I. What's Past is Prologue

Cantor leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead, just below his horn. He couldn’t tell if the headache was from his earlier beating or from the article he had just read. Valentina, Bogart, and Dozy were reading over it themselves now. The paper boasted a lurid front page image of a zombie pony (poorly cropped from a classic theatre poster) that was captioned with giant letters which looked like they were dripping blood … or they would be, if the Yellow Star could be bothered to print in color rather than just black and white. The entire front page consisted of nothing but that image, superimposed over an old-timey map of the Griffish Isles, and the article’s gargantuan header:

The
RETURN
of the
TROTTING
DEAD!

The article inside was titled, “Whitstable’s Wight: A Study in Mass Hysteria, Mind Control, and Misidentification by Jon Quill.”

Admiral Fairweather squinted at the blurry, zombie pony and snorted, “Well, I never! That is not even a pegasus! Much less a skeleton or a ghost.”

Cantor sighed, “It’s the Yellow Star, Admiral. That it’s an actor in a zombie pony costume makes it a more factually accurate, and story-appropriate, image than most of what they publish. I was half expecting a cactus-monster or something. Or a re-touched ‘Bat-Foal Lives!’ image. Jon Quill must have pulled a few strings.”

Pennyfarthing stared in confusion at Cantor. Looking around the room, he was clearly trying to determine who to inquire of for something approaching answers. Of those present, only Thretan, who was standing near Pennyfarthing, wasn’t engrossed in the paper … or talking to no-pony. Pennyfarthing had the distinct impression that getting up from his seat was a very poor plan, so asking the zebras was out. After a momentary hesitation, he leaned over to the changeling lady and whispered, “Does he talk to himself often?”

“No,” she replied. “When he speaks aloud like that, he’s usually talking to somepony else.”

“But …” Pennyfarthing gestured around the room, indicating the lack of any naval ponies of any kind, nor of any statements which Cantor’s off-hoof comment could realistically have been addressing.

Thretan smiled. Her fangs gleamed. They were coated with something oily that shimmered with a pale greenish tint.

Cantor looked up at Pennyfarthing. “Never mind that, do you know where Jon Quill is now?”

“Yes, sir. Well, somewhat. We parted company in Whitstable, earlier this evening. He said he was coming back to Lunadun. So, he should be at the offices of the Yellow Star in Lunadun. Or in his hotel room, one of the two.”

“That’s a relief!” Cantor looked and sounded relieved. “I was worried he had been … detained.”

“Oh, well, one of the Star’s lawyers got all that cleared up. He got off with a warning, not even a fine. And he was only in the lock-up for about four days total.”

“I wasn’t referring to Whitstable’s jail, Mister … uh …” Cantor blinked.

“Pennyfarthing sir! And it’s just Pennyfarthing. Mister Pennyfarthing is my father.”

“Pennyfarthing, I was concerned that Jon had been locked away in Bedlam.”

Pennyfarthing (who’s expressions over the time he had been in the room would have made an excellent artist’s reference for the subject of ponies who are surprised and confused) hit a new mixture of shocked concern as he blurted out “Bedlam?! Why in the world would Jon be in Bedlam?”

“Because he’s been talking to Doctor Fether. Doctor Fether thinks I’m mad. Last I checked, Jon didn’t. And that’s good enough for an impromptu committal.” Cantor’s tone was grim.

Pennyfarthing’s jaw dropped. But then he shut it and frowned. His expression became one of worried concern. “Oh. Huh. Well … er … there were at least two ponies that were following Jon, he said. He had run through quite the cloak-and-dagger of shenanigans to get me that paper and ask me to meet with you.”

“Cun oo take ush to im?” Valentina chimed in, looking up from the paper. She still had the cotton in her mouth.

Pennyfarthing blinked. “Why yes, yes I think I could. But …”

“But what?” Thretan opted for a tone of pleasant inquiry. It worked better when she was in disguise. At the moment, she wasn’t.

Pennyfarthing shivered. Then blurted out, “What is going on here?”

Most of the room looked up at Pennyfarthing.

“You don’t want to know,” Bogart stated.

“Trust him, you don’t,” Dozy added.

“It’s not your concern,” Thretan purred as she poured Pennyfarthing a cup of tea.

There was a momentary pause, then Cantor asked, “You are friends with Jon Quill?” Tone and cadence, it was a question.

Pennyfarthing nodded, and his nod was accompanied with a, “Yes, sir!”

The others were looking at Cantor.

Morari said, “Cantor, I’ve said it before – you don’t need to go out on the proverbial limb for that reporter. This won’t help.”

Cantor stared at Pennyfarthing. Pennyfarthing found himself thinking that Cantor’s gaze was oddly intense – when he looked at you, he really looked at you. Cantor continued, “Do you read his work?”

Pennyfarthing blushed, and drew himself up. This was obviously a sore point for the young unicorn. “Yes, sir. I do. Have for years.”

Cantor gave a small, tired smile. He winced a little. Already half his face was black and blue. By tomorrow, it’d be a right mess of a sight, Pennyfarthing thought. But what struck Pennyfarthing as most odd, was that usually when he admitted to being a reader of the Star there was a burst of laughter, filled with ridicule. But ... no pony here had let out so much as the hint of a mocking smile.

“Do you believe what he writes?” Cantor’s voice was gently curious. And surprisingly non-judgemental.

Pennyfarthing frowned, “Of course!”

Bogart glowered and exchanged a glance with Valentina, who shrugged and looked a little mystified.

“And have you read this one?” Cantor’s question was unusually pointed. Carefully probing.

“Not yet, sir. Jon asked me not to. He asked me to deliver it directly to you, and then to tell you to pay especial attention to the last line of each odd numbered paragraph.” Pennyfarthing paused slightly, then added, “I know that the article says that there weren’t any Trotting Dead in Whitstable, but Jon told me that part wasn’t true – it was just what he needed to print to get the story out there at all.”

Cantor blinked. Well, the one eye that wasn’t already swollen shut blinked. He sighed. He pondered for a moment, then said, “Will you lead us to Jon? He’s in trouble, and we need to get him out of there.”

“I will if you’ll tell me what all this is about! I don’t want to get Jon into trouble.” Pennyfarthing sounded quite sincere on that last point.

Cantor sighed again. Then gestured for the others to hand over the newspaper. Pennyfarthing took it, but Cantor continued.

“Jon Quill is in trouble because he believes that I have the magical ability to see the spirits of the dead, the Trotting Dead included. Something terrible had awoken Admiral Fairweather thus the disturbances you and your constabulary have been busy covering up. I managed to sooth the Admiral and coax him free from his bones, his ghost has been accompanying me since then and he isn’t a fan of his depiction on the cover of the Star.

“During our subsequent investigations into how and why the Trotting Dead are returning (and what may be done to stop it and lay them back to rest) I and my friends (both living and dead) have found information indicating the involvement of a set of evil relics, a demon from ancient times called Grogar who may be trying to escape his imprisonment, and an all too real Doctor Caballeron – it seems at least some of A.K. Yearling’s work appears to be based on fact rather than imagination. We believe Caballeron is responsible for the recent Canterbury grave-robbing and probably the robbery at the Ashmulean. Maybe the murders as well. We know Caballeron, working with the Pony of Shadows, is responsible for a theft from the Bodleian this evening of the Iron Book of Shadows because Valentina and I tried to stop them, thus our current injuries. You can likely read about the fire in the Bodleian, a fire started by Caballeron’s incendiary devices, tomorrow. And we know that wicked magics very like those the Pony of Shadows uses are one of the key factors behind the Trotting Dead’s rise.”

Pennyfarthing’s jaw was hanging open.

“To conclude,” Cantor added, “Doctor Tarrant Fether, a brilliant and driven psychiatrist at Bedlam – and an old acquaintance of mine – would dismiss everything I just told you as the rantings of a deranged mind. Anypony who expressed belief in any portion of the above would most likely be detained by the good doctor in an attempt to help cure their delusions. He, himself, wishes to detain me for just such a purpose. And, from certain quotes in the article, I know that Jon Quill has been speaking with Fether in person. Now Jon’s being followed.”

Cantor’s tone turned deadly serious, “If we can’t get Jon Quill out of the country with us, Fether will have him locked up in Bedlam. Fether knows that I couldn’t help but try to get Jon out of there because it would be my fault that I got him involved in this mess in the first place. If Jon’s free now, it’s only because Fether’s using him as bait. If I flee the country then, when Fether learns of it, detaining Jon will be his first logical step in luring me back as well as extracting any information from him about where I might have gone.”

Thretan jumped in. “Cantor, Fether knows you’ll come looking for Jon! That’s why Jon’s being watched. And that’s why he’s still roaming free. Jon’s been clever to avoid leading Fether to you. Staying away is both of your safest bets. You can’t go to him. It’s a trap. Fether’s trap for you. You know that. I know that.”

Cantor smiled tiredly. “I know. You know that I know. I know that you know that I know. Fether knows that we know, and we know that he knows it. We’re all very knowledgeable around here.”

Pennyfarthing let the unread paper fall to the floor. He stood up. He had become quite flushed. “If … if you’ll excuse me. I … I need a moment.” In a daze he headed for the door. One of the zebras gave Thretan an inquiring look, but she nodded, so they opened the door for him and shut it carefully after he stepped out.

“Well that …” Dozy began, then, from the hall outside, they could all hear Pennyfarthing’s voice.

“YES!”

It was a wild roar of delight and triumph and joy. It took everypony in the room by surprise. They were staring at the door a moment later when Pennyfarthing let himself back in and returned to his chair. He couldn’t stop smiling. His eyes were leaking tears which he kept brushing away.

“So,” he said, picking up the paper, “When do we go rescue Jon Quill?”

“’We?’” Bogart asked.

“Yes, we. I’m a friend of his. If he’s in trouble, I’ll help get him out of it." Pennyfarthing was still smiling, but his tone was quite serious.

Dozy grinned. “As they say in the acting biz, ’timing is everything’ ... so, Pennyfarthing, we go soon,” the changeling gave Cantor and Valentina an appraising glance, "But not today. And probably not tomorrow either.”

Caballeron held the ice-pack to the side of his head. That little pegasus had a surprisingly strong left.

“Go back two pages.” Her voice was even less pleasant in the darkness.

Caballeron turned the obsidian pages, working by feel. The two of them were crammed into a closet in his hotel, with the lights off. It was hardly the most comfortable of working conditions.

“A pity, mon cher, that you can’t turn the pages yourself.”

“If I could easily manipulate most physical objects without an intermediary, Ahuizotal wouldn’t have bothered hiring you, and this whole affair would have gone much more smoothly.” Even distracted by reading, her tone was waspish. After a moment she added, “And you wouldn’t be getting paid, so perhaps a little gratitude is in order.”

Caballeron let out a bark of laughter. “Gratitude? I’m not one to be grateful for a kick in the teeth.”

She made a non-committal noise. Caballeron frowned. She was either very thoroughly distracted by whatever she was reading in the Iron Book of Shadows or that unicorn, Cantor Mortalis, had hurt her worse than Caballeron had thought.

“Three pages ahead,” in as much as she could be said to speak with a normal, business like tone, the Pony of Shadows had her attention focused on the book rather than Caballeron’s grumbling.

He obliged. A moment later she hmm’d in a fashion that sounded vaguely promising.

“Something useful?” Caballeron hoped it was. He was feeling quite done with this whole mess in Albion.

“Maybe,” she sounded dubious. A tone she usually reserved for Caballeron’s capabilities and usefulness.

That thought got him angry again, “One hopes,” he spoke with considerable heat, “that this business with the ring and the book weren’t a waste of our time!”

She sighed.

“It has not been a waste. I am confident we can restore the ring gates to their prior functioning.”

Caballeron felt a surge of fierce joy. If they could get the rings working, he could ask Ahuizotal to direct the Pony of Shadows to some other project and let the archaeologist get on with vault-breaking and diamond retrieval in relative peace.

“The problem is finding an appropriate point where the realms of shadow … overlap, perhaps? … intersect might be a better word … let’s say intersect with the world as you know it.”

Caballeron frowned again. The world as he knew it? Was she implying an otherworldy origin for herself? That would fit with some of what that unicorn Cantor had been shouting at her. And, Caballeron thought, there were magics to defend oneself from such creatures. Perhaps he would need to look into a detour of his own to acquire an appropriate talisman. He doubted that the shadow creature would be pleased to be cut out of this little mission. Whatever she was getting out of it was important enough for her to stick with Caballeron through some surprisingly sticky situations.

“There are such points, but they tend to be places where power gathers. As a result, most are … in use … or defended.”

“Defended? By what?” Caballeron was curious. Such places might well have some interesting and valuable relics lying about unattended.

“By forces we don’t want to meddle with. In case you hadn’t noticed, a stewardess and a half-crippled mad-pony did a very thorough job of kicking both our asses. Do you really want to go up against something substantially nastier than they?” There it was, the needling tone was back.

Caballeron grinned. “Since you’ve time to banter, I take it you do have an option for us?” His grin vanished. “It had damn well better not involve trying to steal something else from Oxherd!”

“Nothing in the Griffish Isles is suitable, Doctor. No need to fear.”

“So?”

She sighed. “Well … I’ve found locations for five potential sites of power. Three of which I know are … claimed. We are highly unlikely to be allowed use of them. Of the other two ...” she trailed off.

“Yes?” Caballeron prodded her verbally. He didn’t prod her physically. He didn’t want to try touching either her cloak or whatever lay beneath.

“One’s on the other side of the world. I doubt Ahuizotal would countenance an eight month side trip.”

“Eight months?!” Caballeron sputtered. Screw the gold, screw Ahuizotal, and most especially screw her. He wasn’t about to continue hanging around with this dark creature that long.

“Each way.”

“What?!”

“The alternative is hardly better!” She spat back, and that flicker of rage was enough to quiet Caballeron. Especially since he recalled he was now out of explosives.

“What is this alternative?”

There was a long pause. Then, grudgingly, she said, “The Valley of Dreams. Prison to Lost Tambelon. It’s in the Badlands.”

“Well, at least that puts us on the right continent. And we can swing by Ahuizotal’s ruined temples to pick up that second ring.”

“No need for the second ring. I called it our ring’s ‘twin’ for a reason. It’s just one ring. Trotwine had it split or duplicated by some magical means, but in essence it’s still a single object. Which is how it works the way it does. You stretch a thin film of shadow-stuff through one, that same film of shadow-stuff fills the other. And when you pass something through one ring …”

“… it comes out the other one. I see.”

“It works for words and objects. Power too, and – with the right adjustments and rituals – you could even use it as a kind of magic mirror or crystal ball to see whatever distant place its twin is oriented towards.”

“So, what’s the problem, mon cher?”

“The problem is that Tambelon was lost, or more properly banished, for very good reasons. To access the shadow realms there would mean tampering with the wards and spells that keep Tambelon gone. I’m not certain you’re of a suitable disposition for that task.”

Caballeron grimaced in the darkness. “Unsuitable in what way?”

“Well,” her tone was dry and biting, like a desert wind over barren bones, “Thus far your retrieval missions have involved a considerable amount of breakage and mess, followed by hue and cry from the authorities.”

Caballeron, in disbelief, interjected, “This, from somepony who left eight bodies at the Ashmulean?”

“I can be subtle. I can be quiet and patient and careful, when that is required. Can you?”

“If it gets the job done quicker then yes. Make that hell yes. I haven’t even seen this diamond Ahuizotal wants and already I can’t wait to get rid of it and get paid.”

She chuckled, “Odd you should mention hell. If we break something at the valley of dreams … if we alert the lord of Tambelon … then hell is just what you’re in for. There’s an old and terrible power there.”

“Friend of yours?” Caballeron let slip a touch of his snark.

“No. A rival.” Her reply was deadly serious. “Trust me, we don’t want him getting involved. We don’t even want him to be aware of our presence. You remember the knife, yes?”

Caballeron shuddered. He couldn’t think of the last time he had been so pleased to stick a priceless ancient artifact into the post and send it far, far away. Caballeron neither knew nor cared where she had mailed it to, so long as he never crossed paths with it again.

“I see you do remember it! Well, that knife holds a scrap of his power. If he does notice our poking about, if he decides the wards might be weak enough to try to break free, and if we leave him even a pin-prick of a hole connecting your world with his lost realm, then you will be on your own. I have no intention of letting him know I even exist. Much less confronting him, weakened as I am.”

She chuckled. It was the sort of sound that made Caballeron’s skin crawl.

“Old and wicked I may be, but I have no wish to be gobbled up by such a demon as he. And I doubt Ahuizotal would appreciate me serving two masters.”

“Fine. Kid gloves. Dainty steps. A touch as light as air. We go, we get, we leave, and nopony need ever know we were there. I’ll go make the arrangements to get us back to Equestria. We’ll need to hop whatever ship or air-ship is leaving soonest. Before the authorities have a chance to interrogate Mr. Mortalis.”

“Why?” she was suspicious.

“Other than being able to link us both to the Bodleian, I ran into Cantor in Canterbury. He may be mad and distracted, but I suspect he could furnish enough of a description to have us stopped at customs unless we leave now.”

“Sooner is better,” she agreed. She followed it up with, “You should have killed him when you had the chance.”

Caballeron rolled his eyes. While he couldn’t see her in the pitch black room, he was certain she could see him perfectly clearly. “I didn’t have a chance, you may not have noticed, but he was magically warded.”

There was a slight pause before Caballeron added, “That thing, you called it a shade, it said the dead protected him. Is that true?”

“Perhaps. Something protects him. Something influences him. Something empowers him. Something whispers to him. It could be the Dead. All I know for certain is that it isn’t me.”