow Pony? What if she’s the one collecting and using the knives?”

Cantor nodded, “She might be, for all we know. Maybe we should go after her first. But ...” Cantor had gritted his teeth in concentration, the furrow in his brow deeper than usual, “ … but no. Tambelon first. We can’t afford to go chasing after shadows if a demon lord might be breaking loose.”

He sighed, “Also, the issues with the Trotting Dead aren’t because of the Pony of Shadow’s own power. That is … it’s not her magic directly.” Cantor shuddered, “Admittedly her power is very like what’s raising the dead, but it’s … it’s not quite it. Not the same … uh …” Cantor struggled to find the right way to convey what he had sensed, “… uh … not the right flavor.”

Cantor closed both his eyes, partly in pain and partly in thought, “I guess what I’m trying to say is that you have ponies that work magic – who shape it … you have the magic itself – what’s being shaped … and you have the result of that mystical activity. While there are still too many unknowns about the rise of the Trotting Dead (which would be the result), I can say that the Pony of Shadows isn’t the ‘magic itself’ being used to awaken them. Her meddling might still be involved – if she’s using the knives for something, she might even be the ‘pony working the magic’ that’s leading to the awakening of the haunts.”

Bogart chimed in, “So stopping her might stop more of these vortices from forming? Stop new haunts from waking from the dead?”

Cantor sighed, “Yes. Well … that is … I don’t know. If she’s actively trying to wake the dead for some purpose, then maybe. But if the dead are awakening as an incidental effect from something else she’s doing, then no. For that matter, even stopping her might not be enough to stop the power itself from continuing to awaken the dead. The power alone, now that it’s been invoked, may need to be cut off from its source to really stop new vortices from forming.”

Cantor let out a bark of laughter, “All of which assumes the Pony of Shadows is the one who’s been using the knives in the first place! I’ll admit, right now that’s a pretty safe assumption. After all, I don’t want to imagine who else out there might be willing to use that sort of power to do wicked deeds. Or what they might be trying to do with them.”

“Regardless, I suspect that even if we stopped the Pony of Shadows and retrieved and sealed away the blades … if the powers that have been invoked (purposefully or not) to awaken the dead are tied even indirectly to Grogar, then Lost Tambelon’s possible return still remains the greatest potential danger.”

Cantor’s grin wasn’t happy, “It may edge out chasing down the Pony of Shadows by a hair, but right now I’m still thinking we ought to make sure she hasn’t already somehow arranged for Grogar’s return.”

Cantor looked worried, like he didn’t care for the thought that had just occurred to him, “Actually, that sounds more like the sort of end-game such an evil spirit would work towards. Unleashing Grogar on Equestria would increase the overall amount of fear in the realm. And it would distract and weaken Equestria’s defenders. This serves the hand … the force … the whispering thing behind the Pony of Shadows. That serves Fear itself. So, before we go chasing off after the knives or trying to track down the Pony of Shadows, we still have to make sure that she hasn’t ‘cracked the door open’ so to speak, to let Grogar back in. But intercepting her, and Caballeron – figuring out what they're up to, that has climbed quite a few notches on our laundry list of things to do.”

Cantor sighed, “I don’t know that I’m thinking that clearly right now. I know I’m not doing a good job of explaining myself. Does any of that make any kind of sense?”

Thretan grimaced, “It does makes sense. I suppose. I don’t like it though.”

“I doubt any of us do,” Dozy added. “But you have to prioritize. Tattered remains of a defeated demonic force running amok is certainly quite high up on the list of dangers to address, but I agree with Cantor – it ranks below the possible return of a full on ancient demon of old. Got to make sure that later bit o' badness isn’t happening before we’re free to look into other problems.”

“Before Cantor is free to look into other problems you mean,” Bogart chimed in. “Hive Naught has other resources. Other contacts. Other agents. And the theater world is gossipy like you wouldn’t believe! Get some of the paparazzi involved, and you can track down all sorts of secrets. Cantor’s the pony who needs to check out Tambelon. Likewise, he’d need to be the one to unearth the Winter Queen’s barrow – since only Fairweather offers a realistic chance of finding the blasted thing. But there’s nothing stopping the rest of us from hunting down Cabellaron and the Pony of Shadows so as to retrieve that book or that ring, or from looking into the fate of the other Blades of Fear, or from hunting for these dark vortexes and other trapped haunts. We can feed Cantor the information and resources he needs as he goes along.”

Cantor was staring at Bogart in amazement. “I … I don’t …” Cantor stammered.

“The words you’re looking for are ‘thank you,’” Bogart added. “You really need to learn to trust that your friends, and not just your dead friends, have your back. This is bigger than one pony alone can deal with. You need help. Help that we can, and will, provide.”

There was a knock at the door, when it was opened a unicorn with a folded newspaper tucked beside him stepped into the chamber. He looked around in surprise, blinking at the changelings, the ancient actor, the zebras, and the bandaged Cantor and Valentina.

“You’re not Jon Quill,” Cantor said.

“No, sir, I’m not! Never claimed to be. I am here on his behalf, though, Mr. Mortalis, sir.” The unicorn gave Cantor a friendly nod. Cantor found himself thinking the fellow was as bubbly as Valentina.

“He wanted you to have this paper, sir. He regrets he can’t get free to come deliver it himself.”

“And you are?” Thretan’s tone was one of sharp inquiry. Rather like a scalpel being used in exploratory surgery.

“Sorry, uh … ma’am. Name’s Pennyfarthing! Friend of Jon’s. Off duty. From my work as a constable in Whitstable, not from being a friend. Otherwise I’d have to ask, quite politely mind you, for Cantor to accompany me down to the station for some questions.”

Blinking at the various ponies, zebras, and changelings around the chamber, several of which had tensed most worryingly at that last announcement, Pennyfarthing added, “I’m suddenly very glad I don’t have to do that right now!”