I. What's Past is Prologue

“Easy, Cantor. Just sit and relax. You know that rushing about like that is not your strongest suit.” He sounded worried. Understandably so.

“Care ta tell us what all that was about? Street’s not at full bustle, so one pony talkin’ ta hisself ain’t gonna draw much attention.” Even Magpie sounded genuinely concerned.

Cantor leaned back against the cool stone of the building. He had collapsed on one of the benches out front. It had been an exhausting rush down to the underground. Between fumbling his way on and off the train, he hadn’t even noticed which stop he had ultimately taken. Somewhere well into the city, from the look of it. He had no clear memory of passing through customs, but he didn’t feel he had bungled anything there too badly. He must not have, otherwise he wouldn’t have been let out of Hedgerow Tower. He checked his passport. It had been properly stamped. He replaced it in his satchel. Cantor’s hooves were still trembling.

“Sorry. Panicked.”

“Panic? Cantor, you are not usually one for panic.” He had on his reassuring voice.

Cantor nodded, scanning the street. A colt with a balloon was walking past, holding his mother’s hoof. The young fellow stared at Cantor. Cantor tried to produce something vaguely resembling an inoffensive ‘nothing-to-see-here’ sort of smile. He bungled it badly. The colt raised an eyebrow while his expression said both you have got to be kidding me and you are weird.

His mother jerked him along to a faster pace. Thankfully they didn’t stop to talk to the constable over at the coffee shop. Cantor ditched the smile as worse than useless under the circumstances. Ponies were drifting in and out of earshot, but, as Magpie had pointed out, most of them were distracted with their own errands.

Cantor kept his voice low. “Again, sorry. It was the reception committee.”

“Oy, truth? I was thinkin’ it might have been that o're sized box ya helped ‘em move. I’m tellin’ ya, Cantor, ya should not have touched that cursed thing. Sumthin’ wicked was in there. Sumthin’ bad.” Magpie, likewise, sounded unusually sober and serious. The snark in her tone was dialed down several notches.

“Odd that you would sense something and we wouldn’t. Also, Cantor: ordinarily I would be pleased to have guessed that getting your family involved might lead to problems down the line. But it seems that there is much more to it. How worried do we need to be?” He was probing for information.

“Very worried.” Cantor paused, “Well, reasonably worried at least. And as for the box, Magpie, it wasn’t that big. Damned heavy though – I guess someone was transporting rocks? Maybe rocks in a lead case? The crew didn’t seem to like the box any more than you did. And they appreciated what help I could give shoving it off the Westphalia.”

“Ya should’ve shoved it right off that bleedin’ pier and straight down to a smashing good end. This’ll come back ta bite ‘cha, mark my words!” Magpie sounded more worried than disgusted.

“Hmm.” Cantor rubbed his forehead, just below his horn. It felt like a headache might be coming on.

“But yes, back to my panic. It looks like someone arranged for my detention. At a guess, that would be my mother. Sis isn’t the sort to keep secrets from our parents. Well, parent.”

“This may be indelicate, but exactly how much does your family know about your … gifts?” There was more than a polite interest in his tone.

Cantor grimaced, “Too much. Mother is convinced I’m mad. Tartarus, there are days I think she might be right. No offense. Sis usually tries to keep an open mind. But, as you heard her mention when she loaned me the money, she may not believe but at least she doesn’t see any real harm in my ‘delusions.’”

“Ah. I suspected as much from what I had observed. And your father?” He spoke with quiet care, as if reluctant to broach a potentially difficult subject.

The look of sorrow that crossed Cantor’s face was enough to answer that question, but he spoke aloud anyway, “He believed in me. Right up until the day he died.”

“Oy. Sorry.” Magpie rarely spoke that gently or sincerely.

“It happens. It was easier for Dad to accept the whole ‘strange magicks’ thing – he was a unicorn after all. Mom’s an earth pony, and my sister Rosa takes after her.” Cantor sighed. Sitting was good. Some strength was beginning to return to his limbs. Even if his left-rear leg now felt all pins-and-needlesy rather than numb from over-use. Cantor adjusted one of the straps on the knee brace.

“Anyway, it looks like you were right – my sister must have talked.”

“A bitch, much?” Magpie sounded curious. She hadn’t been in Ponyville for that conversation.

“No, no. Quite the opposite. Concerned for my well-being I’m sure. That they had someone from Bedlam at the tower to collect me means that mother convinced Rosa I needed to be reined in.” Cantor grimaced, “Again.”

Cantor shook his head. “I’ve discovered I’m no fan of sanatoriums.”

Two of the tourists walking by stopped short and stared at him. Cantor stared back.

“Are you alright, sir?” the younger mare asked.

Cantor nodded and rolled his eyes, “Other than being out of pocket for a particularly useless and dull tour of a ‘culturally important’ loony bin, yes. I shan’t be taking my friend’s advice on sight-seeing in the near future.”

The lie was just convincing enough. Both fillies (a pair of earth-pony sisters Cantor suspected) relaxed slightly, and the older one chimed in, “If you haven’t swung by the City Information Centre, you’re only a few blocks away. They’ve brochures for all sorts of nice tours there.”

“Thanks for the advice! I’ll be sure to do that.”

“Ciao!”

Cantor smiled pleasantly and waved a farewell. He couldn’t help but overhear the “He seemed nice!” from the younger sister, which was heartening … less so the fading “Just keep trotting, Ellie. Don’t make eye-contact,” from the elder.

“Smooth!” Magpie sounded impressed.

“Practice.” But with all the practice, lying still gave Cantor a twinge. Even if he was good at it, he didn't like doing it.

“Anyway, back to the ... uh … incident at Hedgerow – I panicked because I know Tarrant Fether, he was the doctor there to pick me up.”

“Treated you before, has he?” It was him chiming in again.

“Not well,” Cantor’s grin struck a perfect mid-point between wry and bitter, “He was a key part of both the mob that wound up breaking my leg so badly and the subsequent investigation which, for all practical purposes, got me unofficially expelled from Nighthaven.”

“I thought you told Archie it was a matter of money. That you couldn’t afford to continue your studies.” One could almost hear the frown in his voice.

“I couldn’t. I was going to have to leave the next semester anyway due to my inability to provide tuition and my mother’s refusal to hoof my bills any longer, so (rather than wait around for the deans to deal with the scandal I suddenly represented) I tendered my resignation, withdrawing from my program early, and saved everypony a great deal of trouble ... including the trouble of making my expulsion formal.”

“So, detaining you is personal for this Doctor Fether?” He sought clarification.

“Yes. … No. … I really don’t know. Maybe? If it is, he won’t be put off easily.”

“’e a shady sort of bloke? Body snatcher? Resurrectionist?” Magpie sounded intrigued. Cantor suspected that shady blokes were something with which she was quite familiar.

“Sweet Celestia no! Far worse. Fether is by the book to a fault. Mind like clockwork: all numbers and gears. One that winds tighter every day. I’d hate to think what would happen if it ever really snapped. Watching him blow off steam on occasion is terrifying enough. But if he ever did lose it, he wouldn’t be roaming free. No, if Fether was there to detain me, then he would have had every ‘t’ on the paperwork crossed and every ‘i’ on those papers dotted. He’ll have the authorities on the look-out for me and he’ll be methodical in tracking me down. Also, I’ve no illusions that I’m smarter than he is.”

“Alone, you may not be; but together, perhaps we are. Cantor, we really need to find someplace to talk in depth. You know that the more information I possess the better advice I can give … and these days advice is just about all I am good for.” He sounded rather rueful at that.

“Nonsense. You are good company. Both of you.”

“Oy, stop that ya flatterer!” Magpie might actually have been a bit flustered by the compliment.

Cantor smiled, he was suddenly feeling much better. “I’m serious. I’m lucky to have you with me. I’m only sorry – truly sorry – that I haven’t been able to help you two yet. I’m trying my best.”

“We know.” He said.

Cantor stood up.

“Where to?” He asked.

“I’m thinking the City Information Center. Gather up some maps. Timetables and that sort of thing. Then we find the cheapest means available, other than walking, to get us to Canterbury.”

“Canterbury?” He sounded surprised.

“Indeed. Blessings on Archibald. Thanks to him I have a much better idea of how to get where we’re going.”

“If I might have a moment of your time?” Doctor Fether’s tone was entirely professional. Perhaps too professional.

Archibald looked up from his tea. He frowned. Now this … this was simply too much. The final straw.

He sighed. “Doctor …?”

“Fether. Tarrant Fether.”

“Doctor Fether, it was a long flight from Manehattan. And a long trip abroad. I wish to finish my tea in peace,” Archibald shot a stern look at Jon Quill, who had – some minutes ago – helped himself to a seat at Archibald’s table in the little airport café. Jon didn’t take this latest hint either.

Neither did Doctor Fether.

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about one your fellow passengers aboard the Westphalia.”

“Doctor Fether,” and here Archibald very pointedly put his rear hooves up on the third, and final, chair at their table, thus precluding any possibility of Fether’s attempting to take a seat. “As I mentioned, it was a long flight. Fatiguing. As we speak my partner Reginald is arranging a cab to get both of us to our respective homes. Perhaps you should return to your own home as well. That you are still here gives me the impression that today has not been kind to you.”

Jon leapt in to the conversation, “You’re a psychiatrist, aren’t you? I heard you arguing with Captain Gunther – what were you arguing about? What’s all this about detaining a passenger? It isn’t good ol’ Archie here, is it? Or was it the other Doctor? The Archeologist?”

Fether frowned at Jon Quill. “Forgive me, sir. You are?”

“Jon! Jon Quill. I know, I know, father was fond of flowers. Reporter! Seeker of truth, purveyor of facts.”

Archibald snorted, “Crafter of tall tales.”

“You’re a reporter?” Fether looked keenly interested.

“Yes sir!”

Archibald raised one eyebrow as he asked, “For?” Archibald knew the answer of course, which was one of the reasons he packed that one word with considerable disdain.

“The … uh … Star.”

Fether frowned. “The Yellow Star?”

“Quite so, Doctor! So, you’re from Bedlam? Any new arrivals there? Who is your favorite patient? Have you cured any interesting maladies of the mind recently?”

Fether now looked keenly uninterested in Jon Quill. He turned back to Archibald.

“It would only be a moment.”

“I am afraid, sir, that I am fresh out of moments to spare.”

“Good ol’ Archie! Don’t let him fool you with that poker face of his. A killer at cards! And speaking of killers, is it true that …”

Fether raised his voice to try to drown out Jon’s babble.

“The captain has proven intransigent. Such crew as I managed to interrogate, uncooperative and contradictory. I had hoped to learn something concrete from somepony. This is a matter of public safety. The pony I am seeking needs to be confined.”

Archibald put down his teacup. He did it with exactly enough force to indicate that he was through with the conversation.

“Sir. Allow me to be blunt. I don’t care.”

“I care!”

“Shut up, Jon.” Jon Quill was nigh irrepressible, and obviously considered Archibald’s deliberate rudeness some sort of joke among friends.

“Cantor Mortalis. Does the name mean nothing to you?” Fether’s gaze was sharp, seeking any reaction.

“I suspect it means that you are bothering me because of him. As I said before – I do not care. I want no part of this, one way or another. What I want is to return home, unpack my luggage, and relax for the remainder of the evening. I wish to spend time with my cats. Not you.”

Fether frowned. Archibald seemed sincere. This was, in point of fact, because Archibald was quite sincere indeed.

“Cantor Mortalis? I know him! He was a passenger aboard the Westphalia! They said something about ‘luggage.’ Is he mad? Talks to himself? Thinks he’s the emperor of the moon? Son of an Alicorn? Destined hero of prophecy?”

A buzzing bee would have drawn more of the Doctor’s notice.

Fether paused, “If you please sir. This is vitally important. Was there such a passenger aboard? Do you have any idea where he might be now?”

“Go away, Doctor Fether.”

“Hello Archibald. Is the Doctor here still bothering you? I could go have words with that constable over there if he is.” Reginald held a pair of tickets and a small valise.

“I’m telling you, Doctor, he was there! For the whole flight! Bunked with the crew … or back in cargo. Something about luggage, I’m sure of it. We played cards. He … he talked to himself. Rather, to ponies who weren’t there. Big fellow: a pegasus … no, unicorn! Silly me, how could I forget? A unicorn with a … a … dark body and a pale mane. He was going gray. He was good friends with that one stewardess. Janice? Janet? The pink one. What can you tell me about Mr. Mortalis’ condition? Our readers want to know!”

Doctor Fether looked from Reginald to Archibald. He opened his mouth, thought the better of it, closed it and walked off shaking his head in frustrated disgust.

The trio of ponies at the café watched him leave.

Archibald took a sip of his tea, gone cold now … of course … and he growled, “Ass.”

A passing family of mules gave him a shocked look.

“Sorry! No offense intended.”

“You ready to go, Archie? Oh, and good day Mr. Quill.”

“It has been a good day so far, Reginald, thank you! Although I’m sad to have seen the last of Cantor. He seemed like a most interesting pony indeed.”

“Really,” Archibald’s confusion showed on his face as well as in his voice. “Why did you try to sell him out, then? I thought you had become something like friends.”

Jon grinned slyly, “Oh, I’m sure we are! That’s why I said all of that.”

Archibald sighed, “I’m afraid I don’t follow, old boy.”

Jon rolled his eyes, “I’m a reporter for the Yellow Star.” Jon’s tone indicated this should explain everything.

There was a slight pause. Archibald and Reginald remained unenlightened, as was clear by the expressions on their faces.

“The. Yellow. Star. Tell me, do either of you ever believe anything a reporter for the Star tells you is true?”

Reginald was the first to start chuckling. Archibald joined in soon after.

“Good lad! That’s keen. That’s bloody brilliant.”

Jon sighed. “Maybe. But it’s also all in vain.”

Archibald smiled, “Perhaps not. Sorry to have misjudged you, Mr. Quill. I was serious about not wanting any more to do with any of this. I’m a respectable business pony with a satisfyingly settled life. Getting dragged into the middle of some legal and psychological nonsense is the last thing I want to do. But, if you’re really interested in finding out more about that oh so pleasant mad-pony …”

Jon let out a small gasp, scrambling for his pencil and paper.

“… Cantor was most interested in finding out everything I knew about the township of Whitstable by the Sea. He said he was going there to look into some sort of trouble. At a guess, that Cemetery Fire that was in the papers a few weeks back. Whitstable isn’t a big place at all. So if you hurry, you can probably find him there.”

Archibald had hardly finished speaking when Jon vanished almost as quickly as if he could teleport. Archibald shook his head.

“That was surprisingly nice of you, Archie, old bean!”

“Not so much, Reggie. Once I get over being tired I suspect I’ll feel a bit guilty about it all. Mad or sane Cantor seemed nice enough. For a unicorn at least. And here I’ve set Jon on his trail! Seemed the easiest way to be shot of them both, and I really am tired of this … weirdness.”

“Let’s get you home then.”

Valentina was in high spirits. Today had been fun! Excitement and adventure. Oh, she had gotten a stern talking to from Mr. Grady – but that was to be expected. It had been worth it. And they hadn’t docked her pay. Even better, she had won the whole flutter!

It was a silly thing, really. Some of the stewardesses would chip in a few bits to a common pool, each wagering which of the passengers on the current voyage would wind up being the most interesting, entertaining, or troublesome. Valentina usually used it as an excuse to gossip. At the start of the trip over from Manehattan, everypony had assumed that Vivian would win, as usual, since she had called “dibs” on that archaeologist with the story-book name. Or, if not him, Sherri would bring in an upset from that reporter, Jon Quill.

But Valentina had gone with Cantor from the start. Odd, sweet, poor, and sharp … distracted and muttering to himself. And, best of all, somepony who was genuinely appreciative of all the work the crew the Westphalia did.

She was very glad that they hadn’t carted him off to Bedlam. Playing dim with that Doctor had seemed to do the trick. By the time all was done, she was sure the trail was cold enough that Cantor shouldn’t be caught.

Valentina would quite like to know exactly what was going on. But her curiosity on that point seemed unlikely to be satisfied.

She certainly wasn’t going to go chasing off after Cantor, even if she knew where he had limped off to. He was nice, but not the sort of nice she chased. Still, she wouldn’t shy away from the mad-pony if she bumped into him again!

Sometime after all that fuss, and the dressing down – just as the stewardesses were disembarking for their shore leave, Vivian had handed the purse to Valentina with a good natured, “Blinding pick, Val. You earned it.”

So, what to spend it all on?

Valentina’s smile grew wider.

Fun, of course. And, in honor of Cantor, she thought of the perfect bit of fun.

On a tram, off a tram. And there she was: Southbank, on the river. She pranced right up to the ticket window of the National, her smile never slackening.

“One ticket for ‘the Maltese Griffon’ please!”

“The name your reservation is under, miss?”

“I haven’t one, I’m afraid! That is, I haven’t a reservation. I’ve a name, of course.”

The mare behind the ticket counter gave an apologetic smile and adjusted her glasses. Her name-badge read “Merry.” Her hair had a gray streak in it that lent her a grandmotherly air.

“I’m sorry, miss, but we’re all sold out for tonight.”

“Do you, perchance, have any ‘will call’ tickets that haven’t been claimed?” Valentina’s bubbly enthusiasm hadn’t slackened a jot. “I don’t mind popping in a bit late if somepony else is going to be a no-show.”

“Sorry, miss. We haven’t.” Merry sounded appropriately contrite.

“Haven’t at all, or haven’t tonight?”

Merry let out a soft laugh, “Well, usually it’s ‘haven’t at all’ … but … will you be in town for a few days, miss?”

“Valentina. And, oh, a week or two at least! I’m on layover and looking to take in the nightlife.”

“We’ll you’ve come to the right place for that, dear. Lunadun: City of the Moon, you know!”

Merry thought for a bit, and polished her glasses.

“If you like, come back tomorrow. I can’t promise anything – you won’t believe how far in advance the tickets are sold out! – but if there’s an opening, dear, I’ll get you in. There’s plenty of night life to see all round this part of town, even if no tickets are to be had.”

“Sounds lovely! I’ll be here. Ta Merry!” Valentina dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Before I go, any hints about the grand surprise?”

“Oh, there’s nothing surprising about the Griffon. It’s an old piece. If you’ve seen it before, you know how it ends. The actors are quite skilled, is all. Especially Mr. Bogart. I wouldn’t go listening to rumors – most of what’s said is straight out of the Star!”

If it weren’t for the twinkle in the ticket-mare’s eye, Valentina might have believed her.