The finish line was in sight.

Of course, given that the finish line in this case was the National Theatre, there was still some walking involved. The building itself sprawled, huge and modern – blocky sections stacked on top of one another in a somewhat imposing style. Parts of it seemed almost like somepony mashed a couple of ziggurats together, at least one of them upside down. And then covered the whole with concrete.

“That is where we are going? It does not look like any kind of theatre to me.” Admiral Fairweather sounded dubious.

“It looks like some sort of evil giant’s castle, made out of children’s blocks … and coated with gray paste.” Morari seemed equally unenthused.

“The architectural style is called ‘brutalism’,” Cantor began.

“Appropriate,” Moriar muttered.

“Quite,” Fairweather agreed.

“And, while distinctly modern, it’s not without its charms. From certain perspectives the angles involved display a pleasing symmetry.”

“This, obviously, is not one of those angles. The place looks like a fortress for the wicked, my boy.” Fairweather’s frown grew deeper as the building loomed ever closer.

“Then Thretan will feel right at home,” Cantor muttered wryly.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. I’m just glad there were no questions asked, either on the train or at the station. By tomorrow, any sort of travel short of walking about will become increasingly risky. Blast it.” Cantor shook his head. His tone was worried.

“And you’re sure your friends have arranged for you to have admittance?” Morari was navigating the crowd by bobbing around the ponies. It was rather a lot of to-ing and fro-ing. Fairweather, on the other hoof, simply plowed straight on, walking directly through the living as if they were no more hindrance than a fog bank. Which, for him, was the case.

“No. Actually, I’m not sure.” Cantor sighed. “I know that back in the day certain promises were made. I’m not entirely sure they were even meant as promises, per se. But that was quite some time ago, and even the best of intentions can be worn down given time.”

Less than a block remained. They were almost there!

Cantor felt it coming, but was too tired from the day’s substantial amount of walking to react quickly enough to do anything to avoid the bubbly, bouncing presence that suddenly seized his left front leg and tucked herself up against his side in a friendly fashion.

“Why, Mr. Luggage! What a pleasure to run into you here on the South Bank!”

Cantor lurched to a halt and stared in disbelief. So too did Fairweather and Morari.

Magpie, who had been the haunt keeping the sharpest eye out for problems along the street and whose face was currently studiously blank, commented (far too late to do any good) “’ead’s up – Stewardess inbound. The cute one.” Cantor thought “laconic” was the best word for her tone.

“Miss Valentina … this is … uh …”

“An unexpected surprise, Mr. Luggage?” Her grin was mischievous. Impish even.

“Very!” Cantor took a step towards the side, out of the immediate flow of hoof-traffic. He didn’t make any effort to retrieve his foreleg. “A most unexpected … and pleasant … surprise!” Cantor’s smile started to fade to an expression of concern, “I say, you didn’t get in trouble with your employers over the … er …” she gave a little laugh and shook her head in a reassuring fashion.

“Oh, a bit of a talking to, but no – no real trouble here! Why, it was rather fun assisting with the off loading of the cargo. It’s not something I usually do.”

“That’s good,” Cantor sounded relieved.

Valentina’s grin grew a bit wider as she said, “It’s sweet of you to care!”

“I thought you were watching out for trouble, Magpie?” Morari didn’t sound pleased at all.

“I was. By the time I noticed ‘er, she was makin’ a bee-line straight fer Cantor here. She’d already seen ‘im, and tryin’ ta run wouldn’t have done nopony no good at all. Neither would bein’ unsurprised at ‘er arrival. Judgin’ from ‘er smile, I figured Valentina wasn’t here ta cause trouble.” Magpie grinned, “More’s the pity – she’s the sort o’ ’trouble’ Cantor ought ta ’get into’ more often!”

“So … this is not one of the friends we are here to meet?” Fairweather was staring at Valentina, trying to yet again ignore the scandalous implications of one of Magpie's suggestions. “Hm. She looks vaguely familiar. I wonder if she is related to somepony I used to know.” The admiral gave a snort, “Bah. Given the time frames involved, she is probably distantly related to several ponies I used to know!”

“But it was rather touch and go with that Doctor Fether. He was quite keen on finding you, Mr. Luggage. Quite keen. But don’t worry! I felt you’d rather not be found. And the Captain took a dislike to the good Doctor right from the word ‘go.’ So no need to fret on that front.”

“Thank you, Valentina,” Cantor smiled at her, “Now you’re the one who’s being sweet.”

“Not at all, I’m a wicked filly with ulterior motives! Nothing sweet about me tonight, I’m afraid,” Valentina hardly sounded wicked. Which, Cantor reflected, might make her truly dangerous indeed.

“Oh, ulterior motives. Those can lead to trouble,” Cantor nodded, adopting a serious tone.

Valentina leaned in close, almost whispering, “I’ve got questions, you see! First one is, are you really as mad as they say?”

Cantor snorted. “Thinking back over the past few days, I’d have to say I’m probably worse!”

Valentina raised an eyebrow, quite interested.

“But I strongly doubt I’m a ‘danger to others.’” Cantor did a modestly good impression of Dr. Fether. But then the humor faded slightly as he continued, “Or … if I am a danger, I certainly don’t intend to be.” Valentina relaxed very slightly and without really realizing she did so. She could tell he was sincere.

“But you are still talking to yourself.” Valentina stated, with considerable conviction. “I saw you as I came up.”

“Well …” Cantor paused, then grinned, “… that’s actually a question of some debate in the medical and magical community. Ask different ponies and you’ll get different answers as to whether or not I’m talking to myself.”

“Well then, time to start asking questions of the magical community! Mr. Luggage, sir. Do you talk to yourself? Or to voices in your head?”

“The voices aren’t in my head. Even if I’m the only pony who can hear them.” Cantor’s tone started off flippant, then shaded into tired.

“Sorry, Valentina. It’s been a long day. I’m hoping to reconnect with some old friends. Quite frankly, I need help.”

Valentina hesitated. Then she tightened her grip on his foreleg. “I’ll say. Mr. Luggage, you look knackered. Can I give you a hoof to where you’re going?” Cantor looked at her in surprise.

She blushed, “Mostly I want to hear what’s going on. A weakness for gossip, you know.”

“Is she going to be a problem?” Fairweather, tilted his head towards Valentina.

“Doubt it,” Magpie sounded oddly unhappy about that.

“Only if she decides that she needs to tell the authorities where Cantor currently is. Keeping her close by, for now, is probably our best option. At least until we can meet up with … what did you say his name was? Dozy?”

Cantor nodded at Morari.

“Well, Valentina. Thank you for the assistance. I’ve been doing rather a lot of walking today and you know how my knee gets.”

“You haven’t been falling down ladders again, have you?” Valentina was genuinely concerned.

“That only happened twice!” Cantor rolled his eyes.

“It was three times.”

“That second day hardly counted. I was already at the bottom.”

Valentina snorted in a fashion designed to express her disagreement with Cantor’s assessment. She followed it up with, “So, where are you taking me, mad-pony?”

“To meet some friends. Well, a friend at least.”

“Mad friends? Will I be able to see and hear them?”

Cantor grimaced. “Well … they’re a little unusual. And yes they’re … uh … corporeal.”

“Where are they?”

“Currently performing at the National. Or just about to. The Maltese Griffon.”

Valentina stopped. She tsked. “Mr. Luggage, sir, you won’t get in. They haven’t any tickets. I’ve been coming here every evening since we arrived, checking in with dear Merry to see if there’s tickets to be had. There aren’t.”

Cantor raised an eyebrow at her.

“Well, so it’s only been two days – but I was just there. I spotted you as I was coming back from the ticket window. Sold out, nothing on will-call that’s available. Unless you’ve a reservation, you won’t get in. I know, I was just there not ten minutes ago.” Valentina paused and considered, “Well, you won’t get a seat anyway, even if you managed to smuggle yourself in with the help of some pretty young thing.”

“Well, Valentina, let’s go see if there are any tickets under my name.”

“Betcha there are.”

“What makes you say that, young filly?” Fairweather was once again staring at the National. He still looked dubious.

“I say we’re due fer a spot o’ good luck. And Valentina was a right good charm fer it, back on the Westphalia.”

Up the steps, into a foyer, and up to the ticket window.

“Hello again, dear. Who is your gentlecolt friend?” The elderly mare behind the counter adjusted her glasses and gave Valentina a smile.

“Oh, he’s somepony I met on the ride over from Manehattan.”

Cantor smiled. “I believe there should be a ticket for me. Under the name Cantor Mortalis.”

“Just one ticket?” Morari was frowning.

“Oy! She c’n sit on ‘is lap!”

“Miss Magpie! Such indecency!” Fairweather was appalled. Magpie grinned and stuck her tongue out at him.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m not seeing that name on the list. When was the reservation made?”

“I’m not sure, Merry. I wasn’t the one who made it.”

“Oh. Do you know who did?”

“Most likely Ziggler, Dozy, or Bogart.” Cantor replied. Valentina gave a little start when she recognized that last name.

Merry raised an eyebrow. She then proceeded to unlock a drawer and pull out a leather folder. Opening it, she flipped through to the second page and paused. She looked down at the paper, up to Cantor, then back down to the paper. There was a small photo of Cantor clipped to the paperwork. And two hoof-written notes. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“My pardon, Mr. Mortalis, sir! I assume the young filly is with you?”

“Oh yes, Valentina is with me.”

“Very well, sir! Two tickets. Lytteltrot Theatre, Slips eight and nine. Upstairs, on the right-hand side as you face the stage.

“Are you expecting anypony else, Mr. Mortalis, sir?”

Cantor frowned, “Actually, I’m not. If there are inquires I would prefer my presence here to be as anonymous as is feasible.”

“Of course, sir.” Merry handed over two tickets. Each had the word “Reserved” embossed on them in golden ink.

Cantor and Valentina entered the National. An usher, summoned by Merry’s stern look and forceful gesture, gave the two a little bow and said, “If you’ll follow me, sir.”

“Lead on, my good colt.” Cantor sighed. There were going to be stairs involved. Quite a few stairs.

At the end of it, though, Cantor and Valentina were settled into a pair of very nice chairs high up on the right hand wall of the theatre, as one faced the stage, the first and second seats. Not in among the general gallery, but in what (in an older building) would have been something akin to box seats. The view was good. And unlike the other seating, there was near complete privacy.

Already the auditorium was filling up rapidly. Ponies in fancy dresses and jackets, posh and aristocratic members of the theatre scene.

“I say, I believe that fellow is the current Earl of Oxherd! He is sporting the proper heraldry. Spitting image of his … hmm … I suppose it would be several times great grandfather!” Fairweather suddenly frowned, “A good chap, but I suddenly recall he owed me money.” The admiral snorted. “Not that I need money in my present circumstances.”

“Leastwise you ‘ave pockets!”

“They do not actually hold anything, mademoiselle. I checked.”

“May I get some refreshment for the gentlecolt or his lady?” The usher waited until both Cantor and Valentina were settled into their chairs to ask.

“Oh, yes, please! Champagne for me.” Valentina was wiggling around in her seat, clearly delighted to be here, she looked back at Cantor, who was sitting behind her.

“Just water. With lemon, if you have it.” Cantor was slouched in his own chair. The train ride had been too stressful to truly relax, although sitting down had been good. Cantor’s eyes were half-lidded in a way that suggested he was resigned to remaining in a drowse, neither fully alert nor entirely asleep, for the next little while.

The usher left.

“Nice friends you have, Cantor,” Valentina spoke quietly over her shoulder.

“Some more so than others. But they are friends, all the same.”

The lights dimmed. The audience hushed. The outer curtain rose.

The stage was dark and empty, the inner curtain emblazoned with the stylized image of a golden bee-hive, on which was a capitol letter “H” with a smaller “0” superimposed over top of it. Then a voice spoke. The voice of an old, old stallion.

“Lean closer, I want to talk to you. I’m going to tell you an astounding story. The story of the Maltese Griffon. For six hundred years the Griffon has carried the mystery of a fabulous wealth under its grotesque wing. I could tell you a thousand tales of the colts and mares who have hunted for this evil relic. But every story has the same ending. Murder.”

Cantor had sat up, a look of equal parts delight and concern on his face.

“What is it, Cantor?” Morari asked.

“That’s Hoofrey Bogart narrating. I hadn’t thought he’d be here in person. The old show-boater.”

Valentina glanced back, eyes wide. She gave Cantor a grin. He smiled back.

The narrator continued “In the three hundred and thirty ninth Celestial year of Peace, the Pegasi Guardians of Malta paid tribute to Celestia of Equestria by sending her a golden griffon, encrusted from beak to tail with rarest jewels, but pirates seized the galley carrying this priceless token and the fate of the Maltese Griffon remains a mystery to this day.”

As the narrator spoke, light appeared on stage and coalesced into the form of a griffon – one made of gold and jewels … all of which tarnished to black as the tale unfurled. In the end, jet black, the statue sprang to life, flying up and vanishing in the darkness.

The curtain lifted to reveal a beautifully crafted office, clearly that of a film noir private eye. The background made it clear this was supposed to be in Los Pegasus. The stallion playing Sam Spade was seated at the desk and rolling a cigarette. He turned his head as a secretary arrived on stage.

As he moved there was a low gasp from the audience, delight and disbelief.

The stallion said, “Yes, sweetheart?”

“A filly wants to see you. Her name is Wanderly.”

“A customer?”

“I guess so. You’ll want to see her, anyway. She’s a knockout.”

“Shoo her in, Effie, darling. Shoo her in.”

Valentina’s eyes were glued to the action. She barely managed to whisper to Cantor, “That’s … that’s …”

“Hoofrey Bogart, yes.”

“He’s too young. That can’t possibly be him.”

Cantor made a non-committal noise.

“But it is. It is him. It … it must be his grandson. Or his great grandson. Sweet Celestia he has Hoofrey’s voice … and he's got his mannerisms down perfect. This is just like the pictures!”

On stage, Bogart smiled.

“Even better than the pictures,” Valentina’s voice went dreamy.

“… where were you the night Mules was murdered?”

“Home.”

Bogart shook his head.

“I was!”

“No. But if that’s your story it’s all right with me. Now you run along.”

The actress playing Miss O’Shaughnaggy left.

A messenger arrived a moment later, “Mr. Spade?”

“Yeah, that’s me”

“I have a message, sir, from Mr. Guffman. He wants to meet, and want's to know when.”

“Would 'now' work? The sooner the better.”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Run along, kid. Tell Mr. Guffman I’ll be there in, say, fifteen minutes.”

The curtains came down. It was intermission. Cantor’s eyes had drifted shut. He wasn’t sleeping, though. And the smile on his face was content.

Valentina sat, still stunned. Cantor, without opening his eyes, said, “He really is quite good, you know.”

“Dozy is one of the best actors to walk the stage.”

Valentina started and spun around. That voice had come from the third seat back. A seat that had been empty. Nor was Valentina the only one shocked to discover a young mare seated there.

“Who the …?” Morari began.

“What is …?” Fairweather was talking over him.

Both fell quiet to Magpies shriek of “Cantor! ‘ow did she get there?” There was genuine fear in the ghostly mare’s voice for the first time either of the other two haunts could recall. “I was watchin’ Cantor. I swear … I swear … Tartarus! Stick me back where ya found me if’n I wasn’t.”

“It’s all right Magpie.” Cantor was the only one who hadn’t bolted at the sound of the newcomers’ voice. He gave a rather tired smile. “Hello Thretan.”

“Cantor, dear colt, it has been far too long.” She smiled back. Black dress, high collar, pearls. And a presence that was as vibrant as Valentina’s own … but more regal.

“And you must be Miss Magpie?”

Valentina was staring in shocked recognition. “N-no … Ms. Hoofburn. I’m … I’m Valentina.”

“Oh? So is Magpie one of Cantor's ‘other friends?’” Ms. Hoofburn included the air-quotes. Her smile was mischievous.

“Other … friends?” Valentina looked from Cantor to the actress. She rubbed her eyes and stared again. Her confusion was growing ever greater. It was Katherine Hoofburn. The famous actress. But it couldn’t be. Like Hoofry Bogart, she was far too young. Unless it was her grand daughter. And what was this talk about "other friends?" Valentina looked to Cantor, confusion starting to turn to exasperation.

Katherine Hoofburn made a soft tut-tutting noise, “Cantor, dear colt, you bring a filly-friend to see one of our shows and you don’t even tell her that?”

“I was rather hoping she would enjoy the play with me rather than arrange to have me institutionalized in Bedlam. I strongly suspect an attempt at explanation, prior to my arriving here, would have resulted in Miss Valentina alerting the authorities who would then cart me off to the aforementioned sanatorium.”

Katherine smiled in polite amusement. She said, “Let them try.” The tone was sweet as poison, harder than steel, and beneath the genteel velvet of her voices’ purr were claws sharp enough to put razors to shame.

Valentina’s skin crawled. Nothing she had seen in the first half of the play had promised murder so eloquently as those three words. Not even the actual murders played out on stage.

“Uh, Cantor. I think she just gave me the shivers.” Morari rubbed at his forelegs.

“Yer not alone, scribbler.”

“Cantor. I suddenly desire to know, on what one hopes is an entirely unrelated topic, how can I fight when I am like this? My usual fisticuffs hardly seem ... efficacious.” Fairweather’s voice was grave. The gaze he had turned on Katherine was that of a military commander assessing a threat … and not liking what he saw.

“Behave.” Cantor’s voice held a plea. Play nice, it said.

“If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.” Katherine’s smile softened. “But, for you, Cantor dear, of course.” She settled herself in her chair, patted Cantor on the head.

“Dozy will want to see you backstage after the final curtain. I will make certain you have no difficulties with security. In the meantime,” Katherine gestured and an usher appeared, as if by magic. She ordered refills and refreshment for Valentina and Cantor.

They arrived. Drinks were sipped. Horse d'oeuvres were nibbled. Katherine read through the program notes with interest.

The lights flickered.

“Cantor, what’s going on? Why is she … how is she? Or Bogart for that matter?” Valentina had leaned back to whisper furiously in Cantor’s ear, taking advantage of what appeared to be a momentary distraction on the actresses’ part. She wasn’t sure she had gotten her question out right. Then again, she was riding high on the after effects of shock and champagne.

Cantor opened his mouth … shut it … frowned, and then sighed. “It’s … it’s the company motto, you see. ‘Old Legends Made New Again.’ Magic. Of a sort. I’ll explain it all once we’re backstage. Parts of it should be clear by then. For now, relax and enjoy the show.”

“Cantor … I think she’s …” Valentina trailed off.

“Dangerous? Yes. She is. But when you get right down to it, anypony can be dangerous. She’s also a friend. And she’s not Katherine Hoofburn. Well, not exactly. I call her Thretan.” Cantor gave a tired smirk. “And it's not because she can be threatening.”

The lights flickered again. Then dimmed. Act two was about to begin.

On stage the actor playing Colthaus hefted the black statue of a griffon and turned to Bogart, “It’s heavy. What is it?”

Bogart answered, “The, uh, stuff that dreams are made of.” He took the statue into his own hooves. The closing of his office door threw shadows, like the bars of a prison cell, across the face of the actress playing Miss O’Shaughnaggy.

The action froze. The lights dimmed to black. The curtain came down.

The auditorium was still. Silent.

The curtains came back up. Spotlight to center stage. Actors and actresses came forward to take their bows amid thunderous applause. The crowd was on their hooves, shouting praise. Valentina had also leapt to her hooves and was stamping like mad. Only Cantor and Thretan remained seated.

Thretan leaned forward and whispered in Cantor’s ear, “Can you feel it?” Her voice was intense.

Cantor nodded. Fairweather, Morari, and Magpie all eyed the mare with varying degrees of concern.

Slowly, an elderly pony came onto the stage. He wore the costume of Sam Spade, with the addition of a cane, which he used to help himself walk.

Cantor sat up straighter, “The old fool! Why isn’t he in his wheelchair? Why the devil is he coming out on stage?”

“Pride. Vanity. You know what he is.” Thretan’s voice was indulgent.

“What is he?” Valentina asked, still applauding.

The house’s applause grew louder as the young Sam Spade joined the older one. They took one anothers fore-hooves and began to bow in unison. The cheering was nearly deafening. Flowers were raining onto the stage.

Thretan smiled. “Hoofrey Bogart takes on the form of some pony you love, and he gains satisfaction and power by feeding off of your love for them. You know: an actor. And just look at all the love that’s being thrown on stage. Freely given, well earned, not stolen at all. A true feast.”

The elder Bogart turned and began applauding the younger. The younger, in turn, stepped forward, and took a solo bow.

“Actors,” Cantor rolled his eyes. “Always so melodramatic.”

There was a swirl of green fire that washed over the young Hoofrey Bogart, transforming him into somepony … into something else. In his place stood a pony-like creature, black and chitonous, with a horn, tattered dragonfly like wings, fangs, and faintly glowing eyes.

A changeling.

Roughly nine tenths of the audience hadn’t seen the show before. Their shrieks of terror mingled with the increased roars of praise from those for whom this was a repeat performance. The changeling continue to bow. He seemed to almost be soaking up the cheering and applause like a flower soaks in the sun. He was smiling.

“I say, what is that? Is it dangerous?” Fairweather had glanced briefly at the stage, but still had the bulk of his attention on Thretan.

“I … I think it’s a doppleganger … or maybe a changeling. I thought they were supposed to be mythical!”

“Never ‘erd ‘o them. And ghosts ‘r’ s’pposed to be mythical too, scribbler, but we’ve three of ‘em here.”

Valentina had frozen. She turned slowly towards Cantor, a look of shock on her face.

“That’s … that’s …”

“That’s Dozy. A friend of mine.” Cantor slowly stood up. His legs had gotten stiff.

“It’s a changeling!”

“Yes. More specifically this evening Dozy is a changeling playing the part of a young Hoofrey Bogart playing the part of Sam Spade. The play is the Maltese Griffon.”

“But … but …” Valentina stuttered.

“Oh, it’s all right. The real Mr. Bogart down there approves. There are contracts about likeness rights involved. Mr. Bogart leases out the use of his face for coffee mugs and tee-shirts, all from the iconic roles of his youth as an actor. They sell, he get's a portion of the proceeds. So, you see, why shouldn’t Mr. Bogart lease the use of his face to another actor … one able to perfectly mimic his every look and mannerism ... provided that’s what Mr. Bogart wants to do?”

On stage, the rear curtain had fallen. Again, the golden beehive emblazoned with its “H” and “0” was the backdrop for the actors. Cantor gestured at the logo.

“‘Old Legends Made New Again.’ It’s what the Hive Naught Theatrical Production Company is all about. Bogart was the first to sign on.”

Dozy had gathered up quite a few roses, and he turned – looking directly up to the slips where Cantor, Valentina, and Thretan were sitting. He gave an enthusiastic wave.

Cantor waved back.

“Dozy will be anxious to see you backstage, Cantor. We should go.” It was Katherine Hoofburn’s voice all right, but it was her voice from a time when she was in her twenties. Katherine Hoofburn, the real Katherine Hoofburn, was older now. Much older.

Valentina stared at the mare behind her with a dawning realization.

“You’re … uh …”

“I am Thretan. And if it is important to you, yes – I have the right to appear this way.” She grinned, and a flicker of greenish light slid across her eyes. “All of the paperwork is in order, and, as one of Cantor’s friends, you are welcome to view it."

“I don’t suppose Katherine is here too,” Cantor asked. "It would be good to have all the old board in one place to hear about why I've come back."

Thretan took Cantor by the fore-leg and shook her head. “No, dear colt. She’s back in Caster making sure that Hive Naught’s enemies don’t bring down the Company while we’re here in Lunadun. She’s quite the formidable mare.”

Cantor chuckled, “Coming from you, that is certainly a compliment!”

“Come along, dear. We shouldn’t keep the Hive waiting.” Thretan smiled at Valentina as she said it.

Valentina followed along. She was shaking her head, remembering a time when she had thought Cantor wasn’t going to be a source of intrigue or entertainment. My how the times change!

Author's Note

Once again, the Author utilizes conventional locations as part of Equestria's great city of Lunadun. In this case, The National Theatre, on London's South Bank -- specifically its Lyttleton Theatre (one of the National's three auditoria) which, as the reader may guess, served to inspire this story's Lyttletrot Theatre. The Author also hopes that his references to the film The Maltese Falcon were likewise recognized.

The architectural style of the National theatre has been described as "an aesthetic of broken forms." Some have not been fond of it, the theatre was described in 1988 as "a clever way of building a nuclear power station in the middle of London without anyone objecting." On the other hand, admirers have "gasped with delight at the cube of [the] theatre in the pale blue sky ... it has that inevitable and finished look that great work does."

The Author will refer you to images of the building and let you draw your own conclusions.