Caballeron folded the newspaper and picked up a pint glass of cider. He was sitting in a pub, the Dolphin, in Canterbury. It was on a narrow street barely a block from the old wall. King’s College Gate was the closest entrance to the interior precincts. The remains of fried brie with red onion marmalade was on the table. His cheque had already been paid. To all appearances, he was just another tourist. One who had commandeered the seat by the window.

Outside, the construction crew was preparing to take their own dinner break. Caballeron listened for the chime striking the hour.

And there it was, the deep tolling of the bells, echoing through the heart of the old town. The workponies turned off their equipment, leaving a substantial hole in what passed for a sidewalk, and started up the street.

Caballeron finished his cider, got up from the table, and walked out behind them. The sounds of the scuffle ahead were relatively quiet and refreshingly brief.

So far, so good.

Caballeron entered the side alley to find the ten thugs he had recruited had bagged, stripped, and tied all four of the workponies. One of them still struggled feebly. The others were unconscious.

“Well done, good sirs. Well done.” Caballeron handed small purses packed with bits to seven of the thugs. “See to it that they aren’t found for at least an hour.”

With a grin, the leader of this little gang had his minions gather up the bodies.

To three of the larger ponies, Caballeron said, “You’re coming with me.” These three he had picked out primarily for their dim wits. Oh, they were plenty large and strong – large and strong were going to be needed – but there had been larger and stronger in this gang. However Caballeron hadn’t wanted anypony too clever along on this next bit.

One of the chosen three hesitated and frowned. Caballeron said, “You’ll be paid when the work is over. And you three will get a bonus.”

Pleased grins all around.

It was a matter of a moment to change into the workponies' uniforms. Outside they gathered up the caution tape and the cones that had fenced off the utility work underway just down the street from the pub. With the largest of his henchponies shouldering the jackhammer, Caballeron set off at a brisk trot towards the King’s gate.

The pony at the window there looked up just enough to register the clipboard with the official looking forgeries for a work order. She waved Caballeron through.

He led his team to the close. Once there, he began counting columns, and examining the carvings. It took three minutes to find the one which matched the shadow’s description.

At least her information had been accurate. This time. If it hadn’t been, Caballeron would have had words with her once the two reunited at the Ashmulean.

Cones were set up around the column in question. Official seeming notices, more forgeries, were posted at the entrances to the close. Caution tape went up. Then the jack-hammering began.

Now the clock was ticking. A little luck and they would have the tomb open, the ring retrieved, and they would be out before anypony realized what was really going on.

A rather confused looking docent poked her head around a corner. Caballeron approached her. His look was rather peeved.

“Miss, this is a construction zone. Didn’t you see the signs? You’re not allowed here without a hard-hat.”

Caballeron was yelling to be heard over the shattering of stone. Already the base of the column had been reduced to rubble. The large slab beneath it was being broken up next.

She retreated, a look of confusion still on her face.

The jack-hammer broke through into a space beneath. Caballeron waved at the ponies to turn it off. Time for picks, pry bars, and some good old fashioned brute force to clear it fully.

In the far distance Caballeron could hear a sudden commotion. It didn’t seem to be approaching. There were sirens involved.

He grinned. At a guess, some carriage or other had wrecked into the now un-marked utility dig-site where he had acquired his tools and his disguise. This would help keep the authorities distracted for a few minutes at least. Minutes counted in this business.

Ten minutes since the start of the digging. The thugs had the once hidden hollow opened. It was a small tomb.

Caballeron stepped down into it. There was a coffin here. Old, wooden, highly polished, and inset with silver lined runes of power. It didn’t look like a protective ward, or at least not one the archeologist was familiar with.

“Open it,” he commanded the dimmest of the three brutes with him. No sense in taking personal risks when he had perfectly expendable minions with him.

The fellow obliged. As the wooden lid cracked and popped off in his hooves, a wash of light erupted from the coffin.

The light coalesced into the ghostly form of an elderly unicorn, strangely dressed. It began to spin slowly in the air. And it spoke.

“Veteris delictorum misit diu tenebris.”

One of the henchponies fled. Caballeron rolled his eyes.

“That’s no ghost. There are no ghosts. It's an illusion.” He considered it. “Well crafted though.” The image of Trotwine continued to repeat his message.

“What’s it saying, boss?”

“Latin.” Caballeron winced, “Merde, Trotwine’s Latin was bad.” Caballeron recalled reading that Trotwine had intentionally mangled the old language in crafting riddles, specifically so that those most familiar with his language of choice would have an even harder time figuring them out.

“But what’s it saying?”

Caballeron worked it through. This one was surprisingly clear for something Trotwine had crafted.

“It says: ‘Old Sins Cast Long Shadows.’”

“What’s it mean?” The other of the remaining thugs was looking very nervous. The image, and voice, of Trotwine was beginning to fade, along with the light shining from the coffin.

“It means, my good sirs, that you are about to be paid.”

Caballeron handed over two fat purses. The pony who had already fled clearly wasn’t going to get paid. Caballeron smiled to himself. Chalk that up as additional profit from this venture.

The minions made themselves scarce. Caballeron examined the interior of the coffin.

He frowned. He double checked the dimensions and general shape of the coffin exterior. He frowned more.

Trotwine had arranged to have himself thoroughly preserved and then interned upside down. Indeed, everything in his coffin looked like it had been crafted either upside down or backwards, and, when possible, both.

Trotwine’s rich, velvet burial robes were on the wrong way round – back on his front. He had the remains of a noose around his leathery and very, very broken neck. His head had been twisted around and was staring, sightlessly, up at Caballeron. The withered grin looked unusually maniacal, even for a corpse.

There was no immediate sign of a large, golden ring. Maybe the shadow’s information hadn’t been so good after all.

Caballeron removed the corpse, a light thing after centuries of burial, checking under the body.

No golden ring, but there was a large baked clay tablet that the corpse had been lying on top of. It was partially wrapped with old silk, embroidered with Trotwine’s cutie-mark, and deeply incised with Latin characters. As Caballeron lifted it up, he caught a glimpse of a bit of gold peeking through a flaked part of the tablet’s clay back. A few sturdy taps and it was clear: Trotwine had baked the ring into this tablet.

Caballeron strongly considered simply shattering the clay and retrieving the ring. But something in the back of his mind, some instinct for both mystery and self preservation, made him reconsider. He looked the tablet over more closely, trying to read the letters carved into it.

That might also have been a mistake.

It was gibberish. It read:

NZPELTEKIME
LTMTGXLPMEL
ZEZFFPEXTSG
TELPETFGKMK
ETMFETMMXFT
MTVPXXKKNNZ
YZXMFFKIMZH

Caballeron groaned and tried to fight off the sudden onset of a headache. Of course Trotwine would leave some terribly obscure cipher or riddle in his tomb. It might have something to do with the ring, though. And the shadow had said that it and its twin required some sort of restoration before they could be used. Caballeron decided best to be safe and retrieve the information along with the artifact. He put the tablet into a briefcase and discarded his forepony’s jacket and hard hat.

Now it was time to just stroll out the front gate. Behind him, the weakened arch gave way. The fall of rubble would have partially reburied Trotwine's tomb. Yet another distraction for the authorities. Everything had gone exactly according to plan.

Well, almost. He was half way across the plaza in front of the old buttermaket when he heard a sudden hue and cry behind him. A quick glance back showed him constables, several official looking ponies, and that blasted docent who he had turned away from the dig.

Worse, she was pointing at him. Amid the yells, Caballeron caught the words “grave robber!”

While perfectly true, he preferred not to discuss the matter with the police. Time to beat hooves. He ducked and twisted into the narrow alleys nearby, with luck, he could dodge pursuit, double back, and exit the city before the constabulary could catch up with him.

Around a corner he fled, nearly colliding with a surprised looking unicorn in a rather tattered cape, before ducking into a dark and cluttered alley and a conveniently placed doorway.

“What the devil?” Cantor was stunned. He staggered to one side and tried not to fall down as a vaguely familiar earth pony rushed past him, clutching a briefcase. Loud noises were fast approaching and ponies were busy getting out of the way.

Sounds of a hue and cry in the heart of Canterbury were not something Cantor had hoped to hear. If anything, they were exactly what he had feared and had hoped to avoid. Maybe, though … maybe this had nothing to do with him?

Magpie came racing back from the direction of the plaza near the old buttermarket. She had been scouting a block or so ahead, in part to insure they weren’t walking into something dangerous. In addition, scouting ahead had become somewhat more necessary than usual, given that Cantor was tired enough he had already become lost twice in his increasingly distracted wandering around Canterbury's older section.

“Oy! Trouble! Right mad bunch o’ coppers stormin’ this way and they’re all up in arms about some grave-robbin’.”

Cantor’s heart skipped a beat. Well that cinched it.

Morari and Fairweather exchanged glances. Less than an hour ago they had still been discussing the relative merits of walking from Whitstable to the train station at Canterbury versus taking a tram from the sea-side resort. Money had been one critical factor. In truth, money had been the deciding factor. Still the seven-ish mile trek had taken Cantor most of the afternoon as a portion of the evening as well. That was quite a lot of time.

The consensus among the spirits had been that while this delay might allow the Whitstable officials time to broaden their search for Cantor (potentially even alerting the Canterbury constabulary about both the recent mausoleum intrusion and the unicorn who one of their night watchponies had seen … briefly … before collapsing in terror) leaving a paper trail of purchased travel tickets would not only give any searchers a direct path to follow, and it could even lead to there being constables with arrest warrants waiting at Canterbury station when the tram arrived. Walking was much harder to track. If Lunadun weren’t so far away, Cantor would have been tempted to try walking the entire distance. But without money for food and lodging along the way, that was one Canterbury pilgrimage he wouldn’t be making, good company or no. And while there may have been other ways to get from Whitstable to Lunadun directly, neither Cantor nor his friends knew of them ... nor felt they had the leisure to seek them out.

Jon Quill had remained behind to continue investigations in Whitstable. If necessary, Cantor had told him to throw Cantor under the carriage, so to speak, when it came to the authorities and their questions about the mausoleum break in. Odds had seemed good that the local police would be wanting to question Jon, especially given his role in chatting up officer Clarissa that evening. Jon had seemed quite pleased at the thought of an interrogation, and Cantor suspected that any attempt to question Jon would lead to far more questions being asked by him than he would wind up answering. Cantor still felt a bit unsure about leaving Jon to his reporterly snooping about ... Cantor's running from the authorities wasn't going to reflect well on Jon should the constabulary discover the two were connected. Jon had brushed off the possibility as not worth worrying about.

Cantor had begun to suspect Jon Quill didn't have the best judgement when it came to assessing danger.

But as for right now, running was out of the question. That left hiding.

Thankfully there was no shortage of narrow, twisty streets. Choosing the darkest and most cluttered, Cantor made a quick rush down an alley, turned a corner and slid into one of the two doorways there, pressing himself against the shadows by the door. He clutched his satchel to his chest.

The angry voices and blowing whistles were drawing closer.

“Uh. Cantor …” Morari sounded very worried, and more than a little rattled.

Cantor looked up, and completely understood that feeling.

He was gazing across the alley, not four paces away, at the shadowed doorway opposite his own hiding place.

There was a pony hiding there, holding a briefcase, and staring in shock and surprise at Cantor.

“What tha devil is Doctor Caballeron doin’ here?”

Cantor and Caballeron’s expressions mirrored one another. Bewilderment, suspicion, confusion.

“Well, I will tell you what he isn’t doing. He isn’t making any move to give us away.” Morari’s tone was likewise one of confused, and rather suspicious, gratitude.

“I say, do you know that Gentlecolt?”

Cantor jerked his eyes to look at Morari and mouthed, “tell him.” Caballeron frowned at the gesture.

Morari obliged, “He claims to be an archaeologist. His name comes from a current series of popular adventure fiction in which he is one of the recurring villains of the piece: a suave, smooth talking criminal – clever, greedy, and almost entirely without scruple. We met this stallion briefly at the airport in Manehattan. He was using a somewhat different name (Bell-Lock, I believe, or something like it) but his passport, tickets, and much of his identification identified him as Caballeron. He was one of our fellow passengers on the airship Westphalia. We saw him once or twice there, too – though mostly he stayed in his room.”

“’is Bell-whatsit alias was on that wicked bloody box.” Magpie stalked around Caballeron in an angry, even threatening fashion. She was glaring daggers at him – not that he could see her.

Both Cantor and Caballeron’s expressions were slowly shifting from more surprised to more suspicious.

“'eads up!” Magpie sang out.

A moment later a constable came galloping down the alley. She rushed right past both hidden ponies without noticing they were there.

Cantor and Caballeron had both tensed at her approach … both now relaxed.

“Do … do you think they are after him?” Morari didn’t sound like he quite believed it.

“Even if they are, good sir, can we presently afford to become mixed up with the authorities in an investigation? If word has not already reached Canterbury from Whitstable about this early morn’s excitement, it will soon.”

“Oy, yes. They may be lookin’ fer us, or fer ‘im, but why not both? That sounds more like our usual run o' ill luck.” Magpie was ghosting about Caballeron’s briefcase with considerable interest. Not that she could see inside.

The noise began to subside. The search was moving further afield.

Cantor stepped out of the shadows first. Caballeron took a step forward as well. Now shoulder to shoulder in the alley, Caballeron smiled a far too charming smile, tipped his hat, and said, “Bonjour, Mister Mortalis. A pleasant evening for a walk, yes?”

“Yes, Doctor Caballeron. Pleasant indeed.” Cantor kept his own tone intentionally bland. His eyes were narrowed.

“Well then, I shan’t … as you say … ‘detain you’ mon ami.” Caballeron’s grin had just a touch of malice in it.

“Nor I you. Enjoy your stay in Albion.” Cantor’s neutral tone didn’t lend much sincerity to the sentiment.

The two stallions turned and set off in opposite directions down the alley.

“Wot ... was that ... about?” Magpie sounded unusually exasperated.

“Bless me if I know.” Cantor shook his head in amazement. “First, which way is the train station from here? I've gotten a bit turned around.” He grinned ruefully and added, “Again.”

“Follow me, ya overgrown foal. We're not all that far off. Right on High, then it's o’re two bridges and right again on the third road.” Magpie led the way. To Cantor, that sounded like a long stretch of walking. But with as much as he’d trudged along roads and fields already, a half dozen paces felt like too long a stretch. Still, he lurched into action, trying to look nonchalant ... or, failing that, touristy.

As he walked, he talked. Cantor pitched his voice low, hoping the general noise of the city would keep too many ponies from noticing his seemingly one sided conversation. “So, I gather the authorities are looking for somepony. We know we’ve done some recent breaking and entry nearby which could easily be described as graverobbing. You’re sure the police were yelling about graverobbers?”

“Plenty sure. They wasn’t ‘xactly bein’ quiet ’bout it.”

“Well then. Regardless, Doctor Caballeron has been doing something sufficiently beyond the pale that he’d much rather not chat with the police. Even if he suspects we might be the ponies they are after.”

“Do you think he might have been indulging in a spot of grave robbing himself?” Morari didn’t sound like he believed that to be likely.

Cantor snorted, “What are the odds of that? That sounds like something his fictional namesake might do in one of those Daring Do books I was telling you about.”

Over two bridges and right on Station drive ... it was less than half an hour after his encounter with the archeologist that the train station hove into view. Cantor hobbled inside the small white building, giving a bored looking constable a nod as he passed through one of the three doors and beneath the Canterbury West Station sign. The pony paid Cantor no more mind than he did any of the other tourists flocking into the station for the evening trains. Inside it was both cramped and busy.

“Anyway, let’s hope we can catch the train to Lunadun without incident.” Cantor kept his voice low. He wouldn’t be the only pony in the crowd muttering to himself.

“Uh, Cantor. That might be more difficult than we hoped.” Morari was gazing at a notice board just inside the station entrance. A young colt was busy attaching a notice to it. Morari pointed it out, adding, “That’s a surprisingly good likeness of you.”

Cantor stopped, looked around to see if anypony was paying particular attention, then went and tore down the notice.

“Have you seen this Stallion?” it was titled. The picture was an excellent likeness. Cantor’s eyes devoured the information on the notice, noting the station-master’s official seal – recently stamped, the red ink still slightly damp.

“Fether,” Cantor winced when he saw the contact information at the bottom. “Well … Shite.”

“Oy, wot now, Cantor?” Magpie was scanning the crowd, looking for ponies who showed any sign of unusual interest in Cantor himself.

Time to take a risk. Cantor got into the ticket line.

“These just came out this evening. So now we go see if the ticket agent has had enough leisure to pay attention to the most recent batch of updates and notices. It’s Saturday, and a holiday weekend. Lots of ponies coming and going. With good luck, she’s been too busy to pay the notice any attention.”

“Without good luck?” Morari raised one eyebrow, his tone dubious.

“We improvise.” Cantor stepped forward, put on a charming smile, and said, “One for Lunadun, please!” He slid his last two bits through the slot.

The filly on the far side didn’t even look up. She chewed her gum, popped a bubble, and slid a ticket back through.

Cantor limped towards the platform, weak kneed from both relief and exhaustion. One hurdle down. Getting to the National suddenly felt like a race against time. And, Cantor reflected, he had never been good with races.

Author's Note

Regarding Trotwine's Cypher, all the Author has to say is, "Good luck!"