“Damnedest luggage I’ve e’er had on my ship!” Grav Gunther Schwartz, Captain and pilot of the Westphalia, was outraged. He also sounded like he was finally winding down. His jet black feathers were starting to settle again. Even at his age his feathers remained lustrous, and were an impressive contrast to the white-tiger striping of his body.

The ship’s purser, a pegasus named Mr. Grady, raised an eyebrow. “And how would you have us deal with Cantor, Sir?”

Gunther snorted. He absented mindedly scratched at his eyepatch. After a moment, he let out a short squawk of laughter.

“He bought a ticket, and he’s already onboard, so there’s not much we can do now, is there?”

“No, sir. Not much we can do to improve this.” Grady paused, then added, “In this instance, I believe that Valentina’s instincts may have provided the best solution. By letting Cantor bunk with the crew, it prevents any disturbances or questions arising from our having an un-quartered guest taking up space in the sitting room on this flight. Cantor has yet to provide any trouble for the crew themselves. Although that may be because the unicorn in question has spent the bulk of the past few days sleeping.”

“So your suggestion is to just let him ride.”

“That's right, sir. If you don’t mind my saying so.”

The resulting snort was as much of an agreement as one might expect.

“Any other issues I should be aware of, purser?”

Mr. Grady's mind raced down his own, private list:

Yet another family of unicorns who act like they own the zeppelin, a foreign reporter from a notorious tabloid digging for gossip on anypony around, a shady archaeologist with a name on his passport so ridiculously fake even I can tell he had stolen it from the cover of some penny dreadful, and whatever it was in the cargo bays that had everypony on the crew seriously spooked.

A vagabond with the merest shadow of a ticket who was occasionally caught talking to ponies who aren’t there hardly merits a mention, really. Much less all this fuss. Admittedly mailing oneself to one’s destination was a novel approach to airship travel. Not exactly a stow-away, nor exactly a hitchhiker. How did this Cantor character convince the ticket counter attendant back in Manehattan to agree to such an odd arrangement?

The captain, Grady knew, was bored. Not that the old griffon would admit it. With the weather being so carefully managed through the journey he had little enough to do. Give him some stormy weather, airship pirates, a touch of actual danger, and he’d revel in it. This ‘tea and cakes’ run from city to city … it wore on his nerves. Made him grouchy. Gunther really ought to take a vacation, Grady thought, go somewhere exotic and dangerous, pick a few fights, pirate a few treasures … then he might be more inclined return to this settled and respectable life.

For his own part, Grady was seriously considering an extended holiday of his own. Maybe somewhere up in the mountains, where it would be quiet – just himself and his family, alone in the snow.

It was the luggage’s fault. And it was not Cantor that Grady was thinking of. Grady was tempted to venture into the cargo compartment himself and see if he could find the … whatever it was. Arrange for a little accident. An ‘oopsie’ out the starboard hatch. Things got lost in transit all the time. Even on a respectable airship like the Westphalia.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Good. Carry on with the accounts. I’m going topside to check the bags.” Gunther usually did a fly-around of the zeppelin at least once a day. It gave him an excuse to stretch his wings, if nothing else.

“Very good, sir.” Carry on with the accounts indeed! The ledgers were always checked thrice a day. It was managing the stewards and stewardesses that kept the purser busy the rest of the time. In spite, or perhaps because, of his position, Grady didn't usually have to intervene directly in affairs involving the other departments. But now the chief engineer was talking about having his workers' pay docked for their refusal to conduct routine maintenance near the cargo section so the purser was going to have to get his hooves on problems he could usually trust the other senior crew to handle.

And then there were the reports for the home office. The Grav Zeppelin airlines had a reputation to maintain. Irregularities and inconveniences simply weren’t allowed on their luxury lines. Even on their smaller and older ships, like the Westphalia.

Grady sighed quietly.

This trip’s report would be a more flagrant work of fiction than usual.

That vacation was sounding better all the time.

Grady went about the rest of the evening’s duties. The stewards and stewardesses were efficiency itself. With the notable exception of being unusually slow with the linen service. Clean sheets, table-cloths, and napkins were a must. And the Westphalia didn’t boast a laundry. Which meant accessing the stores.

Stores that were adjacent to the cargo hold.

Which no pony wanted to approach.

Grady considered what might be causing this discontent. This fear. Magic was the easy answer. Some warding spell that was malfunctioning perhaps? It wouldn't be the first time a unicorn's enchanted luggage had reacted oddly to the altitude. Or was something being transported with a particularly eerie aura? But what? And who was responsible for it?

The obvious suspect, in most of the crews’ mind, was the mad-pony. But ponies who spent even ten minutes talking with Cantor usually relegated him to a status somewhere in the general vicinity of “odd, but harmless.” A hoof-full of them had decided they liked the fellow, even if Grady was half convinced that Cantor's often too-pleasant demeanor was some sort of facade. Regardless, Cantor was certainly odd. Even for a unicorn. And he might even be harmless. But the real reason Grady didn’t think the situation in the cargo-bay was somehow Cantor’s fault had more to do with finances. Sending goods via a luxury airliner cost money. Cantor had barely enough coin to post himself as a variety of parcel.

Grady frowned at the staff galley. The chief chef, an earth pony and one of the few non-pegasi on the crew, was at it again. He was even whistling this time. Cantor was certainly eating well. In large part because Valentina had taken an interest in Cantor and had been advocating for him. Whether this was because she genuinely liked Cantor or because of that ridiculous betting pool some of the stewardess thought Grady didn't know about was largely irrelevant to the purser. Also, cooks enjoyed having their work genuinely appreciated – few enough passengers thought to send compliments (sincere or not) to the staff. If Cantor wasn’t sincere in his appreciation, he faked it awfully well.

Simply being recognized for their good service did wonders for the cooks’ morale. Such recognition was good for anypony's morale, really. Even with the extra mouth to feed, there would be no shortage of food. It was the unanticipated expense, the extra tally in the ledger, the bloody inconvenience of it all that had the purser's teeth on edge whenever matters relating to Cantor came up. After the first day, Grady had made it clear to Valentina that not only was there to be no funny business with the passengers, but that such meals as ‘the house’ was providing to their passenger-shaped piece of luggage were to come from the left-over odds and ends that would otherwise be unused and relegated to the dust-bin at the end of scheduled meal-times. If anything, the cooks were inspired by this restriction to be creative.

Although, speaking of funny business with the passengers, that archaeologist was too suave by half. While he was an earth pony, and thus unlikely to be directly responsible for some miss-warded luggage, perhaps he was smuggling some jungle fetish or ancient talisman that was giving everpony in the rear half of the airship a bad case of the Nightmare Night heebie-jeebies. Regardless, if they weren’t careful, that stallion might leave a stewardess or two in an awkward situation. It wouldn’t be the first such scandal Grady had dealt with. With a sigh, Grady thought it doubtless wouldn't be the last either.

Time for a quick check of the wait-staff – to make sure everypony was keeping up with the work, and that the passengers were satisfied with their after dinner service.

Perhaps a trip back to cargo was in order after all. But first, “Valentina. How is our special passenger?” Grady was adept at keeping the annoyance he felt from showing in his tone of voice.

“Oh, quite well Mr. Grady, sir! He successfully navigated the ladder from the crew-quarters to the gondola shortly after dinner and is presently playing cards with some of the passengers.”

“No falls, then, today?”

“No sir! Considering his gimpy leg, sir, he doesn’t do too badly.”

Grady arched an eyebrow. Well, at least Cantor hadn’t fallen off the airship yet.

“Aren’t you worried you might fall off the airship while scrambling around in the superstructure? How did you injure your leg anyway? Did you see action back during the troubles? What’s it like up with the crew?” the reporter drew a card, added it to his hoof, and discarded another queen.

Cantor had come to find Jon’s questions amusing. Most of the time the reporter would ask at least three, usually all in one breath, and seemed pleased as the proverbial punch to get even one of them answered. His record was nine questions and Cantor suspected it would have been more if inhaling hadn't become mandatory. Sometimes Jon would remember to take notes. Or scribbles that were supposed to be notes. Cantor suspected that Jon couldn’t read them any better than Cantor could.

Not that, as a reporter for the Yellow Star, Jon Quill needed to be bothered with such details as “facts.” The Star was the epitome of “tabloid trash.”

“The crew are quite friendly, especially considering that I’ve effectively commandeered one of their bunks.”

“’Friendly’ is an overstatement. As is ‘welcoming.’ I would go with ‘tolerable.’” If the fellow ever sang, Cantor thought, he'd have quite the pleasing baritone.

“Eh, they’re not so bad as all that. Somethin’s got ‘em proper-spooked though. And, point them: ‘e does snore.” You could almost hear the grin in Magpie's voice.

Cantor rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and repeated himself, “Especially considering I’m commandeering one of their bunks.”

“Oy! So now ‘e’ll talk to us!” Magpie did indignant well.

Jon Quill and … blast it … Cantor suddenly couldn’t remember his name – one of the two business ponies on the way back to Canterbury … Archie-something – regardless, Cantors two table companions both chuckled.

Archie picked up the discarded queen. His second this round. He must have a book of them. Or he was working on a pair of high runs. This late in the game, it could be either. Archie discarded a seven. Cantor’s initial surge of interest faded when he saw it was a seven of clubs rather than spades. Either a seven of spades or a jack of spades and he'd be down on the table, and thus he'd wind up being caught with fewer points. Which was, in this particular game, the whole goal. Not that one could easily tell that just by looking at Cantor's scores on the past five rounds of play.

Cantor drew a card. Another three. He really should have kept the first two of them. With a sigh, he discarded it and stared at the hoof of cards he had amassed.

Play passed to Jon as Cantor added, “And yes, I do worry a bit about taking a tumble.”

“Heh!” Harsh and shrill, Magpie, when amused, was more likely to squawk than laugh.

“Shush, you reprobate.” And, as if on que, his low voice scolding her.

“But the brace helps keep my dodgy knee on the straight and narrow. More or less.”

“How did you injure yourself, Cantor, old boy? If you don’t mind my asking.” Archibald (that was his name, Archibald!) had likely joined the card-game because there was only so much to do on an airship, and three days into the flight the novel he had been reading wound up becoming a coloring book for one of Polo Pony fillies. For somepony who made the trip from Lunadun to Manehattan at least once a quarter, simply watching the rolling majesty of the clouds and the waves had long ceased to be sufficient entertainment.

Cantor shrugged. “I don’t like to talk about it much.” That was an understatement. “It was an incident from my bright college days. An incident involving a sizeable rock, a solid piece of oak, and considerably more physics than the pony body will comfortably withstand. Afterwards, one of my professors lectured me quite sternly about the concepts of angular momentum and the transfer of force. The word ‘torque’ popped up more than once.” As usual, Cantor left out the part about the terrified mob, the screaming, and the kicking. It did no good to dwell on such things.

Archibald gave a sympathetic wince. "Sorry, old chap. Sounds like a nasty bit of business."

“School you say? Did you attend Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, by any chance? I had an uncle who went there back in the day – Steadfast was his name. Did you perchance know him?” Jon Quill rearranged the cards he held. He seemed more interested than usual in this particular question. Always looking for that new personal connection, this pony was.

Cantor snorted, “’Day-school?’ Me? Sorry to disappoint but no, no Splendore Mentem here! Semper Discentes. Nighthaven Academy. And, ironically, I had to abandon my studies early. Financial difficulties.” That was half true.

“Nighthaven?” Archibald looked a little worried. “I heard they push their students … hmm … hard.”

“I heard they got in trouble for practicing forbidden magic!” And now Jon Quill was more interested than ever. Nothing like the hint of scandal to bring a shine to his eyes.

Cantor snorted yet again. It was becoming a habit, “Jon, please! One professor a century ago goes just a little mad and messes around with some unconventional methods of mind control and suddenly the whole school's reputation is tarred forever? Really, now! I found it cliquish and the official studies alternately dull and tedious. Well, unless you count the occasional bout of drunken, youthful revelry. So if you’re looking for a juicy story to put in the Star, I’m afraid I can’t help you out with that.”

“Because you don’t know any such stories, or because you don’t want to tell a broad-sheet scribbler like Jon Quill about the ones you do know?” There was a touch of suspicion, and considerable interest, in his tone.

“Oh! ‘i’s eyes narrowed! D’ya see that? Our Cantor does know sumthin’ scandalous. Once we’re off this overgrown balloon, ask him ta tell us all about it!” Magpie sounded eager for a chance at some juicy gossip.

Cantor grinned, at his most recent draw rather than the conversation only he could hear. But his tone turned rather serious, “And as for pushing their students, Archie – well, they do. ‘Always learning’ isn’t just their motto: it’s their expectation. Waking or dreaming, you were expected to be working through lessons of some sort. Drunk or sober you could be quizzed on anything at any time. They wanted greatness. Expected it. I suspect that drive comes from being a fourth-rate safety school for unicorns with enough magical ability to do something, but not enough talent to get into somewhere as prestigious as one of Canterlot’s Universities. So yes, Nighthaven pushes their students. Very hard sometimes. Hard enough that some of them ... break.” Cantor started laying his cards down on the table. That last joker had come just in time. True, he couldn’t go out … and true, the point-situation was such that barring some truly unusual card-play he was nowhere near winning, but at this point in the game, it was all about not losing any worse than he had to!

“Aha! So that’s why we worried you at first. You think you might be … fractured.” His voice projected understanding, sympathy, and reassurance.

“Batty. Bonkers. Loco in the coco. And if’n I didn’t know I was real, I’d probably think ‘e was cracked too, talkin’ ta me.” Her voice, in contrast, seemed to take pleasure in the darkly humorous prospect.

“And me. He found me first.” He sounded more than a bit indignant.

“Talking to ya is cracked anyway. Who bothers with authors? Useless word-smiths tha lot of ya!” Another jab from Magpie.

“Ah." If Archibald thought Cantor might be one of Nighthaven's broken ex-students, he kept it out of his voice. "I went to Oxherd myself.” Archibald smiled as he drew a card.

Cantor brightened up. “Really? I did an exchange there for a term. I even got access to the Bodleian …” Archibald started laying cards on the table. By the time he was done his hoof was empty. No discards.

“… and … you’re done. Down and out again? I’m glad this isn’t a betting game!” Cantor shook his head.

“I still think ‘e should let us help him cheat at cards. It’d be easy-peasy. And some bits in his pocket could go a long way.” Magpie clearly had no problem with ignoring social conventions, fair play, or the law if there was fun and profit to be had.

“It would also be a gross misuse of power. We’ve already discussed this.” And there he was, playing the part of angel to her devil. He was much more proper and restrained when it came to such matters.

Jon Quill threw down his cards in disgust. This time he hadn’t even gotten on the table. Cantor began to count up the points. One more round and this game would be done. Baring a miracle (or a disaster, depending on your perspective) Archie would have won. Although after this last go, Cantor might manage to come out ahead of Jon for a change.

Archibald tapped the side of his glass with a knife. Before the tone of the crystal had fully died away one of the stewardesses had already refilled it. Cantor felt a little disappointed that it wasn’t Valentina who answered the call … but then reigned that disappointment in hard.

As Cantor shuffled and Archibald sipped, Jon asked, “Were you two at Oxherd at the same time? Did you know one another?”

Archie laughed, “Oh, definitely not. I would have remembered somepony like Cantor. ... No offense!”

“None taken.”

“I do remember the Bodleian though. As I recall, as a second year, I bungled the oath to get in. Nearly caused the dean to lose his wig laughing. Part of it is that you’re supposed to swear not to smoke inside, you know. But I mixed up the Latin and wound up swearing not to drink in there instead.” Archibald eyed the cocktail he was holding, “Needless to say that was an oath more frequently observed in the breaking than in the keeping.”

Jon Quill perked right up, pencil once again in hoof, “Secrets in the stacks? Did you see anything unusual in the old college grounds?”

Cantor grimaced and shook his head as he began dealing the cards, eleven to each player. “Jon, really! Must you always chase gossip? My apologies, Archie, I trust his badgering isn’t too problematic?”

“There may be a problem." The voice was hardly more than a whisper and it conveyed considerable menace.

“The devil’d you come from? Ah, that is …” the suave stallion made a quick recovery from his momentary loss of composure. Suddenly he wished he hadn’t just muttered a snide comment to himself about the go-between popping up out of nowhere. He had been reasonably sure there wasn't anypony else in his cabin at the time.

Cabins on the Westphalia were cramped. Even having bought both tickets, so that he didn’t have to share, the stallion would have preferred a little more walking-around room. The cabin was also dim. Lights were turned low, the crystals barely aglow at all. The curtains were half drawn. Outside it was already past dusk. The moon would be up soon.

“Close the curtains. We need to talk.”

“We certainly do.” Pointedly, the stallion left the window treatments precisely where they were. If it came down to it, he had a couple of flash-bangs tucked up one sleeve. Prior experience with this particular messenger led him to suspect that whatever it was, it didn’t like the light.

“Oh?” If the voice had been chilly before, it was positively cold now.

“Remind me, why did I come out of retirement for this?” It was a good bluster.

“Gold.”

“Hmm.” The stallion tucked his scarf into his blouse a bit more securely, in part to hide a shiver, in part to check the small bombs. He also glanced at the door. It was still shut and locked. The same with the windows. How had that thing gotten in here?

“Lots of gold.” Its tone was still quite frosty.

“Ah, and why am I being paid lots of gold, mon cher?”

There was a sigh from the figure in the corner. Dark cloak, shining yellow eyes. Nothing else could be said for certain. Not even if she was a pony. The stallion was reasonably sure it was a she though.

“You are being paid a small fortune because our mutual employer has been satisfied with your previous work for him. While the end results were … less than ideal, and certainly no ringing victory, that part wasn't your fault. You upheld your end of that deal admirably. As you have stated numerous times …” was there a slight edge of mockery? The stallion thought there was a slight edge of mockery, “… had you been employed for more than item retrieval, the ultimate failure of that project might have been averted.

“In short, you are being paid because you are competent …”

The stallion’s smug grin was just settling in when the figure continued, “… enough ...” the stallion’s grin vanished.

“… for this.”

“Now see here! I-” his heated rebuttal was cut short by the distinctive, musical sound of a pouch full of bits landing on his bedside table.

“You want more money. That was expected. This will suffice.”

It was more than he had been hoping for, actually. Better try not to show it though, so he managed a not-yet-entirely-satisfied sounding “For now.”

“Yes, for now.” The stallion couldn’t tell if the messenger saw through his bluff, or simply didn’t care. Either way, she continued, “Now, on to the problem.”

“Yes, mon cher?”

“Somepony has been snooping around the cargo hold.”

The stallion's heart skipped a beat. “And? Did they find it?”

“No.”

“Who was it?”

The pause was just a little too long. “I … do not know.”

Was she lying? Or worried? Perhaps both.

“If you don’t know who, then how can you be certain they found nothing, mon ami?” His grin wasn't friendly.

“I would know if they opened the box.” Ah, the cold certainty was back.

She probably would know at that. The stallion rubbed his unshaved jaw, he thought he knew what was coming next, and he didn't like it. “You have some suspicions I take it?”

Another pause. A long one.

“The reporter. He is an idiot, but even idiots can stumble over the truth. And he is actively looking for … extraordinary things.”

She didn't sound entirely sure. Further the implications of her unspoken request were far too risky. The stallion snorted, “So ... what? You want him to fall off the Zeppelin? I’m not being paid enough for that. He’s harmless. No one believes what they read in the Yellow Star. Not even when it’s true. Especially not when it’s true.”

The shadowy figure considered this for a few moments. “Be ready to deal with him if you must. We may need to improvise in order to see this through to the end.”

“So … I take it you wish to add on to my duties? As if running this little ‘escort’ to the Ashmulean wasn’t enough of a chore.”

“You will be well compensated.” The shadowy figure’s voice positively dripped disdain. “Ahuizotal isn’t concerned with gold. He’s concerned with climate. Once this is done, you can retire somewhere warm with all the money you’ll have made, Caballeron.”

“That’s Doctor Caballeron to you!” the rogue archeologist growled. “I’ll keep an eye on the passengers and make sure none of them follow us once we disembark. You keep watch on that damned luggage.”

Author's Note

For readers interested in what the Westphalia might look like, as well as how the rooms are laid out in the gondola, the Author would refer you to his source of inspiration: the LZ 127 Graf Zepplin a German-built and -operated, passenger-carrying, hydrogen-filled, rigid airship which operated commercially from 1928 to 1937. Several pictures of it's interior can be found here.

The most prominent difference in appearance between the fictional Equestrian airship and its historical counterpart is that the Westphalia's envelope is more artistically designed than that of the LZ 127 -- it is shaped roughly like a chubby dragon, and the linen is dyed to increase the resemblance.