That was a very good question, where was Cantor’s satchel?

Between the delay in the international terminal with that inspection of Jon Quill’s person, and the time already spent here in the baggage claim area waiting for it, there ought to have been some sign of the box they had packed it into by now.

“You don’t suppose we’ve missed it somehow? Did somepony else pick it up? Should we check to see if there’s some sort of office or left-luggage drop that it might have been moved to?” Jon anxiously scanned the room. A member of housekeeping services had just arrived and was emptying the trash-bins.

Cantor shook his head. “No, Jon. While they were patting you down …”

Jon grimaced and shook one of his back legs as if to settle it, “That mare was a bit too friendly!”

“… I sent Morari ahead to the claim area, specifically to watch and make sure. He’s already told me that there’s been no sign of the box we packed my satchel and it’s ‘special souvenirs’ up in.”

“What about Bob?” Valentina sounded concerned. “Wasn’t he supposed to meet you here and see to it you made it out of the airport without incident?”

“He was,” Cantor sounded worried.

“No sign of him either,” Jon added with a frown.

“That’s ‘cause you lot don’t know how to look,” muttered the housekeeping pony from the adjacent bin. Her vest had a nametag that read “Janet,” her mane was dark and the cut of her bangs almost entirely hid the fact that one of her eyes was white and blind.

Cantor, Jon, and Valentina all started up, but “Janet” waved them back to their seats.

”I say, that is a good disguise! And I was looking specifically for ponies with one bad eye.” Fairweather was clearly impressed.

“There’s a problem, Cantor. Security is off the charts around here.” The faint green shimmer across the housekeeping pony’s eyes reassured Cantor that this was indeed Bob.

“What do …” Jon Quill began, but Bob cut him off with a hiss.

“Hush! Look, I’m on my third disguise. I’ve been impersonating actual workers here. The first two workers have already been arrested and taken away. All quiet like, no fuss, no bother. I think they’re hunting for a changeling. Possibly for me specifically. Worse, I didn’t manage to get your box from international customs over to this terminal.”

“What?” Cantor was barely able to catch himself and lower the volume of his cry of dismay.

Bob grimaced, “I was able to circle back, Cantor – look, your box is not at the international terminal. Not anywhere I can get to it.”

“Shit!” Cantor rubbed his forehead, just below the horn. “We need my satchel. We probably need the tablet, but we definitely need the notes I took from the Iron Book of Shadows about Tambelon’s location.” His expression was grim as he continued, “My memory’s good – ditto for Morari – but I wouldn’t trust it to remember all the details I scribbled down that first night. Without those notes, our search for the Vale of Dreams is as good as done.”

”Cantor, I think we’ve got a problem,” Morari trotted in through the back wall, he was glancing over his shoulder.

“We’ve got several problems, Morari.” Cantor’s tone indicated that he was bracing for yet more bad news.

”Two ponies – mares; a unicorn and a pegasus – just dropped off your crate on the carousel back there. But they look nothing like any of the ponies who work here.”

“What do they look like?” Cantor had hoped to feel a surge of relief at the news that his satchel would shortly be in his hooves again, but his heart was sinking rapidly.

“What’s going on?” Valentina asked.

“Morari says my box just got dropped off in the back room. It should be here shortly.”

“That’s good!” Jon Quill smiled with relief.

Cantor shook his head, and Jon’s joy faded away. “No, Jon. It’s not the usual airport personnel who’ve delivered it.”

”They’re dressed … well, they have the look of your modern day business ponies. Matching black jackets, dark glasses.”

“Two ponies in dark suits and sunglasses? What? Why?” Cantor’s expression was just as confused as his tone.

“And that would be my cue.” The voice came from the far side of the chamber, and was pitched to carry to Cantor and his friends. The other waiting passenger, the unicorn, folded his paper neatly as he rose from his bench and strolled over to the gathered ponies.

There was a soft chime, a brief flashing of a light, and the carousel lurched into motion. As the belt moved, a single, familiar crate hove into view. When the crate reached the nearest point to Cantor, the belt stopped and there was another musical chime.

Cantor wasn't watching the box. Instead, he stared at the approaching unicorn. The fellow was entirely unfamiliar, of mature years, and he was sporting a smile which was just a little too hard to be truly reassuring.

“Cantor, Jon Quill,” the newcomer gave each a nod of greeting. “Valentina,” to her he gave the hint of a bow, and a raised eyebrow. “Your presence here is not something we considered highly likely, though I suppose perhaps we should have.”

”Who is this, then?” Fairweather sounded miffed.

”Oy, I know that tone. This is trouble.” Magpie glowered.

The new unicorn glanced over to the housekeeper “Janet,” and added, “Hello Bob. Staying out of trouble, I trust?”

Bob winced. The expression he wore combined anger, surprise, and fear as he replied, “Hello Furlong. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Furlong?” Cantor looked to Bob for clarification.

Bob’s tone was grim, “He runs S.M.I.L.E.”

Furlong snorted in polite disagreement. “’Runs’ is a strong word, Drone zero-zero-eight-zero-eight. Too strong to be accurate.” Furlong smiled, still politely. “But yes, management is my role these days rather than field-work.” His smile faded. “Of course, the ‘Mares in Black’ don’t really exist, now, do they?” Furlong looked Cantor directly in the eye as he continued, “Any more than ghosts do.”

There was a moment of silence. The mood was tense.

Furlong inclined his head in a slight nod, his smile warmed a little. The ease in his manner helped defuse a touch of that tension.

“Quite an impressive performance for Shetland Yard. Very helpful.” Furlong clearly approved.

“Heard about that, did you?” It was Bob who spoke.

“Oh, yes. I’ve had a file on Cantor here since his days with Nighthaven. A fairly thin file, mind you. Until recently he was just another oddity, one who might be a potential asset to Equestria … or one who might need to be contained. The report from Shetland Yard added considerably more substance to a number of questionable powers rumored to be associated with him. The file grew thicker, less ... insubstantial. And considerably more interesting. No need to act on the matter, until now.”

“What … ?” Cantor began, only to have Furlong cut him off.

“You’re not going to the Badlands.”

“Now see here …” Jon Quill interjected.

“How can you …” Valentina was just as upset.

Furlong raised a hoof, and his voice. “Let me be crystal clear. You will not be going to the Badlands. You will not be searching for the Vale of Dreams. And you absolutely will not continue in your absurdly ill-advised pursuit of Caballeron and his associate.”

Furlong poked Cantor in the chest, and his tone was hard, “Your interference in these matters is done.”

“I cannot leave off helping the dead, Furlong. It’s more than what I do, it’s who I am.” Cantor spoke with a quiet confidence, and just the hint of sadness. The sight of him, staring down Furlong, gave both Valentina and Jon Quill a sudden chill.

“No one said you had to.” Furlong sighed with exasperation.

“Then why stop him?” This from Bob.

Furlong gave Bob a steely look. “Tell me, Bob of Naught, how long has it been since you were in contact with Chrysalis’ forces? Since you had any good information about the activities of the old Hives?”

“Uhm …” Bob sounded a little sheepish, “… a … while?”

“Months, yes? If not years?” Furlong had adopted the tone a teacher might use when speaking with a student who was struggling with their lessons.

Bob just nodded.

Furlong sighed, then pressed his hoof over his eyes. When he looked up he wore a wry smile, “Look, Hive Naught’s forays into intelligence gathering are adorable. And they have been surprisingly effective. You’ve been hitting the high end of the bell curve our analysts had established to chart the possibilities of your success in such enterprises. But you’re still amateurs.”

The smile faded. “I am a professional. And I can assure you, you have no idea what sort of things have been going on in the Badlands recently. Things have gotten so bad in the Badlands that my own sources of information on the region have had substantial difficulties in getting reports out. Some of my sources may even have been ... compromised.”

“As a result I will not let Cantor throw his life away by seeking Lost Tambelon. Not when I have other agents who are far better trained, equipped, and prepared to investigate that mythical valley and any disturbances therein. Nor will I let Cantor chase after somepony as dangerous as Caballeron. I already have resources tasked with keeping Caballeron in check, resources which are likewise far better suited to dealing with the sort of threat he represents.”

“Cantor,” Furlong looked from Jon to Valentina to Bob, “is too valuable to risk throwing him in harm’s way. Not against the sort of dangers he’d face should he carry on as he was intending to.”

“Valuable?” Cantor didn’t particularly like the sound of that.

Furlong pursed his lips. “You’re not the only pony who may,” and there was a very heavy emphasis on that ‘may’, “be gifted as a spiritualist and a medium. You are one of the top candidates, the likeliest contenders, to have the ancient and lost magic of necromancy at your disposal. But, let me be clear: you are not the only one.”

Cantor’s eyes widened. Nor was he the only pony there surprised to hear so well informed a pony as Furlong make that statement.

Furlong continued, “But even such likely candidates as you, Cantor, may still be fakers, charlatans, mad, or possessed rather than, how do your friends put it? Oh yes, rather than being ‘the real thing.’”

Furlong chuckled, “Further, even if there are others who may also be the real thing, you possess an additional qualification that has attracted our interest, interest enough to keep you from unknowingly walking off a cliff and falling into ruin.”

“What qualification is that?” Jon Quill was suspicious, and he sounded a little protective of Cantor.

Furlong’s face was all business, his tone professional.

“Cantor is kind.”

That was unexpected. And there was a momentary, confused pause. Cantor blinked and blushed slightly.

“Cantor is kind,” Furlong repeated with added emphasis. “He views his magic as a life-calling. He truly cares about the well-being of both the living and the dead, and is willing to go to great lengths to insure that their problems and difficulties are resolved in ways that are beneficial to all. He strives to do good, and to do no harm.”

Furlong grimaced slightly.

“The same cannot truly be said for the other potential mystics on my short list of those who may talk to the dead.” Furlong continued, his tone and bearing still professional – one explaining the facts of the matter. He began to tick off points from some mental tally.

“Other possibilities have a more academic approach, concerned with theory and knowledge – not with practical application and active problem-solving when it comes to matters involving the Trotting Dead. Potentially excellent for consultation, useless for field work involving ghosts.”

“Some would, and do, seek to exploit their gifts for power or riches. These cannot be trusted to deal with a situation where risk is high and reward is low. If problems arise that need to be solved, then those problems need to be solved. Not smoothed over just enough to fake it while monies are extorted from the other ponies involved.”

“Some see the dead as a threat to be contained. These would strive to destroy such haunts as Cantor seeks to aid. Haunts who would be better employed as allies, or treated with the respect and courtesy that their lives should rightly have entitled them too. Should strange, supernatural events cause the dead to rise, we will have enemies enough among them – there is no need to make more by treating all spooks as villains.”

“Some even see the living as a threat. These would strive to use the dead to work against the good of Equestria. We cannot in good conscience work with such ponies – even if, or perhaps especially when, they can actually interact with the spirit world. My associates and I have no interest in helping to create a new Great Necromancer to plague us all. There’s too much risk of that already, as it turns out.”

Furlong shook his head and gave a little sigh.

“It is our hope that we will not often need the sort of assistance somepony like Cantor could, in theory, provide. We haven’t thus far. But, when events do present us with …” Furlong paused, seeking for an appropriate phrase, “… special challenges to which his particular sort of mystic gifts offer possible solutions, well then, we’d rather have somepony like Cantor around to whom we could feed information. One who could be directed on a path which helps the dead and the living. Especially one who, as events in Whitstable proved, is actually capable of ending an ongoing disturbance that would otherwise only be able to be contained indefinitely.”

Furlong grinned, although there wasn’t much amusement in it. “As such, it would be criminally negligent for me to allow him to venture south.” The shadow of a grin vanished. The hard, businesslike tone was back, “Don’t bother trying, Cantor. You’ll find your way blocked.”

“If you intend to keep me from going to the Badlands,” Cantor stated, “What, then, do you suggest I do?”

Furlong shrugged. He nodded his head towards the box containing Cantor’s satchel.

“Take a vacation. Rest, relax, enjoy a party or two. Do what you’ve always done Cantor. Don’t worry so much about the bigger picture and long term woes. There are ponies, very capable ponies, who are working behind the scenes to keep Equestria safe. If you or your mystic gifts are actually needed somewhere, I’m sure that somepony will let you know.”

Furlong turned to leave, then paused. He glanced back at Bob, “And here I nearly forgot. Bob, would you deliver a message to Thretan for me?”

“Depends on the message,” Bob grumbled.

“Just this: we hope she enjoys her visit to Equestria. We look forward to the theatrical delights which will doubtless result. And we trust she will behave herself ...” Furlong let his gaze sweep over Cantor, Jon, and Valentina again. With the hint of a smile he continued, ”… at least as well as Hive Naught has been behaving recently.”

”Considering what all Hive Naught’s been up to in the past few weeks, that’s a considerable amount of wiggle room,” Morari muttered.

“Will do.” Bob pulled off the jacket he was wearing. A wash of green light returned him to his native changeling form. A moment later another wash of light and he was back in the unicorn disguise he had worn on the Westphalia. He left with considerable haste, eager to get away from Furlong.

Furlong watched Bob go. The unicorn had a contemplative look on his face. After a moment, he shook his head and returned his attention to Cantor.

“Good day. If all goes well, we shan’t meet again.” With that, Furlong trotted out of the room.

There was a moment of silence. Broken only by the soft sound of the airport's muzak.

“Oh, Cantor …” Valentina felt tears welling up in her eyes.

Cantor looked stunned. Shattered. Dejected. He had put so much effort into this search for answers, to this quest to help lay his friends among the dead to rest … to have all that snatched away from him? Even if, as Furlong said, it was to protect him from the dangers of that quest, this was a terrible blow.

Jon Quill, at a loss for words, gave Cantor a tight hug.

”Is this it, then? Are we done?” Admiral Fairweather’s voice held a surprising amount of strength and sureness – it seemed to say that whether or not they were done, he was ready and willing to tackle whatever challenges came next.

“No, Fairweather, we are not done. Whether Furlong and S.M.I.L.E. like it or not, I will find a way to help you. To help all of you.” Cantor’s voice was slightly hoarse. He was fighting tears.

Gently shaking himself free from Jon Quill. Cantor limped over to the carousel. The box had clearly been opened and resealed sometime between being off loaded from the Westphalia and it’s arrival here. Of course it had. Cantor sighed as he pried it open. Inside lay his satchel.

He checked it.

Both halves of the tablet was gone. The wrapping cloth was gone. Pages and pages of notes, information that would be needed to even try to find Lost Tambelon’s location were all gone.

Cantor let out a low moan of quiet despair. But his expression had transformed to one of disbelief and confusion.

“What now?” Jon wiped a tear away from his own eye.

Cantor pulled a plain manila envelope from his satchel. All the assembled ponies, living and dead, stared at it in disbelief. They crowded in around Cantor.

”That wasn’t in there before,” Morari stated the obvious.

”P’raps it’s a consolation prize?” Magpie sounded dubious rather than hopeful.

Cantor opened the envelope and shook out its contents. Two newspaper articles, a photograph, and a pair of golden tickets.

“’Restoration Work Continues in Canterlot’s Crypts’ …” Jon Quill read the headline from one article.

“’Problems with the Pipes – Excavations Needed to Re-Route Waterworks Under Canterlot Castle’ …” Valentina read the other headline.

Cantor stared at the picture. From over his shoulder Magpie let out a laugh. She tried to smother it, as the situation hardly seemed appropriate for outbursts of mirth, but the giggles kept squeeking out around her spectral hooves.

Morari and Fairweather both gave Magpie sidelong looks. To which she choked out, ”Just … just … look at ‘im! That face!”

The photograph was of an indoor scene, somewhere lit by light crystals rather than windows. It showed an archway and part the room beyond. The archway was perhaps one-third filled with freshly laid bricks, mortar hastily slapped on the tops of the highest course of this new bit of masonry. The lower left of the photo, the extreme foreground, showed the face of a very, very unhappy unicorn looking directly into the camera.

The fellow’s eyes were wide, his mouth was turned down so far as to be quite comical. He had an expressive muzzle. His current expression said that he was not having a good time. He was having the exact opposite of a good time. There were traces of fear, disgust, shock, and horror woven through it all.

His was an expression that said he was done. He was so totally and completely done that there weren’t words enough to describe his done-ness. He was ready to just walk away and forget this day ever happened.

But he couldn’t. He was one of Celestia’s Royal Guards, and they had signed on for this sort of thing.

His helmet was scorched. The horsehair crest in his helm was standing up wildly, all fluffled out like a thistle. Really, it looked as though (among all the other trials and indignities that his expression hinted at) the fellow had been recently struck by lightning.

He was holding a brick in one hoof. His magic held a trowel.

The longer Magpie looked at him, the harder she found it to keep her laughter contained.

Cantor wasn’t looking at the Royal Guard. Cantor was looking at the image of what lay past him, in the background, just beyond the archway this nameless soldier was in the process of walling in.

Ancient, much weathered carvings along the pillars and the walls. An old floor of marble slabs. Big ones. Several of which had burst upward and lay shattered and tumbled around the room.

Rising from the hole in the floor was a terrible vortex. Even in the still shot of the picture, it almost seemed to move and writhe. It was a tornado-like spray of dark power that crackled and seethed. Hovering in the air, half-way contained by the terrible magics, was the intact skeleton of a unicorn. The skeleton was gesturing … a bolt of lightning was striking something off the picture, in the room, and to the right side of the frame. Cantor noted that, unlike Morari, Magpie, or Fairweather, this undead pony looked to have fought its way at least partially free of the terrible magic that was waking the dead. While it was hard to say for certain, Cantor thought he could make out runes carved into this undead’s bones.

The raging, swirling display of power appeared to have caught another pony – a living one, he was also a Royal Guard. The dizzy fellow was tumbling head over hooves, frantically clinging to a broom, and looking as if he would soon either be flung into a wall or (if the constant round-and-round were to continue) he’d be violently ill. Perhaps both.

One of the Trotting Dead, an ancient spirit, had risen in caverns beneath Canterlot.

Cantor glanced up from the photo. He spoke with determination, and rising enthusiasm, “’What now’, Jon?” Cantor’s gaze fell on the two golden tickets. They were dated, and the date on them was only a few weeks away. They would provide admittance to the Grand Galloping Gala in Canterlot. Cantor started to smile, determination shining once again in his eyes.

“Now, my friends, now ... we’re going to a party.”

Fin.

Author's Note

Here we come to the close of the first volume in the adventures of Cantor and company as they investigate the mystery of the Rise of the Trotting Dead – with an eye towards finding a way to stop it and lay the unquiet souls of the deceased to rest.

I hope, dear reader, you have enjoyed reading this work of fan-fiction. I know I have enjoyed writing it; enough so that I suspect I will continue the series. Feel free to follow my account, should you wish notification of new stories.

And, as always, kindly remember: y'all are awesome! Stay awesome.