I. What's Past is Prologue

“Mr. Knott … Mr. Knott, I hope you have something useful for me.” Doctor Fether addressed the ponies, two of the more competent – and massive – orderlies at his disposal. A faint smell of disinfectant lingered in his office. Neither terribly large nor terribly small, Fether's office (like most of the offices in Bedlam) felt much more cramped with both the Knott twins standing inside of it. On the surface, the twins were indistinguishable: matching light mahogany colored coats, darker mahogany colored manes and tails – close cropped in matching styles. This coloration, coupled with their massive solidity, left them looking rather like they were some wizard's creation carved out of tough, knotty wood instead of flesh and blood ponies. Both twins had dark brown eyes, and both sported identical cutie marks: a black leather strap, looking like part of a belt ... or perhaps a leather restraint ... shown lying in what might almost be a stylized (and somewhat crooked) "s" shape on their flanks.

“Dr. Fether, we do indeed.” Fether noted the simple brass stud attached to the extra large earth-pony’s left lapel. That one would be Burl.

“And it’s the proof you had hoped for.” This stallion had a brass stud on his right lapel. That would be Horst. Assuming, of course, the two of them weren’t intentionally switching things around today for their own amusement. Most of the other doctors at Bedlam discounted the twins’ intellect which, while admittedly not exceptional, was both considerably greater than most would guess based on their hulking physique (especially when paired with their studiously blank expressions) and something they usually chose to conceal.

“Concrete.” Burl’s voice, like his appearance, was also indistinguishable from his twin. Fether understood that Burl was the eldest, by a few minutes at least. Their voices were mild. Judging from their looks, one would assume either some deep, gravely bass … or perhaps something entirely unsuitable, like a high-pitched squeak. But no, their voices were unremarkable. Fether suspected part of that ordinariness had been well cultivated.

“Actionable.” Horst sounded pleased as he handed over a sealed letter bearing the imprint of the Hedgerow Port Authority. It was thick. Packed with folded papers.

Doctor Fether opened the envelope and quickly scanned the contents … then re-read it all with care. When he was done, he tossed the papers down on his desk. They landed between some unfinished correspondence and a meticulously trimmed miniature topiary in the form of a rearing pegasus. Given the poor lighting from the one all-too narrow and all-too thick window, the plant was thriving remarkably.

Burl’s eyes fell on the correspondence Dr. Fether had been writing when the twins arrived. Notes of apology. One to the Hedgerow constabulary … and one the Captain of the Westphalia. Burl indicated the papers to his brother with a careful, and understated, tilt of his head. Horst eyed them and winced slightly. Thankfully, the affair at the docks had stopped at hard words. Had Grav Gunther gone after Dr. Fether, the twins would have intervened. And while the two of them were quite confident in their strength, griffons were fast … and uncomfortably sharp around the edges.

The doctor was frowning.

“It looks like we just missed him.”

There was a pause.

It began to stretch out uncomfortably.

Horst cleared his throat in an inquiring manner.

Dr. Fether looked up at them. He sighed, “Hmm? Oh. Continue your other duties for the remainder of the morning. Get some lunch. Afterwards, meet me here. I will have some deliveries for you to make. And it will be time to start what I suspect will be a considerable amount of legwork.”

“Yes sir.” Burl’s voice was calm and steady.

“I will arrange with the Chief Physician to have you assigned to these duties exclusively until this matter is resolved.”

“Do you think she will oblige, sir?” Horst’s tone was carefully neutral. Dr. Fether wasn’t always the most popular pony with the higher ups at Bedlam. Some of the staff said you had to be cracked yourself to work here. Dr. Fether only rarely showed any cracks … and that made some ponies nervous. The fact that his anger ran cold rather than hot made them more nervous still. And something about this business with Cantor had the good doctor positively seething.

“She will have to.” Fether tapped the papers from Hedgerow. “We now have incontrovertible proof that Cantor Mortalis entered Albion through customs. We have dates and times, a full copy of the register from the clark in Hedgerow who stamped his passport. The port authority, I note, has graciously agreed to detain him should he attempt to exit the isle. And it will be alerting the other ports of call, both for airships and ocean going vessels. If Mr. Mortalis intends to leave, he will have to smuggle himself out.”

“He smuggled himself in, somehow, sir.”

“Quite right, Mr. Knott. Quite right. Which is why we will not simply be waiting for him to depart Albion. Once we receive the necessary permissions, the hunt shall begin in earnest. And I have no doubt that the necessary permissions can be secured in a timely manner. This afternoon, Mr. Knott. Mr. Knott.” The meeting was over. Fether’s magic picked up the quill pen as he returned to his correspondence.

Burl and Horst nodded as they let themselves out of the office. Just as they were preparing to shut the iron-clad door, Dr. Fether added, “I will, of course, see to securing a bonus for you both. For the inconvenience and imposition, as well as the overtime that will undoubtedly be required.”

“Thank you, sir.” Neither brother was particularly surprised. There were a number of perks involved in taking on specialty work for Dr. Tarrant Fether, of which the bonus pay was frequently the most tangible. Bits could secure service, as both brothers knew. But where the other doctors at Bedlam treated the Knott twins as effectively a single (largely interchangeable) unit, Dr. Fether treated them as individuals. It was quite refreshing. Further, most of the doctors – and even the other staff – thought of the Knotts as mere muscle. Brutes to be brought in for brutal work. While that was certainly their strongest suit, Dr. Fether, in addition, saw the value of their minds. Dr. Tarrant Fether had always made it clear he respected Burl and Horst Knott as valuable members of the Bedlam team.

Bits might buy service. But respect bought good service. If Dr. Tarrant Fether wanted this Cantor fellow found, then (extra bits or no) twins wouldn’t skimp on the looking. By this afternoon, they felt sure, Dr. Fether would have developed a plan of action. Something methodical, thorough, and effective, wanting only the horsepower to put it into action. Power, Burl and Horst knew, was something they were both well suited to provide.

“I trust you’ve hired sufficient muscle?” The tone of the icy voice implied that she didn’t trust him to put his shoes on the right hooves.

“Of course, mon cher. Though it would have been easier if I could have brought my usual henchponies along. These locals are not of the same caliber.” Dr. Caballeron wondered, yet again, what this shadow figure’s real game was. He had the windows of his hotel room open, the view of Oxherd Castle at sunset was quite pleasant. He was busily fanning himself with his rear-hooves propped up on his luggage. Between the overcast sky and the close of the day, the lighting in the room was dim. Even so, she huddled in the darkest corner available, yellow eyes glaring at the light.

Caballeron was used to minions and henchponies, he employed them often enough for the less savory parts of his academic practice. Whoever … whatever … this shadow creature was, she wasn’t minion material. Caballeron knew why he was working for Ahuizotal again – that lovely, filthy lucre. But what did she get out of her service to that jungle fiend?

“And you understand the time-table?”

Dr. Caballeron rolled his eyes and nodded, not even bothering to answer aloud.

That might have been a mistake.

“We would like to hear you answer the question.” The timbre of the voice had changed, acquiring an echo. It sounded as if something was speaking through the shadow as much as the shadow herself was speaking. And Caballeron recognized the other voice in this particular ‘we.’

“Ah, Ahuizotal! It’s always good to hear from you, mon ami.”

“Dispense with the pleasantries. The timing, Doctor.”

“We deliver the box tonight just shy of one hour after closing to the rear entrance of the Ashmulean. There will, of course, be no one with the authority to sign for it. We argue, and leave it there – insisting it is the museum’s problem now.”

“Then?”

“We wait three days, until after nightfall on Monday, which is a bank holiday. Usually the Ashmulean is open on bank holidays, but due to a combination of renovations and the installation of a new exhibit, they won't be this time. So we arrive at the rear entrance. Your … associate here … will have the back door open for us. And the guards incapacitated. At least in theory.”

“In theory? There will be no moon that night. The door will be open. The guards … dealt with.” Only her voice spoke that time.

“Continue.” Once again Ahuizotal spoke through the shadow.

“We enter, seize the diamond, and leave. Simple, mon ami. Then it is just a matter of getting the jewel to you.”

“Once you have the diamond, we’ll talk.”

We’ll talk? Dr. Caballeron glared at the shadow. This suddenly sounded like more work. More complications.

“There will be more pay.” Sometimes it was like she could read his mind. He didn’t like that. Not at all. Ahuizotal’s voice no longer echoed through the shadow. She shifted beneath her cloak. Caballeron suspected that acting as a channel for Ahuizotal’s voice was draining for her. Perhaps even painful. He rather hoped it was.

“What did he mean, 'we’ll talk?' I was hired to retrieve the diamond.”

There was a pause, then, “Very technically, you were hired to retrieve a diamond. At no point did either Ahuizotal or I ever specify that it was the one we are fetching from the Ashmulean.”

“Then why are we wasting time with this one? A rock is a rock, mon cher.”

“Not true, Doctor. We need the stone from the Ashmulean to gain access to the very particular gem Ahuizotal desires. Think of it as a key to a lock.”

Caballeron considered this for a moment. On the one hoof, he was rather peeved to have been manipulated in this manner. On the other hoof – this was starting to sound rather more interesting than he had initially thought. There might be more to the heist than met the eye – mystery … secrets … the possibility of fame. Oh, gold was nice. Gold was very nice. And he’d wring as much gold out of the old jungle devil as he could. Alas that full payment would only come if the job succeeded. Given that this was the case, perhaps he'd be best served by focusing on successfully completing the mission, rather than on just squeaking by with minimal effort. Very well. Mentally, Caballeron shifted gears to actually putting thought and effort towards finishing the task at hoof. It didn't even take a moment of careful thought before he was frowning at the shadowy presence.

In watching Caballeron's shift in focus, the shadowy figure thought it was about damn time.

Caballeron spoke with worried conviction, “There is a small problem with your plans. If the two of us must keep this stone handy for some time to come, then we can’t have the authorities searching for it specifically. It’s too risky. To obvious. Especially if it is some sort of key-stone. We take it alone, and ponies will wonder why. They’ll look into the matter. They’ll conduct research. Eventually somepony will find that it is a key to a lock, and then somepony will discover where that lock is, at which time they will know where to look for us. They’ll come after us, and if we are caught before we finish our work, Ahuizotal will never get his precious jewel. I doubt he will be pleased with either of us in such circumstances, mon cher.”

“Hmm. That may be. Do you have any suggestions?” She sounded rather less cold than usual. Caballeron suspected that she actually agreed with him for a change … at least on this point.

“We’re going in with thugs. Smash the place up. Start a fire. Grab whatever we can. Since you'll be inside, scouting ahead, why not pick out another piece or two for ourselves, and let our henchponies fence the rest? They don’t know who they are really working for, so even if they are caught, they’ll have the very devil of a time implicating me. And the museum officials will be so busy tracking down all the other missing pieces that they won’t be able to focus in on just the one. By the time they know what the heist was really about, it should be too late, non?”

“Interesting plan. Very well. I bow to your expertise in these matters.” There was an odd hint of satisfaction in her voice.

It was a pity that Caballeron couldn’t perceive her face. If he could, he would have abandoned their entire venture ... probably after dropping the box off at the Ashmulean so he could have a decent head start. He would have fled the country. Her unseen, unseeable expression – shadow on shadow – was one of unspeakably cruel delight. It said, far more clearly than words, that she had just manipulated the rogue archaeologist into taking the exact course of action she desired. It was the face of a puppet mistress watching her chosen tools dance just as planned, all with only the lightest touch on their strings.

Oh, Caballeron would do fine, she thought. He would do excellently. He would do everything she wanted him to do, and he’d never even know it. He’d even think it was his own idea. Him and that fool beast Ahuizotal both.

“Yes, well, mon cher – I am the expert.”

She narrowed her yellow eyes. Time for a test of his abilities. If you were smart, you didn’t use a knife without testing its edge.

“In that case, Doctor Expert, there is another avenue to explore. A tool which could be of some use to us in the future.”

“What tool?” Caballeron thought this sounded like more work. The question was, would it be interesting work?

“A golden ring. Large enough to put your head through. It lies in Trotwine’s tomb. In Canterbury. You aren’t above graverobbing, I trust?” She knew the ring could be useful, especially if it and its twin could be reactivated ... but Doctor Caballeron's penchant for the smash-and-grab brand of archaeology made it likely, very likely, that certain other secrets hidden in that cursed unicorn's grave would be destroyed rather than simply buried. Lost things can be found, as she herself knew all too well. And, once upon a time, Trotwine the Riddler had learned far too much.

“I’m not, but Trotwine’s tomb is lost.” Caballeron didn't even try to hide the surge of excitement at the thought of rediscovering a lost burial site.

“I may have an idea where it could be found.” Smug, icy, self-satisfaction.

“Do you, now, mon cher?” Caballeron was right, this job was growing much more interesting.

“You would have to be swift. You will only have two days to work with.”

“Bah! Plenty of time. Canturbury’s just the other side of Lunadun from Oxherd. I could be there with one change of the trains.”

“Very well,” unfortunately for him Caballeron couldn’t see her smile. Everything was going according to her plan.

“Do we even have a plan, Cantor?” He sounded rather concerned.

“I’m working on it. Right now, it’s wait for the Thieving Magpie to return from her little scouting mission!” Cantor was sprawled on the bed in the en suite apartment. While it had taken very nearly the last of his money, the bed and breakfast accommodation in Whitstable would offer the benefits of both food and shelter. At least for the rest of the day and until tomorrow morning. And the sea-side air was quite refreshing and pleasant. It had a cool, salty bite to it. And the harsh cries of the gulls sounded almost musical.

“You sound awfully chipper all of a sudden, Cantor. And, while I’m not complaining, is there a particular reason?”

“Actually yes – sending Magpie off of to take a look around the cemetery before I go there myself is … hmm … personally reassuring.”

“How so, exactly?”

“Well, if she were just a figment of my imagination … a construct of a sadly fractured mind … then she couldn’t bring me verifiable information. Realistically, she could only know things that I know. So when she (or you) tell me things that you know, and I never knew … that I never could have known … and those things turn out to be true, to be just as you have described them to me … well then! It’s independent confirmation that, whatever you are, you really exist. That I really do see and hear you.

“So, I guess I’m chipper because, along with all the dangers and difficulties, this little adventure we’re on is helping reassure me that even factoring in the … uh … recent unfortunate changes? Yes. Even with those, I’m probably not as mad as they think me.”

“I see. That makes sense.”

“And, other than my vocation … my calling … I know better than to talk about such little proofs of your independent existence to others. When I talk to myself, as they see it, they can dismiss me as mad. When my talking to myself results in my saying things that are both true and that I could not have possibly known …” Cantor trailed off.

“That frightens ponies.”

“Rather a lot. Frightened ponies become … erratic. Sometimes angry. Sometimes very angry.”

“Is that what happened between you and Fether, back in your college days?”

“Well … basically, yes. There was more too it.” There was, but Cantor’s tone said he didn’t particularly want to continue discussing the subject.

Cantor sighed. He really needed to spend the afternoon napping, especially since he was likely going to be busy through the darkest hours of the night. Sleep now, investigations until the pre-dawn, then sleep again. A late breakfast, and then …

… well, one thing at a time.

“At least we know there’s something going on in the crypt. I could feel it from a block away.” Cantor hadn’t actually gotten close enough for a look.

“I did not like it.”

Cantor nodded in agreement. He then dug out the map of the township and spread it on the bedside table.

“I imagine the authorities still have the mausoleum blocked in. But it’s Friday, and a three-day weekend, so I also imagine that nopony is going to want to be spending too much time or effort on guard duty tonight. Enough effort to keep away curious vandals … but not somepony with wit and determination.”

Cantor grinned, “Any idea where we can find somepony with wit and determination?”

“Pshaw. If you don’t stop selling yourself short, I may become annoyed. Getting us this far has been an accomplishment. Especially considering your limited resources. I trust that with my advice and assistance … and that of Magpie … we will succeed.”

There was a slight pause.

“... Eventually.”

Cantor nodded.

“And we have a couple of advantages. You and Magpie are two of them. Since they can’t see you, you can both be eyes and ears to let me know if I’m about to walk into trouble … or if trouble is about to walk into me.”

“Effective invisibility does have its perks, true enough. And this sounds like a time when my inability to catch somepony else’s attention is a benefit rather than a terrible annoyance.”

“Also I’ve a trick of my own that should help a bit.”

“That being?”

“Well … long story cut short: there was an … uh … ‘incident’ back at school – part of my early attempts at mastery over some varieties of ritual magical practice …”

“Was this the incident with Dr. Fether?”

“No, actually – this was … something else. Something foolish youths looking for knowledge and power do. Talking to voices in the dark.”

“Hmph!”

“Not like you. I’ve always been able to do that. Well, almost always. Anyway, chalk it up to ‘stupid mistakes’ on my part. The end result … well … I can see in the dark.”

“That’s a handy spell to know. For something like this, it’s even better than light.”

“Not a spell, just a … thing. Well, maybe it was a spell. The long-term aftereffects of a miscast spell perhaps? Something one of the … voices … did? One of my professors referred to it as a ‘systemic thaumic alteration with sub-etheric harmonic components.’ Which was, I believe, a learned-sounding way of saying she hadn’t the foggiest.”

“Ah, so a handy talent to have then.”

Cantor chuckled, “More or less. It’s saved me a bundle on candles and light crystals over the years! And it’s helped me move about at night without being noticed. Being able to see by shadow rather than by light gives one an interesting perspective ... especially when night falls. Where others see only blackness … only nothing at all … I can see variations, differences. There are so, so many shades of dark. Perhaps even more than there are of colors of light. It’s quite beautiful sometimes. Especially with the light of the stars to serve as counterpoint.”

Cantor winced, “Of course, it’s also the sort of talent that makes villagers near Nighthaven Academy … hmm … let’s just say ‘uneasy.’ I suspect it was a contributing factor to the mob frenzy back in the day.” He absent-mindedly rubbed at his bad knee. Cantor had taken the brace off. Earlier he had dug out a rather battered book of useful magics and, after referring to it, had been conducting some routine maintenance upon the brace. Now it shone: the steel polished, the leather oiled – magic was a handy tool to have.

Cantor yawned. It had been a tiring ride on old coaches to get from Lunadun to Canterbury and Cantor had elected to walk the seven-or-so miles from Canterbury to Whitstable. It had been quite scenic. But also quite tiring.

“At any rate, Magpie will be back soon. She can let us know the likeliest points of entry to the crypt as well as the positioning of the constabulary. Then we wait until dark, avoid any watchers, and walk on in.”

“And then?”

Cantor lay on the bed. For a time it seemed he had nodded off to sleep.

“Then we hope that we can learn something from the magical disturbance that’s ongoing in there. Ideally something that will let me help you and Magpie.”

“Why if it isn’t my old friend Cantor! How are you this fine evening? Taking in the sea air? Visiting friends and relations? Anyone I’d know?”

Cantor just stood on the sidewalk and stared. Usually it took a bit longer for a plan to completely fall apart. They hadn’t even gotten three blocks from the bed and breakfast and here it was, collapsing into shards and tatters.

“Jon.” Cantor sounded just as stunned as he felt. Meanwhile the reporter was busily shaking Cantor’s front hoof. He was quite enthusiastic about it.

“The devil’d ‘e come from?” Even Magpie sounded shocked to have the reporter appear, as if by magic. Usually things didn’t creep up without her noticing.

“Don’t ask me. You’re the one who was supposed to be keeping an eye out. From that curry shop we just passed, I suppose.” He clearly wasn‘t pleased that Magpie had missed Jon‘s approach.

“It’s so good that you remember me! So … is it true? Are you mad? And why in Equestria are the voices in your head directing you to Whitstable?”

“They’re not in … I’m not … what are you doing here, Mr. Quill?” Cantor was having almost as much difficulty retrieving his hoof as he was gathering his thoughts.

“Looking for you of course. Reporter’s instincts! I sense a story. Something that the readers of the Star want to hear!”

Cantor rolled his eyes in disbelief. He had finally managed to retrieve his hoof. “Mr. Quill. Circumstances and self-preservation require me to lie too often as it is …”

“To keep out of the booby hatch? Away from the clutches of the tenacious Dr. Fether?”

“… Er, effectively yes, but as I was saying – I lie enough as it is, I am entirely uninterested in printing lies for your readers’ titillation and amusement.”

“Neither am I!” Jon Quill spoke with bright, chipper sincerity. “I’m so glad we understand one another on this issue.”

Cantor looked confused, though not as confused as he felt.

“Oh, it’s simple,” Jon went on, “I look into oddities, exotica, unexplained phenomena. You know the articles, ‘Did a Nuckelavee terrorize a township outside Seaddle?’ ‘Is the train service to Dodge Junction being interrupted by Knockers?’ That sort of thing. Very sensationalist, I admit – but what I write is more truthful than not. The answers to the questions posed by my columns are, in most cases, ‘probably not.’ Lots of hearsay, little hard evidence. But all well worth looking into. One of these days I’ll find something truly amazing to report on! A story with teeth.”

“Heh, careful with that lad. Our story might bite ya!” Magpie sounded like she might well take a bite out of Jon right now.

“He cannot hear you, you know.” He restated the obvious to Magpie.

“I know. If’n ‘e could, I’d’ve had a few things ta say ta chase ‘is blabbin’ self clean away.” Magpie was extra snippy in her reply.

“And,” Jon went on, snaking his fore-leg through Cantor’s own in a very chummy sort of way, “tonight might be that day, so to speak! So, where are we going?”

“‘We?’”

“Yes, ‘we!’ I helped throw Fether off your trail so you owe me. You are here to look into something exotic. And you are quite the odd pony yourself. It would be entirely against my principals to let you continue on without my aid.”

“You got mixed up with Fether?” Cantor had to lower his voice abruptly half way through the ‘you’ … the whole point was to avoid attracting attention. Cantor half-dragged Jon deeper into the shadows by the curry shop.

“Well … a bit. Is that bad? I told him I knew you. I told him everything I could think of that I had seen while on the Westphalia. Cards, talking to yourself, all of that. Plus a few things that were entirely wrong.”

“What?!” There was an edge of panic to Cantor's voice.

Jon Quill sighed. He patted Cantor's hoof in a reassuring manner. “He thought I was lying, of course. Started ignoring me immediately. Reporter for the Yellow Star and all. Curse of my existence. Everything thinks I’m just chasing a story.”

Cantor raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Well … maybe I am just chasing stories – but I’m not wanting to embellish them.”

Cantor’s eyebrow stayed up.

“Well, not much. Too much. Not nearly as much as my editors would prefer anyway!”

Cantor snorted. Then he sighed. “Listen, unless you want to wind up in Bedlam yourself, I would be very, very careful as to what sort of stories get back to Dr. Fether or any of his ilk about me. If they think you believe me, they’ll lock you away too.”

“Believe you about what, exactly?”

“Well, first, that I’m not mad. At least, not in the way they think.”

“So you don’t hear voices?”

Cantor paused, his eyes narrowed. “You want a story, Jon? A real one? Something with teeth?”

“More than anything!”

“Oy, Cantor – you keen on this plan?” Magpie clearly wasn’t.

“If Jon Quill goes to the authorities now, we won’t have any sort of workable plan at all. I think we’ve fallen back on the old ‘pegasai special.’” He sounded resigned.

“W’ich is?” Magpie was curious.

“Wing it.”